Inherent Vice, meandering even by Anderson’s standards, is easily the worst of his movies, a soporific 2½-hour endurance test.

A silly, boring supernatural thriller that squanders a potentially interesting premise and the rapper Snoop Dogg in his ostensible starring debut.

Basically a carefully airbrushed and authorized portrait of the Gray Lady during 14 months when there was serious speculation about the paper's impending demise.

The plot contortions that very slowly unfold under Michael Radford's arthritic direction in Flawless are not much more entertaining.

The movie is trying to do far too much and doesn't do anything well. "Ambitious" isn't the word here; "random" is more like it.

Laughs are few and far between in the innuendo-laden script attributed to Dana Fox, who's also responsible for the reprehensible "The Wedding Date."

Falls far short of capturing the hedonistic spirit of this ephemeral art community. It's more like a routine home video with arty pretensions.

Admittedly, I’m far from a fan of Korine’s “Gummo,’’ “Julien Donkey-Boy’’ and the absymal “Trash Humpers.’’ But that he is proud of making intentionally sloppy and tedious movies doesn’t make them any easier to watch. Or all that much fun, for that matter.

The biggest problem with the corny horror film Anacondas: The Hunt for the Blood Orchid is that its titular reptiles are about as scary as jellied eels.

The villains are all wrong, the motivations are muddy, even the gadgetry is off. And the swaggering genius at the center of it all has become a preening fool.

Evokes such deja vu, you'd swear you'd already fallen asleep on the damned thing in the middle of the night on HBO.

There's nothing you haven't seen before - and better - in Deadfall, which would seem to appeal mostly to fans of snowmobile chases.

The result is a hodgepodge of plots and styles, a fault compounded by stiff acting and, except for a few scenes, wooden direction.

Steve Carell is fatally miscast as an arrogant, flamboyant third-rate magician in The Incredible Burt Wonderstone, which by all rights should have been a second-rate Will Ferrell vehicle.

Hocus Pocus 2 is also awful to the core, but charmless and too low stakes to keep our interest.

If Carrie Bradshaw ever trades her Manolos for sneakers and starts blogging about raising children, I pray she wouldn't be as tiresome as the heroine of Katherine Dieckmann's insufferable comedy Motherhood.

Less a movie than a checklist of indiecinema clichés. Youth on a journey of self-discovery? Got it. Dead mom? Uh-huh. Wounded and entitled when it’s trying to be soulful, plotless, laden with indie rock and entirely overhyped at Sundance? Checkarooney.

A non-thrilling occult thrillersolame and unoriginal that it would be an embarrassment for any director, much less a talent like Roman Polanski.

A profound disappointment, given its cast and source material.

What you get instead of soccer is almost two hours of late-stage syphilis.

I’ll say one thing for The Call: Its ending is actually a bit of a surprise. Just when you think it couldn’t get any stupider, pow! I’ll be damned, Hollywood, you still have the power to blindside.

There's no way to put this gently: Watching people slam their heels and toes on the boards while drifting around the floor is about as fascinating as watching the carousel rotation in your favorite microwave oven.

I’ll give credit to Krasinski for endeavoring to deliver a new, if derivative, story. He’s not made a loathsome movie, really, but forgettable mush.

A self-indulgent work.

Harris can be a brilliant actor, and there are flashes of that here. But he's done in by a script that lacks any subtlety.

A heist comedy in which the audience gets robbed.

For all its outré set pieces it never rises above the level of pretentious trash.

The script suffers from blandness and aimlessness.

Argentine writer-director Juan Solanas’ fantasy romance Upside Down is such a gorgeous wreck that I could almost sense Terry Gilliam somewhere muttering, “Wait a minute, I should have been the one to screw up this idea.”

Here the characters aren't compelling enough to ask viewers to give their brains a workout to determine exactly what's going on.

The acting, camera work and writing are all crude and amateurish, even by the standards of student films.

Is the Crystal Lake PD really doing such a good job? You'd have to go back to Phnom Penh in 1975 to find a place with a higher per-capita rate of unprosecuted homicides.

Just Before I Go is a “Garden State” retread in which filthy jokes gradually cede ground to sentimental slush.

It strains belief that nuclear weapons couldn't kill off the dragons, but three people with crossbows could.

Predictable and uninspired romantic drama fizzles like a wet squib.

This film should be reliably filling as pizza for dinner. But the deliveryman is an hour late and has dropped the box.

UH-UH. Non. Nein. Negative. Sept. 11 is not to be used as the setup for a cheesy disaster prophecy flick.

Kalem's grasp of dramatic storytelling is no firmer, and the disorderly film merely chases its tail for the second half, going nowhere fast.

A great writer deserves a more penetrating and inquisitive documentary: Reverence is not the path to understanding.

At best a sporadically amusing sketchbook of theater types.

It's very sad to watch Keaton here. In the most excruciating scene, she gets drunk in a bar, staggers up to a microphone and starts to sing, or rather squawk. For those of us who still revere Annie Hall and her blissfully unaffected rendition of "Seems Like Old Times," this is sacrilege.

What follows is a jumble of cop- and heist-movie clichés, dotted with appearances by actors you liked in something else.

It sounds like it was written by the star pupils at the Cameron Academy of Screenwriting.

Colin Firth plays a real-life investigator whom the script renders as noble as Atticus Finch. Reese Witherspoon does haunting work as a victim’s mom. But the stately pace and the faultless art direction add to the impression that truth was not only stranger, but more dramatic.

Sort of "West Side Story" set in 1958 Brooklyn -- minus the music or competent storytelling -- is clearly not dealing from anything close to a full deck.

One of those thriller-comedy combos that never get the balance quite right.

An uninspired recycling of themes that were far more gripping in "The Lion King" and countless other earlier Mouse House classics.

F-A-I-L-U-R-E.

Picks up steam when it finally arrives in Cannes just in time to wreak yet more havoc at the big film festival, but getting there is pretty tedious. A little of the wildly mugging Atkinson goes a long way.

Blockers is the latest example of the millennium’s most dispiriting film trend: Stupid drunk people making stupid drunk decisions for two stupid hours.

Solid cast notwithstanding, 10th and Wolf is a generic, direct-to-video-grade gangster movie.

De Palma fools around with split screens and slo-mo, but no amount of cinematic artifice can varnish over the fact that this is simply a bad film.

Satire is merciless; it demands that mocker be superior to mockee.

The plot, however, comes with twists you can spot as far off as a Himalayan peak. The dialogue is heavily expository, and the actors are not up to the task of breathing life into characters meant to symbolize the Spirit of the Afghan People or the Nature of Evil.

Director Jacob Rosenberg makes heavy use of family photos and talking heads, but the person we want most to hear from, Way himself, is largely missing. Go figure.

After Fall, Winter would play better minus at least half an hour of flab.

Neither convincing nor remotely dramatic.

Instead of smarts, we get farts. The movie is packed with gross body and sex humor, reductive characters (the gay assistant, the boss who should be fired) and delusions of insight. And Henson’s likable performance is so overblown, it could be sponsored by Red Bull.

Tom Arnold plays the fatherly head of a child-prostitution ring and John Malkovich a sympathetic social worker - two clever casting twists that constitute the main interest in the grueling Gardens of the Night.

Pandaemonium plays like a bus-and-truck version of such Ken Russell's '60s classics as "The Music Lovers."

Ultimately Serving Up Richard feels about as substantial as a Happy Meal (which this poor guy assuredly is not).

Banal at the beginning and preposterous at the close, the British horror film Kill List jumbles together wildly incongruous ingredients to create a dramatic mush.

A movie that appears to have been shot entirely on leftover sets from "Monty Python and the Holy Grail."

"This Is Spinal Tap" took the mockumentary up to 11. Brothers of the Head brings it back down to about four.

One of those French films whose makers won't lower themselves to tell a story in a way that is entertaining or compelling.

You'd hope a political-insider indie reuniting "West Wing" stars Rob Lowe and Richard Schiff, and informed by the experiences of an actual former spin doctor, would be a small delight. You would be wrong.

By the time White gets around to condescending remarks... the film has become a sort of BBC "Hee Haw," meant to reassure Brits and New Yorkers that the South is indeed a land of pistol-toting, Jesus-praising gap-toothed freaks.

Less enjoyable than making a baby but more enjoyable than raising one, the animated feature Storks delivers a bouncing bundle of blah.

What starts as a fairly lighthearted satire ends in a tiresome, ultra-violent shootout -- and the film pretty much throws away the possibilities of Cruz's gender-bending role.

Prywes has produced a technically accomplished nostalgia piece on a shoestring budget, but the plotting is too sitcom-lite to support its aspirations to magic realism.

Both Adam and the stakes are so low, it’s like watching 100 minutes of a slug trying to crawl over a twig.

There's little sense of the Carol Channing beneath the overdone makeup - if there is one.

It's muddled and shallow and obvious. Worse, it fails as entertainment, being so ineptly directed and written it often has the feel of a high school production by kids with more money and ambition than talent.

A flea market of fairy tales and hocus-pocus, Inkheart makes as much sense as an inkblot.

This blithe inattention to authenticity is perversely endearing, and the whole (overlong) shebang is so jolly and well-intentioned, that it's kind of fun. It's just not very good film-making.

Has the cheesy, deadened feel of a straight-to-cable film.

Combined with the eyestrain produced by the cheap cardboard 3-D glasses, the resulting vertigo is decidedly unpleasant -- although having moon rocks and blobs of cream pie flying out from the screen is kinda cool in a retro way.

A crass, heavy- handed and -- most unforgivably -- largely laugh-free adaptation of The Master's infrequently revived 1924 comic melodrama.

Bart Everly followed Frank around for two years, yet his film seems to consist mostly of regurgitated C-Span and news footage from the period, interspersed with asides from the outspoken liberal.

Elstree 1976 is an amazing experience. I’m shocked that a documentary revisiting the making of “Star Wars” could be this boring.

It would also help if they were given some dialogue that was actually funny, or at least more clever than the lines provided to Ashton Kutcher and Katherine Heigl in the distressingly similar "Killers" from earlier this month.

Soggy, strictly by-the-numbers crime thriller.

Smug, often tedious, and comically crude.

Throws in enough hurtling bodies, screaming bullets and totaled cars that it at least holds your interest, so it passes the worth-watching-if-you're-stuck-on-an-airplane test.

A plot? Tony Jaa don't need no stinking plot.

Absurdity has a new name: Flightplan.

It’s clear why this indie was shelved for so long: It’s a mess.

A yawn-provoking little farm melodrama.

Seems to exist solely to drive this observation home in the most heavy-handed way.

In “Pinocchio,” when Geppetto wished upon a star, a hunk of wood became a real boy. Eighty-three years later, Disney’s latest animated film, called “Wish,” which is sort of about the origin of that same magical ball of gas, couldn’t be more wooden, manufactured or lifeless.

The movie's only redeeming qualities are its stars.

For John Cusack in Cell, the bad news is that his phone just ran out of juice. The good news, sort of, is that those who are on their phones were just attacked by a piercing signal that turned them into flesh-munching zombies.

Writer-director J.S. Cardone's low-budget mishmash offers precious little in the way of thrills and chills, much less coherent storytelling.

Oh no, another let's-drag-a-dead-body-to-Mexico flick?

But by the time events unfold, viewers will most likely have given up on this melodramatic.

If the makers of Trolls must keep going, I won’t be present for the next entry unless it’s “Trolls Meet Smurfs.” With chainsaws. In the Thunderdome.

“A license to kill is also a license to not kill,” M lectures his new boss in the 24th James Bond film, Spectre. Well, it’s not a license to bore as much as this bloated drag manages to do.

See it only for Paul Bettany's performance.