Not just another disposable romantic comedy, but an ambitious, overreaching mess.

The film is overwrought, slow, and portentous, with confusing surreal elements and a narrative time scheme that's impossible to keep track of.

Which leaves Witherspoon, that delicious pastry, to heave the movie on her small shoulders and carry it home. The load is light -- the movie weighs no more than a glass of flat champagne -- but even she can't withstand the burden.

The predominantly amateur cast is painful to watch, so stilted and unconvincing are the performances. Poor Roth has nobody to play against and flounders in trying to keep the ship upright. Herzog aims for a kind of operatic sweep that he fails to achieve.

What do you get when you cross a passé "swinger" (Will Stewart), an exhausted "lost in L.A." setting, a sloppy "screenplay" and dull "direction" (by Paul Duran)? This!

Every plot point is obvious a mile away to anyone who's ever seen a film, and made even more obvious by the fact that the camera blatantly points out clues shortly before they're put to use.

If only director Walter Hill and his coscreenwriter David Giler had scribbled a punch line for all these punches, this rage-in-the-cage redux would be more than merely a limp showcase of machismo so passé as to embarrass your average Australopithecus.

There is something distinctly self-satisfied about Amy's Orgasm that rubs the viewer the wrong way. The film should come with a warning label: Vanity project ahead!

Numbingly feeble -- The dialogue is witless, the situations are lame, the humor juvenile and the chemistry between the stars nonexistent.

Only Quaid, as a semiretarded horny robot, and Cleese as a fussy chauffeur hologram seem to get it. Even Murphy, as the titular nightclub big shot in outer space, forgets to be actually funny until the climax.

Not strong enough to stomach this leather-clad jerk-off session, which Miramax dumped onto Paramount in a rare case of common sense.

Mostly this happy train wreck feels like a longer, better movie that was chopped up and reassembled by retarded monkeys; what should have been a rush instead feels rushed.

What it lacks are solid performances, save Slater's game attempt to take everything seriously.

Lansdown has a pretty good score by Atli Orvarsson... Nope, nothing else nice to say.

A torturous, mawkish, ill-conceived remake.

This limp gender-bender-baller from a first-time director and rookie screenwriter steals wholesale from that 1982's "Tootsie," forgetting only to retain a single laugh.

Warner Bros. is presumably aiming this movie not at children but at full-grown dopers with bad munchies glued to the Cartoon Network. Dude, pass the Scooby snacks.

If this it supposed to be comedy, why isn't it ever, for one second, funny?

You probably saw this film the last time around, when it was called "Sleeping With the Enemy." This one merely adds a better car chase and more ass-kicking.

It's an exceptionally dreary and overwrought bit of work, every bit as imperious as Katzenberg's "The Prince of Egypt" from 1998.

Boll uses a lot of quick cutting and blurry step-printing to goose things up, but dopey dialogue and sometimes inadequate performances kill the effect.

Even those looking to catch a few Diane Lane tit shots will be so exhausted by the endless nothingness between each one that it won't be worth it.

An ugly-duckling tale so hideously and clumsily told it feels accidental. Surely, no one PLANNED something this disastrously unfunny.

What's particularly scary about Hollywood Ending, however, is that its flaws are exactly the sort of problems that often afflict aging directors, flaws that we've never seen in Allen before -- bad comic timing, slack pacing, an unsteady control of tone, a reliance on jokes that have long since become clichés.

Mandel Holland's direction is uninspired, and his scripting unsurprising, but the performances by Phifer and Black are ultimately winning.

Say what you want about Hollywood losing its way in recent years, there's something beautiful about moviemakers who paint themselves into corners this tight.

It's Tommy's job to clean the peep booths surrounding her, and after viewing this one, you'll feel like mopping up, too.

The acting tends toward the cartoonish (not in a good way), and the story is built on a series of illogical motivations.

There is nothing particularly interesting about either the people or the situations. Barrial might as well have filmed ANY body.

With virtually no interesting elements for an audience to focus on, Chelsea Walls is a triple-espresso endurance challenge.

The movie climaxes with an entire audience farting -- a more concise review than this one.

Most obvious crime is first-degree dullness, giving us a thriller without thrills and a mystery devoid of urgent questions.

Seems to exist solely to prove there is something beneath the bottom of the barrel.

The dumbest thing this side of a lobotomy.

Feels like an in-joke, a party where everyone on the screen's having a better time than anyone in the theater, and they all couldn't care less. And that's just no fun at all.

Merely labeling National Lampoon's Van Wilder "sophomoric" or "vulgar" doesn't do justice to the perpetrators' dedication.

Loquacious and dreary piece of business.

It's a paint-by-numbers job of the worst sort, stuffed with more tired old baseball baloney than Harry Caray and about as dramatic as shagging flies in St. Pete.

Its most redeeming quality is that it's so inoffensive parents can feel OK about taking kids.

It's utterly frustrating: What could and should have been biting and droll is instead a tepid waste of time and talent.

Not only unfunny, but downright repellent.

Renders it a cross between "Three Men and a Baby" and "Monsters, Inc." But it's bereft of the charisma of the former and the energy of the latter; stuck in a frozen wasteland, it possesses all the vigor of a Popsicle.

Plays like a knockoff of Michael Bay's already derivative and much more fun "Bad Boys," only with even less plot. It also recalls the worst qualities of John Singleton's mean-spirited "Shaft."

If you have any desire to see this movie, you really should go rent "The Longest Yard" instead. It's available on DVD, and the '70s hairdos alone are worth the rental price.

Ultimately, the film amounts to being lectured to by tech-geeks, if you're up for that sort of thing.

When emotion is called for, Cassavetes drags out every tear-jerking moment beyond the point of tolerability.

As in the comparatively quaint original film, there are whiffs of greed, carnage, social upheaval and the triumph of the numskull, but it's all rendered noxious nonsense by zooming hot rods, vague T&A, irritating jump-cuts and a bunch of dipshit Power Ranger wannabes slamming in hell's moshpit.

A bland, obnoxious 88-minute infomercial for Universal Studios.

It's just that this clunky, inane vehicle sputters barely a few feet down its quaint English highway before you want to bid it "do zvidániya, dumb-ass!"

Alas, Slackers sucks. It's so bad Schwartzman can't save it, though he tries mightily; a flash of nudity from Pearl Harbor babe and male-named model-turned-actress James King isn't even worth the price of a video rental down the line.

Snow Dogs may simply be a stupid waste of your time. But if you know the source, it's an abomination.

But there is a saving grace: Seemingly aware of how weak the material was, the filmmakers have filled it with wall-to-wall beautiful naked women in every other scene, complete with a little gratuitous lesbian action. It can't save the film, but it'll keep you from dozing off.

It's a bad sign when you're rooting for the film to hurry up and get to its subjects' deaths just so the documentary will be over, but it's indicative of how uncompelling the movie is unless it happens to cover your particular area of interest.

Turns out some folks just don't know Philip K. Dick about making movies.

In one of the year's most woefully manipulative and oppressively pandering offerings: I Am Sam, a dolled-up TV movie-of-the-week masquerading as profound cinema.

Just when it looked like "Not Another Teen Movie" might claim the crap crown comes this stoner's tale.

Indeed, the best that can be said about The Majestic is that it may boost Capra's reputation by virtue of comparison. Apparently, it's not so easy to weave that kind of magic.

History buffs will find this film lacking, and it isn't really deep enough to educate the rest of us as thoroughly as it should.

It took five men to concoct the hackneyed plot and conceive the brainless jokes that constitute Not Another Teen Movie, meaning there are five men in Los Angeles right now still trying to wash that stink off their soft, idle hands.

Final is one big hunh? barely worth the effort; just because it doesn't make any sense doesn't mean it's art.

If it had anything that even approached the vaguest vicinity of a plot, The Wash might be a cool diversion for a Saturday afternoon at the mall.

With a movie like this, there's no risk of spoiling the ending, because the entire plot is merely a formality trudging toward a foregone conclusion. The viewer's biggest challenge is to survive fits of yawning so violent they could disrupt ornithic migratory patterns.

A film bereft of emotion, characters and words with more than two syllables.

Travolta is stuck giving a remarkable performance in a film so trivial and offensive its mere existence is as loathsome as it is laughable.

This movie is every bit the mess its title makes it sound.

This pallid little ditty, like the rest of Lance Bass and pals' oeuvre, is soulless, banal and derivative.

This bloody stab at William Castle's 1960 gimmick flick substitutes chaos for chills.

Of all the various low-budget documentaries chronicling the Star Wars phenomenon, Tariq Jalil's is certainly the most recent. There's not a whole lot else to say about it.

Lurie's politics aside, it's astonishing that a man who once reviewed films keeps churning out movies full of cinema's most hollow clichés; indeed, he turns out stuff that's even more disjointed and improbable than the most mediocre fare.

An overlong compendium of Oprah moments meant to move and inspire, even if, by the end, it's too exhausted with itself to offer up a single authentic tear or revelation.

Simply, the worst movie of a wretched year.

The best way to watch it is with a loaded bong, the volume turned down and the Orb cranked up on your stereo.

The movie's all flash and formula, as original as the letter A, especially when it collapses in a dung heap of gunfire and corpses.

Amid a rather routine plot and standard cop-show stylings -- just doesn't add up to much entertainment value.

The lack of profanity or even alcohol (when in Mexico, the gang downs shots of hot sauce, not tequila) makes the film suitable for all ages, except for those old enough to want actual content in their movies.

OK, so you can't afford women who'll bare flesh for what you're paying. Then don't make an exploitation film!

Worst movie of the year.

Marsh's flat-footed recitation of Believe It or Not crimes grows tedious, and his condescension to present-day citizens of the town (implying they're as grotesque and doomed as ever) rings false.

Too bad very few of these high jinks are actually funny -- the outtakes at the end of the film suggest a more relaxed ensemble vibe that the film proper was unable to retain.

The film was cut down from an R rating to get a PG-13, but even if it had full-on Eliza Dushku nudity -- and it doesn't have anything close -- Soul Survivors would still suck.

The fleeting moments of dry wit are too sparse to hold the movie together, so instead McAbee takes the kitchen-sink approach, hitting us with whatever he's got.

This tripe, however, isn't worth your time or our ink.

Who wants to pay to see a movie so bad the actors and writer-director feel the need to keep reminding us of how bad it is?

Given how uninvolving Summer Catch is, the truly remarkable pitching here was not so much on the mound as in the executive office where someone convinced Warner Bros. to green-light this turkey, which should have been called Good Will Hitting.

Nearly every attempt at humor in this witless, completely reprehensible "movie" is mean-spirited and stupidly conceived at the expense of some group that deserves better.

The film feels like what it is: an improvised comedy bit that two friends came up with.

The moviemakers have eliminated the finer points of the novel in favor of broad strokes. Very broad strokes.

So desperate are the filmmakers to create a "hip" western that they try to cram it with action sequences that aren't very exciting.

There's nothing more enervating than a stupid film with only random, and perhaps accidental, flashes of smarts; the rare prescient moments only serve to highlight how banal and vacant the rest of the movie is, especially when it stoops to conquer the gross-out market bled dry by the Farrelly Brothers and their myriad acolytes.

Anyone who expects a little drama with their screen sex will have to go elsewhere.

It's as light on its feet as a dead elephant. It's never clever or smart, nor is it terribly thrilling or engaging during its numerous fight sequences.

Doesn't swing, doesn't score, can't make it to first base, never even drags its sorry ass out of the dugout.

Obnoxious, transparent cornball comedy.

Like the recent "Baise-moi," Bully is a whole lot of shock and titillation trying to pretend it's saying something. Unlike the French import, however, there's no awareness of its own absurdity, nor anything for the audience to care about in the slightest.

Any cassette of "Millennium" would serve up better thrills and chills.

The overall film is hideously grating, thanks to an inconsistent look, animated titles all over the place, excessive explanatory commentary and abrasive R&B videos inserted throughout.

If you peel away the surface of this movie, one is left with not much at all.

While the whole is diverting, the ending's utter repudiation of reality seems like pissing on the audience; -- we feel like we've been suckers for bothering to care about the characters at all.