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?

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.

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

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

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

There's little evidence to suggest Schneebaum was one of the great explorers of the 20th century, or even that he was particularly curious.

Obnoxious, transparent cornball comedy.

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.

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

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!

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

It punishes rather than entertains; it condescends, it offends, it loathes its audience.

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

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

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.

A shame, this frenetic mess, as there were loads of reasons to be hopeful.

Loquacious and dreary piece of business.

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.

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