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.

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

Deadly dull thriller.

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

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.

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!"

With malice for all, Drop Dead Gorgeous isn't likely to win any popularity contests.

Not only unfunny, but downright repellent.

An antiadvertisement for itself.

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

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.

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.

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

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.

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

Expect to be perplexed.

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

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.

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

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

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

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.

A turgid, unfunny, out-of-time rockspolitation movie.

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.

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

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

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.

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.