A laughable disaster: an agonizingly long, perversely dull, childishly conceived fantasia on marital sexual angst that could only have been made by someone (like Kubrick).

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.

The biggest piece of supernatural hooey since estranged wife Demi Moore's "The Seventh Sign."

Plays like mediocre outtakes from better bell-bottomed fare (Richard Linklater's authentic, seriocomic "Dazed and Confused"; Fox's "That '70s Show") without making any kind of impression of its own.

Even if the antic futility of attempting to get an entire shtetl to pull together in the face of genocide is your idea of a day at the races, don't laugh too hard -- the out-of-nowhere ending will make you choke on every chuckle.

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

This self-consciously kooky road movie about an unusual trio of bank robbers aims for Hal Ashby misanthropy, but hasn't a single emotionally grounded or plausible moment to justify its purely cinematic eccentricities.

An orgy of bad decisions and cheap ideas.

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.

If you're desperate for a James Bond fix, skip the movie and blow your 007 bucks on a copy of the soundtrack.

Invoking unpleasant memories of "Caligula" (only without the sex), Titus does no justice to Shakespeare.

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.

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.

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

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

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

An aimless, pointless dawdle.

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

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.

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.

Dim and eye-rollingly foolish -- Call it Dumb, Dumber, Dumber Still, and Dumbest.

Hamilton's quasi-Luddite tale doesn't make a coherent movie under the best of circumstances, and these were, apparently, something substantially less than that.

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

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

Has its share of small pleasures.

Populated with whiny, unappealing characters that are impossible to care about and flatly staged sitcomish set-pieces...this lame Canadian import's a real woofer.

An empty reminder that Martin Lawrence can be pretty funny, in a spastic, loose-limbed way -- maybe next time he'll get a worthwhile script.

One of our very few consummate movie star actors, Washington can't quite elevate this dismal material as he's been able to do in the past, but he retains his dignity.

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

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

Love & Sex is nothing but pain and suffering.

Joffe's latest is a formless, inanimate lump.

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

You'd think creating confusion during something as woodenly simpleminded as Dudley Do-Right is no easy task, but you'd be wrong.

The movie is an experience, of a sort they had a name for in the '60s: bummer.

A shovelful of silly manure from the get-go.

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.

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

This saga of one robot's determined quest to become human is so coldly calculated it could give you frostbite.

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

A chronic snore. My advice: Roll a fatty and re-rent the first one.

Brand-new and uproariously unimproved.

The switch of medium hasn't reinvigorated the soil or resulted in a film with any compelling reason for being.

It has no subtlety, no shadings, and no suspense, and might as well not have a screenplay.

A trial of cliche, strained optimism, and dire quasi-comedy.

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.

The film's a vacuous bore.

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."

Crude and witless.

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

Limp satire isn't worthy of its good intentions.

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.

Houston, we have a problem. It's called The Astronaut's Wife and it's an utterly predictable rip-off of classic '60s and '70s exercises in paranoia, from "Rosemary's Baby" to "The Parallax View."

Fuhgeddaboutit.

This is a second-rate Woody Allen midlife crisis comedy without the laughs.

Inept, unfunny, and so brimming with bad ideas it's a wonder it wasn't manufactured by mandrills rather than adult humans.

Plays out like a raunchy, substandard WB soap.

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

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.

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

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.

So wretched that it practically defies description.

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

A film without mirth or magic.

First the TV show, then the video games, the playing cards, the books, the clothes, and now the movie -- the dreaded movie.

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

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

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

Such a witless, bombastic, by-the-numbers hunk of millennial hooey it made me nostalgic for Commando. This one throws in every hoary hellfire cliché.

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

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

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 treacly, ham-fisted, German-American co-production about family ties that should only have been released in the circle of Hell reserved for movie critics.

Skeet Ulrich continues to disappoint in one high-profile project after another.

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.

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

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

Shelton attempts to fashion a kind of road movie-love triangle-sports flick. He fails on all three counts.

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

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

Virtually unwatchable.

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

Hellish matrimonial misfire.

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

None, repeat, none of this is funny.

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

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

Flows like day-old cement.

An incomprehensible mess.

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

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.

Plays out like a raunchy episode of "Felicity."

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

Dracula 2000 is a stake in the heart.

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

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

Offers little in the way of splendor in the grass.

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.