Now that's exploitation.

As mean-spirited toward its working-class characters, especially its women, as it is profoundly unfunny.

McCormick and screenwriter J.S. Cardone don’t have one original thought between them, but they do appear to share an obsession with characters opening hotel-room closets in which the steel hangers gleam ominously.

A star ensemble is preposterously miscast.

Director Jordan Brady achieves the remarkable feat of squandering a topnotch foursome of actors -- particularly Theron, a very game and able comedienne -- by shoving them into every clichéd white-trash situation imaginable.

Spanglish is Brooks' unqualified kitchen disaster - a desperate, shapeless, overreaching big-screen sitcom of a movie that just wants to be loved. Is that so wrong? In a word, yes.

Deadening comedy.

Shrill, smug would-be satire.

An ostensible action-comedy that can't seem to get either side of its genre equation right.

Everything from the Rube Goldberg sets to the Jim Henson creatures is aimed squarely at a preschool audience.

Reiss guides the film with a firm hand, ratcheting up the tension and ably guiding his actors. It's his protagonists that undo the film, making it a chore to sit through.

Cedric gets some help from a butt-kicking babe (Lucy Liu) who may or may not be his girlfriend, and if you believe this pairing could plausibly happen, you might be gullible enough to buy a ticket to this movie.

Pretentiously impressionistic, sloppy almost to the point of self-parody, Temple’s film is New Journalism without the journalism -- or, alas, the drugs.

Here, Lohman's luminous presence rises above the badly directed violence and mayhem -- even if the movie's a dud, she's a star.

This may be celebrity prankster (and pinup du jour) Ashton Kutcher’s most elaborate practical joke to date: the gag being that this is a real movie and that he’s a real movie star.

Just lies there, poorly lit and tone-deaf.

Working from a script by David S. Goyer ("Dark City") that lacks any sense of humor or character, Snipes seems unsure if he should vamp it up or play it straight, while Dorff just plain sucks.

It's animated cockfighting for children.

Sucks -- because it's a frenetic bore that insists on its audience's adoration while making no demands upon their intelligence.

A lobotomized updating of "A Midsummer Night's Dream."

A waste of the filmmakers' time and ours, and offering further evidence that, outside the art house, much British cinema has its head jammed tightly up its own arse.

The film, whose clumsy editing and dearth of establishing shots keep the viewer in an unintended state of confusion, is a corpse in its own right: It’s filled with the rotting ideas of far better movies.

The film stinks from start to finish, like a wet burlap sack of gloom.

Mathew Cullen’s calamitous film adaptation of Martin Amis’ London Fields plays like the hazy recollection of someone who hated the book, an incomprehensible jumble of misogynistic claptrap. It dashes joylessly through dense material, too quickly for individual moments to register, much less resonate.

It's outclassed by the memory of just about every prizefighting flick you've ever seen.

No snob to low-brow ridiculousness when it’s actually unexpected, I’ll admit to being amused exactly once, when Zahn gets deep-throated by a gigantic prop turkey who, despite the mouthful, keeps on flapping.

Mimi Leder shows none of the vigor she exhibited when directing for E.R., and screenwriters Michael Tolkin and Bruce Joel Rubin betray a real aptitude for hack work.

The film's deadly lulls outweigh its infrequent highs.

Actor-writer-director Mars Callahan's diarrheal 10-character rant about modern relationships sounds like it was researched by eavesdropping on the restroom chatter at a high school prom.

This is one muddled attempt at franchise making: confusing, drab, sluggish. (Ugly, too, if you're forced to see it in 3-D.)

Vinterberg's execution is overstuffed, unoriginal and often downright incomprehensible. And what's Sean Penn doing dangling off airplanes -- pontificating, as usual, from a great height?

Mechanical revenge fantasy that skirts every serious issue it raises along a slick, cynical trajectory.

The Master of Disguise represents Adam Sandler's latest attempt to dumb down the universe.

If, for whatever reason, you do find yourself watching it, you may begin to ponder one of life's larger dilemmas: the fact that something can be done does not necessarily mean it should be done.

It's a nice try, but the film remains a pinhead's idea of softcore fetish material.

A dreadfully unfunny slog through contemporary dysfunctional family indie cliché.

Let's call this "rethinking" The Abysmal.

While the women go through a few of the motions, shifting decorously under the sheets and sucking face, there's no lust in their coupling, just choreography and the conceit of two filmmakers with nothing more on their minds than fake dykes and bloodshed.

From Freestyle Releasing, the self-service distributor that brought you "D-War" and "In the Name of the King: A Dungeon Siege Tale," comes a movie even worse than those two combined.

You'll be begging for mercy well before the end of this self-righteous, thoroughly unsavory "farce" about a lonely gay man who - gosh darn it - can't seem to stop getting mistaken for a pedophile.

It’s like watching an annoying young drag queen who flubs the quips she’s stolen, refuses to shut up and thinks attitude is wit.

Replete with false dilemmas, assisted by a dreadfully stagy screenplay and directed with all the animation of a tableau vivant, Metroland is such a draggy bore.

It looks like the film is angling for a "Northern Exposure" reunion, except with none of the regional eccentricity.

As a satire of France's recent turn to the right, Frontier(s) is both hysterical and muddled; as straight-up splatter -- a Grand Guignol concerto of scalding steam, slashed tendons and table saw, with a solo for exploding head -- it's as relentless as it is hateful, hammily directed and derivative of the dreariest slop in contemporary American horror cinema.

Lurches from one set-piece stomach-lurcher to the next with nary a nod to narrative coherence.

I’ll be straight with you: This movie is awful. And not the fascinating, Alexander Nevsky (the action star/filmmaker, not the 13th-century prince) kind of awful — it’s the does-anybody-involved-know-what-the-hell-they’re-doing kind of awful.

Racing flick results in a wreck as horrifying as the film itself.

Airless, joyless, worse than you could even imagine.

Crude animation, shrill voicework.

Painfully bereft of wit or cogent insight.

It's tough to decide just what's more offensive: the movie's musty depiction of gangsta rap as public enemy No. 1, the notion that all an uptight white girl needs to loosen up is a few puffs on a Philly blunt, or the idea that any of this might be remotely funny.

If you get your jollies from watching women being shot, stabbed and humiliated, you’ll love video director David Dobkin’s pointlessly grisly, tediously derivative feature debut.

How this hopelessly muddled and tedious dirge got released -- unless it was through the clout of Mel Gibson, who's grafted on as an FBI agent in a neck brace, with no discernible connection to the action -- is the real mystery.

Gormless, gutless little home movie.

Bad improv is bad improv, and it’s a potent virus.

It's screen comedy at the end of its tether, Capra-corn gone rancid.

It's shockingly inert.

Black cats, ill-timed power outages and children in peril are just a few of the hoary scare tactics ineffectively rendered in the style of so many films buried in the dark recesses of January.

May just be the most boring movie ever made; certainly it's the most boring movie I've suffered through to the bitter end.

An unnecessary remake.

If it was simply a jokey commentary on the dangers of greed and religious fervor, Tortilla Heaven would be forgivable. But Hecht Dumontet deserves special derision for her hypocritical condescension toward Falfúrrias' simple-folk caricatures, rendering them as God-fearing dolts worthy of scorn until the patronizing finale, which tries for a spiritual uplift that's as disingenuous as it is incompetently executed.

Since neither (Chapelle nor Koontz) seems to have any idea as to how to make an actual movie, they abandon form and reason and throw every stock trick in the book at the screen to see what sticks. And what sticks is the murky goo of storytelling gone bad.

A stunningly lethargic, uninvolving piece of crap.

Oxymoronic musings of a vain country singer.

Depressingly shrill.

Anatomy of Hell offers one of the most hateful and mechanical representations of sexuality I've ever seen.

Pitched as a black comedy, the film thus far seems to have divided audiences between those who think it unaccountably hilarious and those who see it as the latest manifestation of what might be called the new nihilism.

So what in this high-concept lame-a-thon makes screenwriter Bradley Allenstein think he can diss the Clippers?

It's an astonishingly crass and vulgar film, crudely directed on a cut-rate budget by Brian Robbins, never more than almost funny or less than disturbing.

Offers no perverse philosophical conundrums and no eye-popping visuals. It's a dull, lifeless bore.

A stinker.

Many in the youthful target audience won’t be able to identify the "homages," and the script is far too lazy for seasoned horror fans to stomach.

Highly reductive and deathly dull slasher flick.

The film seems to argue that Rock's real-life manipulation of the race card is little more than exploitation, rather than the essence of his incendiary comic critique.

This sort of nostalgia-drenched, sexual-coming-of-age saga has been done to death.

Equally as brainless, shrill and calculated as its two predecessors.

Shrill and gloomy.

Lacking even the train-wreck appeal of a brainless stoner comedy like "Half-Baked," Surfer, Dude is a numbing experience at just 89 minutes.

Here, the CG effects are plentiful, but the scare factor rarely rises above the level of a viral email, and the desaturated color scheme of Sonzero and cinematographer Mark Plummer makes every frame look as though it was developed in a solution of vomit and ash.

Annoyingly fourth-hand -- scraped from the shoes of "The Full Monty," mixed with Michael Caine's "Little Voice" hair-smarm and salted with "Billy Elliot's" dandruff.

For a movie that literally says it's full of "a bunch of degenerate maniacs," humdrum Black Site Delta bombs.

Put simply, in my humble opinion, Oldboy sucks.

Given the tainted history of Supernova, it's difficult to figure out where to place blame for either the undernourished screenplay or the moribund action.

It almost appears like a little thought went into this otherwise grim exercise in soullessness.

Watching Ramis struggle with his two stars is like watching someone try to juggle lead weights.

A cheap "Star Wars" rip-off with swords instead of light sabers.

A work of top-shelf schlock.

While the film is well-paced, visually it is deathly dull.

Mutates halfway through into a ham-fisted action movie that squanders the good will, and insults the intelligence, of its audience.

Only a 10-year-old could parse the plot.

There are ticklish moments, but no real laughs.

The diminishing returns of shock value are the movie's built-in joke, and it would be a lot funnier without the directors' unforgivably bratty postsexist/postracist/posthuman showboating.

The animation is cheesy; the banter isn't funny; the score is noisy and grating; and the critters look like stuffed animals. The best that can be said for The Wild is that it's a most insincere form of flattery. The worst is that it's a sincere form of theft.

A manifesto in the form of an enormously budgeted quasi-sci-fi epic, Cloud Atlas is evidently personal, defiantly sincere, totally lacking in self-awareness, and borderline offensive in its gleeful endorsement of revenge violence against anyone who gets in the way of a good person's self-actualization. The rest of the time, it's just insipid, TV-esque in its limited visual imagination, and dramatically incoherent.

Let horses be horses, scrap the tin-eared Lukas Haas narration.

All Serving Sara can offer is Perry with his arm shoulder-deep up a longhorn steer's backside, a wasted supporting cast that includes Vincent Pastore and Cedric the Entertainer, and a huge, comedian-shaped hole where Hurley's performance should be.

A promotional gimmick that's being slipped into theaters with the sort of stealth accorded only the unprofitable or the unwatchable.

Slowly degenerates into a gory revenge thriller that is never thrilling, but is often boring and frequently repulsive.