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.