A full-throated shout-out to the lowest common denominator.

Yet another leaden, witless, cliché-drunk, teen romantic comedy starring the preposterously good-looking stars of mediocre TV series.

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?

It is merely another inept teen movie ripping off better horror movies.

None of the movie's abundant humor is better than faintly amusing.

Disheveled tripe pieced together with the good intentions.

This poor movie is like an abandoned car without plates: Nobody wants to admit it's theirs.

Because so little of what occurs on-screen either engages or entertains, there's ample time for the boiler of your self-respect to build up quite a head of indignation at the forfeiture of your time, money, and (exceedingly minimal) cerebral exertion.

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.

A vanity vehicle for the dubious acting talents of Pras.

The watchability of Extreme Days can be mostly chalked up to Hannah's playful impulses -- and his cast's infectious camaraderie.

Dreadful demonic disaster.

The only thing about this movie that will haunt you is its boggling ineptitude.

As for genuine willies, well, chances are you've had more disturbing encounters with, say, a belligerent Shih Tzu.

Alas, for now we're at the mercy of a screenplay whose beats are too often as poorly calculated as the movie's title.

An earnest but fatally amateurish and stereotypical melodrama about fraternity hazing.

There aren't even any naked chicks in it. What the hell is up with that?

A peerless indignity, a club-footed vomit launch of teen-horror clichés, overproduced self-importance, and scareless gore.

This wretched jumbo helping of Christian Fundamentalist agitprop takes itself entirely too seriously to be anything but ploddingly dull.

Sitting through the film is like Chinese water torture, for sure, and for reasons beyond the forced, idiotic campiness of the thing. For one thing, there is not one word of dialogue.

Take the G out of Glitter and it's litter.

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.

This is sub-par Aaron Spelling sludge all the way.

It's a gleefully unfettered gross-a-thon first --also second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth -- and a movie perhaps seventh.

There's nothing wrong with Down to You that a smart script and savvy direction couldn't cure.

It's a chilling piece of legal hysteria, and ripe for nasty farce. But Pooh plays it all for buffoonish pratfalls and fart jokes.

Whipped is cinematic suicide, if not for actor, then certainly for audience.

It's a lock to pile up the honors during Hollywood's annual awards season next spring (at the Golden Raspberries and the MTV Movie Awards).