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.