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.