Plays out like a raunchy episode of "Felicity."

An orgy of bad decisions and cheap ideas.

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

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

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

Offers little in the way of splendor in the grass.

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

80 minutes of comic mistiming and missed opportunities.

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

Fuhgeddaboutit.

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

A film without mirth or magic.

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

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.

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

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

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.

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.

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.

Plays out like a raunchy, substandard WB soap.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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