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

Features a sexy, appealing cast, especially Guillermo Diaz.

A tepid, pretentious indie that flies from the memory like a tissue in a twister.

It's "Shampoo," 30 years after. What a surprise, then, that this effort ranks lower even than the Steve Martin remake of "The Out-of-Towners."

About Lustig's direction. Badly employing all kinds of tricks like alternating film speed, jump cuts, and various color tints, she ultimately overpowers her actors and does in her own film.

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.

Game boys and girls will be disappointed by this fast-paced but shockingly dull adaptation.

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

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

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.

They make a believable trio of siblings, but not even their combined wit can lift this script above the maudlin.

The film's greatest flaw is its miscast leads, who conjure up zero dewy-eyed, wish-fulfillment magic.

Has its funky charms.

Why waste the price of a movie ticket when you can see wildebeests cavorting for free from the comfort of your own recliner?

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

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

Swordfish is exactly the kind of nominally high-octane actioner that breeds legions of apologists who will encourage you to "check your brain at the door" before seeing it.

Complaints? None, except perhaps a wish for more length, and a little more depth.

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

Starts as light, fluffy fun but becomes so blithely preposterous that it ceases to exist.

Whatever the amount on Roth's paycheck was, it's the only truly charmed sum Lucky Numbers has to offer.

For all its pretense of critiquing our tabloid culture, it amounts to much ado about nothing.

The material it does pull off is daring and sharp.

Virtually unwatchable.

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

It's a coffee-table movie, but what saves it are a couple of performances.Rowlands puts a spin on every line reading, Harris quietly mines regret, and Shields, assured and sexy, has never been this good.

Hellish matrimonial misfire.

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