To paraphrase the movie's too-knowing tag line: It's not very funny. But when the lights go out -- it's still not very funny.

Every frame of Scott's film is gorgeously lurid and baroque, but it just hangs there like bad art, even during the gore-spilling, Grand Guignol climax.

Only really comes to exuberant life during the musical numbers.

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

Deserves to be applauded for not casting Freddie Prinze Jr., but this sloppy, somnolent, strung-together flick pales when compared to such other teenage riffs on classic literature as "Clueless" and "10 Things I Hate About You."

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

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

Li's light touch and explosive fighting skills deserve a better vehicle than this overcooked pot of New Jack suey.

Never the heart-wrenching emotional experience it seems intended to be.

It's so plot heavy it never finds its nimble comic rhythm.

Just keeps grinding along, pushing its way through a barrage of boom-boom and a sea of tight-lipped clichés.

Turturro's movie is all surface, all artifice, and little substance. Actors love artifice; the rest of us wait for it to clear so we can find something meatier.

Predictable, tame dreariness.

Mangold ultimately delivers the same film any number of other Hollywood journeyman could've made from this material, and the results are predictable and stale.

Without full-bodied characters to play, Smith and Damon are left to get by on their native charm -- something both have in considerable quantity, thankfully.

Somehow manages to stay afloat on a sea of pretension, thanks largely to some splashy visuals.

Its characters and plot are almost wholly negligible. It's just a party.

A modest project with an agreeably modest point of view, but it cries out for a sharp, believable naturalism Kusama simply doesn't supply.

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

This is one Rudolph opus that leaves no afterglow.

Sentenced its audience to a maudlin death.

Strains our patience with overacting and photography so sumptuous you can't help but ponder why so much bloodshed and mayhem is being so expertly prettified.

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

Captures the embarrassment of foreplay, but it could use a few lessons in the art of seduction

Bossa Nova has no beat.

Never better than middling, despite its best intentions.

Every time the movie seems poised to veer into watchability, however, Turteltaub is there, like a beat cop for the Fun Police, reminding us to laugh, sigh, or tear up.

Crammed with interesting ideas, visuals, and people, but Stone buries it all in a s--tstorm of technique.