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.