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.

Joffe's latest is a formless, inanimate lump.

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

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

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.

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

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

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

Flows like day-old cement.

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.

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.

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.

Limp satire isn't worthy of its good intentions.

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

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

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.

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).

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.

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.

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.

A drearily over-cynical farce.

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

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

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

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

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

A vanity vehicle for the dubious acting talents of Pras.

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

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.

An aimless, pointless dawdle.

A shovelful of silly manure from the get-go.

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

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

There's nothing wrong with Down to You that a smart script and savvy direction couldn't cure.

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

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?

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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.

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.

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

An incomprehensible mess.

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."

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.

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

The film's a vacuous bore.

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

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

So wretched that it practically defies description.

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."

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

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.

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.

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

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

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.

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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.

This poor movie is like an abandoned car without plates: Nobody wants to admit it's theirs.

Dracula 2000 is a stake in the heart.

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

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

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

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

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

Virtually unwatchable.

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.

Disheveled tripe pieced together with the good intentions.

Crude and witless.

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

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

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

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

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

Hellish matrimonial misfire.

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