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.