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.

Grotesque and ugly.

A mind-numbing exercise in high body counts and big tits.

The cinema of morons made by morons for morons, Swordfish is everything you expect but worse.

Just avoid this ghastly, insulting farrago at all costs.

Too bad that by the time the volcano shoots its wad, the movie has already died a thousand deaths, ground to a halt by the interminable waiting for the damn thing to blow.

One graphic that I.O.U.S.A. doesn't include is a national balance sheet of our assets and liabilities, which would illustrate that the former is more than double the latter. We're in the black, and a film this deep in the red isn't something to be scared of at all -- or taken seriously.

Absurd beyond belief or reason.

Murphy slogs his way through this dismally dull sci-fi comedy.

This ostensible comedy may be a new depths-of-hell low in the Emmanuel Lewis filmography, but for star Jamie Kennedy it’s par for the coarse.

So badly written, so poorly directed and performed, and so garishly visualized -- attention Kmart shoppers! -- it defies explanation.

Smart money says Friedberg and Seltzer never sit through these movies in entirety.

There are gruelingly unfunny gags, an unspeakable soundtrack featuring BTO and Billy Ocean, and Victoria's Secret mannequin Heidi Klum as a model who demands that her pussy hair be styled into a bushy red heart.

All the while, director Lorena David labors to keep implausibility and bad acting from sinking a ship that never should have left port.

Unbearably painful from shrugging start to outtakes-laden finish, Harold Ramis’ half-assed, hare-brained return to writing and directing makes Mel Brooks’ equally muddled, soporific "History of the World, Part 1" look downright majestic by comparison.

Writer-director David DeFalco's ugly, pointless and dishonest remake of Craven's remake.

Some of the most heavy-handed, laughless, uninspired attempts at comedy since prime time. But I still dig “South Park.” Let’s forget this ever happened.

As repellent as their characters are, one feels a degree of pity for the three male leads, who give fresh evidence that hungry actors can't say no to a studio feature, no matter how humiliating the script.

Pure junk.

The Crash-meets–Collateral Beauty false-gravitas joke of the year.

This carpet-fouling mongrel of a movie no more deserves release than do anthrax spores.