Frankly, there wouldn't have been enough shtick here to warrant an SNL skit. And if the material isn't even up to those standards, then who the hell green-lit it as a feature?

I'd write it all off as something that is, after all, intended for young viewers -- but then I'd be insulting their intelligence as cruelly as the movie does.

Take the G out of Glitter and it's litter.

Once the action starts to kick in, Megiddo morphs, minute by minute and scene by scene, into a Mystery Science Theater smorgasbord.

Psychological thrillers depend on convincing audiences to suspend disbelief, but this one doesn't manage that for a moment.

It is merely another inept teen movie ripping off better horror movies.

Hard to watch -- not because of its unflinching realism, but rather for its mawkish reliance on every boy hooker flick from "Midnight Cowboy" to "Johns."

So wretched that it practically defies description.

It's a warped kind of romantic comedy in which the whole is substantially less than the sum of the parts.

This is nothing more than a bare-assed fart in the face of Smith's fans.

Should be shot at sunrise. Or strung up by the neck from a tall tree. Or at least run out of town by a big posse.

An early scene inside a theater seems intended to wink at Sin's critics: "Disgusting! Cheap melodrama," a lady sniffs during intermission. It's a neatly reflexive acknowledgement of what we ourselves are watching, but even at that, our filmmaker is praising himself too extravagantly by half.

As though fatalistically compelled, all three leads self-destruct: Li is as flat, colorless, and stiff as a panel of Sheetrock, Karyo plays his every syllable in overdrive, and Fonda seems trapped in the midst of a failed screen test for Pretty Woman II.

Has a blithe tone and a capable cast, but Veber's script is 100 percent laugh-free.

A preachy, monotonous failure hyped as a follow-up to his incendiary 1991 debut, "Boyz N the Hood."

Slow as a funeral dirge, the movie's all talk about art and passion and obsession without anything to show for it.

The film's a vacuous bore.

A clumsy, witless cartoon version of E.B. White's rather uncelebrated children's story.

The backdrop of exotic pagodas and wartime woe isn't nearly potent enough to buoy the feeble drama that plays out in the foreground.

The Forsaken discourages one from caring in the least how its breed of vein-tappers came to be, or even what will happen if they take over the world.

It's "Shampoo," 30 years after. What a surprise, then, that this effort ranks lower even than the Steve Martin remake of "The Out-of-Towners."

A slick, simplistic, and laughable effort that's reminiscent of a bad Jerry Bruckheimer film. A really bad Bruckheimer film.

It's a gleefully unfettered gross-a-thon first --also second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth -- and a movie perhaps seventh.

This talky, self-important flick is a bore of biblical proportions.

The dialogue is trite and tinnily recorded, and the actresses have the chops of high-school drama students.

If you can overlook its condescending wholesomeness and static, visually drab, endlessly repetitious animation, then you have a more forgiving soul than I do.

There aren't even any naked chicks in it. What the hell is up with that?

The movie is more or less competent for being what it is. Of course, I could say the same of most brick walls -- but I'd hardly recommend that you pay eight bucks to sit in front of one for two hours.

Oak-stiff and witless, but a few scenes muster up embarrassed chuckles.

Duller-than-a-Vitalife-convention compilation of talking heads.

The selling out of Chris Rock -- or Down to Earth, as he's chosen to call it -- is a sad, sad thing.

If Company Man were a wreck on the interstate, it would involve multiple cars and at least one jackknifed tanker truck, and traffic would be backed up for miles as passing motorists slow to gawk.

The movie is so slovenly in its animation and graceless in its writing that few viewers over the age of 9 are likely to notice.

This is one of those movies in which there are only two types of people: officious yuppie pricks, and the beautiful folks who stop and smell the daisies. What keeps it (barely) from being completely intolerable is Keanu Reeves' hilariously awful lead performance.

Black, who is creatively marooned in the thankless Chris Farley fat-boy role, deserve better, and so do we.

Because so little of what occurs on-screen either engages or entertains, there's ample time for the boiler of your self-respect to build up quite a head of indignation at the forfeiture of your time, money, and (exceedingly minimal) cerebral exertion.

The film's greatest flaw is its miscast leads, who conjure up zero dewy-eyed, wish-fulfillment magic.

Who the heck green-lit this garbage heap anyway?

Antitrust is anti-fun, anti-wakefulness, and anti-interesting.

Giuseppe Tornatore has long been a master of cheap sentiment ("Cinema Paradiso," " The Legend of 1900"), but his latest film is his most shallow, reprehensible exercise in nostalgia to date.

Joffe's latest is a formless, inanimate lump.

Dracula 2000 is a stake in the heart.

None, repeat, none of this is funny.

A miserable western that is clearly headed downward toward the latter destination.

Gamer geeks, I speak your language! And I warn you: Flee! Or, at the very least, crank down any expectations you harbor -- a few notches below "zero" should do it -- before buying a ticket.

I'd rather go on an all-Crisco diet than sit through Poor White Trash again.

A film without mirth or magic.

The film's title accurately captures the sensation of sitting through it -- stay home.

The characters aren't convincingly written, rarely if ever behave like believable humans, and consequently don't matter to us in the least.

Whatever the amount on Roth's paycheck was, it's the only truly charmed sum Lucky Numbers has to offer.

Through a messy series of news reports, interviews, talk shows, and behind-the-scenes footage, Arcand creates a cinema vérité spoof that's not nearly as penetrating or enjoyable as he thinks.

A peerless indignity, a club-footed vomit launch of teen-horror clichés, overproduced self-importance, and scareless gore.

80 minutes of comic mistiming and missed opportunities.

An earnest but fatally amateurish and stereotypical melodrama about fraternity hazing.

The only thing about this movie that will haunt you is its boggling ineptitude.

None of the movie's abundant humor is better than faintly amusing.

If Lee's intention was to cement our loathing of blackface comedy, he's succeeded all too well.

Pushes the standard tropes of gay romance movies a few more steps toward full-blown cliché-dom.

Beautiful it ain't, but it is kind of cute.

The narrative disjointedness is not at all relieved by confusing editing, an uncertain tone, and a dragging pace that makes the film a progressively dreary experience.

As for genuine willies, well, chances are you've had more disturbing encounters with, say, a belligerent Shih Tzu.

A vanity vehicle for the dubious acting talents of Pras.

Whipped is cinematic suicide, if not for actor, then certainly for audience.

Thinking (logically or otherwise) about this movie is a waste of your brain cells.

Two hours' worth of painful stupidity, overt racism, and mind-battering noise and movement.

Strives for folksy charm but ends up just lying there like a plate of kippers.

Love & Sex is nothing but pain and suffering.

Fuhgeddaboutit.

Brand-new and uproariously unimproved.

Dreadful demonic disaster.

Appears to have been written and directed by a grade-school dropout snorting airplane glue.

To say that it's dull barely scratches the surface.

Better, as they say, than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick -- but only just.

Struggles like a fat kid on the gym rope to conjure up even a single decent laugh.

Plays out like a raunchy episode of "Felicity."

Disheveled tripe pieced together with the good intentions.

This is sub-par Aaron Spelling sludge all the way.

An orgy of bad decisions and cheap ideas.

Without any momentum and lacking both depth and interesting characters, Shadow Hours makes sin seem pretty damn boring.

Limp satire isn't worthy of its good intentions.

Greenaway has hit a brick wall, and it's no fun to watch.

Go see this movie and you'll be...yup. You should save your money; Norm Macdonald should save his career, by quitting movies altogether.

So desperate to be rebellious and cool, that it's impossible to see it as anything more than one big case of "been there, done that" -- even if your drugs have already kicked in.

A tepid, pretentious indie that flies from the memory like a tissue in a twister.

The total lack of sexual chemistry between them doesn't help. Frankly, I'd rather see Scott Thomas play a nun than sit through another one of these turgid romancers.

Why waste the price of a movie ticket when you can see wildebeests cavorting for free from the comfort of your own recliner?

A stiff, clumsy, amateurish mess, one of those ethnically righteous movies likely to be endured exclusively by its story's demographic.

As an audience member, you end up feeling like a sucker for even having tolerated that sickly sweet notion about a father, a son, and their silly radio.

A ponderous stage adaptation that expends only the mildest effort to overcome its staginess.

A swamp of clichés, contrivances, and cheap ham-and-cheese hero sentimentality.

Pearce is shot in such distorting closeups that he looks like an overdeveloped athlete who's been getting steroid injections in his cheeks.

Offers little in the way of splendor in the grass.

Yet another leaden, witless, cliché-drunk, teen romantic comedy starring the preposterously good-looking stars of mediocre TV series.

Crude and witless.

The once-talented Mr. Polanski is hard to spot.

Alas, for now we're at the mercy of a screenplay whose beats are too often as poorly calculated as the movie's title.

As intriguing as the premise sounds, Mission to Mars hasn't a single moment of real suspense.

It's a chilling piece of legal hysteria, and ripe for nasty farce. But Pooh plays it all for buffoonish pratfalls and fart jokes.