It's dull, two-dimensional, and totally toothless.

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

For many, the enticement of seeing two old pros smartly step through their pressurized pas de deux might be reason enough to buy a ticket.

The worst thing about The Animal -- is how frequently it becomes boring.

The plot that propels them (Pitt, Roberts) along separate story lines is both unusually character-driven and a hoot.

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.

Pie 2 has neither undercurrent, and hence what was passably cute the first time seems much more puerile and shrill here.

It's good enough, smart enough, and people will like it. It's also a high-concept cop-out, a convention-strangled genre movie that never zigs when your every instinct is screaming that it's about to zag.

It's Zahn's heartbreaking performance that drives Riding in Cars with Boys.

None of their efforts can turn this ho-hum, mildly entertaining line-drive single into a solid, explosive home run.

A pale, derivative little Brit ditty that will be forgotten almost as speedily as it was dumped...into theaters.

A barrage of dangling plot strands, inconsistent characterizations, and suspense-free shootouts.

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.

The rapper-ever-increasingly-turned actor -- is having the time of his life, big pimp styling in a flashy wardrobe as he guts and struts.

A warm, glossy holiday fable that hits some surprisingly sweet notes.

The appealing cast makes the most of the derivative story.

A mess, bouncing nonsensically from one style of farce to another, leaving large vacuums and dead spots — which may themselves, of course, be deliberate.

Thanks to the first-time filmmaker's attention to character, Gun Shy is worth at least a shot at a matinee.

Considerably less fun than a marathon of Star Search episodes.

Indulges in enough grubby histrionics and costume-adventure cliches to give you fifth-grade flashbacks.

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

The ending is so absurd, in fact, that it feels like it was improvised by a committee of 6-year-olds. If the raptors truly were intelligent, they'd have eaten the final reel.

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

With the dependably compelling Freeman present, even its worst moments are not unwatchable.

Just isn't funny enough to sustain the lunacy.

The bubble-kid moms can whine all they want, but Bubble Boy is a liberated movie --liberated from tastefulness, of course, but also from logic, suffering, consequence, and temperance.

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.

Doesn't come close to the pulp beauty and complexity of classic noir.

Mad About Mambo's steps may be as familiar as the hokeypokey, but there's just enough gusto in the execution to make it a guilty pleasure.

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

Predictable, tame dreariness.

This one somehow gets about 300 percent better in its last quarter-hour -- suddenly this is a movie worth watching -- and it's over.

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

Exhausting and fruitless: Having seen it, you know nothing more about strippers or the stripper mentality than you did going in. What's the point?

This is slight stuff, but the legions of budding Scorseses and Kevin Smiths might actually learn a little something, and they will certainly enjoy a chortle or two -- even if it is at their own expense.

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

It's gibberish, but when X works at all, it works not on the brain, but on the gut.

In its attempts to chart a young girl's journey from innocence to experience, The Invisible Circus ends up having all the heft of a Nancy Drew mystery decked out in a tie-dyed T-shirt and peasant skirt.

Reitman has truly lost his gift for comic rhythms, cluttering up the film with running yuks that aren't that funny the first time and certainly don't improve with repetition.

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.

A movie interesting enough in its conception to appeal to adults winds up being best suited to preadolescent sensibilities.

The only constant is the violence, which assaults rather than amuses.

Despite being full of Oscar-winning talent, this is still just a better-dressed, drawn-out episode of "Touched by an Angel."

The film's a vacuous bore.

Repetitive, aimless, and as frustrating as you'd imagine any two-hour music video to be.

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."

An intermittently irresistible entertainment.

But it's Lopez's movie, and its limitations are hers: Both actress and movie tackle emotional turmoil with a minimum of insight.

Even Foxx's lively comedy is lost in the noise.

An enjoyable female buddy caper -- more "Outrageous Fortune" than "Thelma and Louise."

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.

A bit too bloodless to howl about.

Shows its roots early on: Mixing the high camp of "Strictly Ballroom" with Monty's gritty milieu, the film comes off as little more than a contrived composite, despite the best efforts of pros Rickman, Richardson, and Griffiths.

One more attempt to pass off chopped liver as foie gras.

Too often, the movie is more forced and frantic than actually funny.

An adroitly made, perfectly acted little nightmare.

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."

Whenever Voight steps to the forefront, A Dog of Flanders is poochy-keen; alas, the rest of the time it's doggedly dull.

This is nothing more than one more run-of-the-mill, surprise-free, suspense programmer.

Has an unforgettable artery of hot-blooded talent coursing straight through it.

Plenty of the tasteless gags don't fly, and for every celebrity cameo that works (a hilariously heavenly Reese Witherspoon), there are two or three that crash and burn.

There's a lot of satisfaction in seeing two stars given this much time and space to examine a complex relationship.

The picture, a would-be thriller, is a mechanical exercise from the get-go, one that positively defies suspension of disbelief with each succeeding twist of a plot no one would ever hatch in real life.

Struggles for any kind of movement and cohesion -- and most of all for any kind of humor.

Wincer keeps the insubstantial story moving and the comedy light.

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.

Never better than middling, despite its best intentions.

So packed with knowingly dreadful puns, wily sight gags, and self-referential cheek that it's impossible not to be charmed.

Plays out like a raunchy, substandard WB soap.

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

First-time writer-director Mark Hanlon creates a solidly trippy atmosphere.

All of the interviewees are compelling, whether proudly showing off bruises and bullet holes from on-the-job scuffles, or voicing their opinions about how the profession has changed.

Good old-fashioned romantic entertainment, just restrained enough to skirt schmaltz.

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 trifle of a farce fashioned into a '30s musical that gaily trips as much as it lightly skips, but nonetheless marks a welcome return to form.

Wholly predictable and implausible plotting, thin characterizations, and stilted dialogue.

What does it say that we have a closer relationship with the car than with the characters? It says Bruckheimer.

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.

The naked, artless display of nerve and rebellious bile is altogether unique in modern movies.

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.

Along the way, we end up losing patience with our couple-to-be because they seem too smart to endure the indignities ceaselessly heaped on them.

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.

The only reason to sit through On the Line is for some entertaining, if fleeting, musical moments.

Boasts a fine cast and makes enough cogent points that it rises above standard cop fare.