A non-starter.

Despising the British upper class is so utterly common, as we see in The Riot Club, a farcically heavy-handed attempted satiric takedown of an elite group of Oxford students.

I’m probably more intrigued than 99.3 percent of the American public by the idea of deconstructing the hidden symbols in Stanley Kubrick’s “The Shining,” but the theories proposed in the doc Room 237 aren’t eye-opening. They’re laughable.

It's not uninteresting, but so much footage is given over to earnest discussion of sexual politics that the overall effect is like sitting through a semester's worth of transgender studies.

There are a lot of casualties in this stylish, unoriginal thriller, but James McAvoy’s knee was the only one that moved me.

Even I realize that other people's babies are boring. So is Babies.

Viewers are left wondering just why they should care about them and the rest of the film's one-dimensional characters.

The film tries to be clever by going meta: Once again, it’s rooted in Mr. Glass’ conviction that superheroes are real, and it repeatedly name-checks comic-book tropes that are reflected, languidly, in the movie’s own plot. But in the end, all it really reveals is a onetime visionary’s glass now half — no, let’s go with mostly — empty.

On this overstuffed ride, we also learn where wise Rafiki, royal aide Zazu, evil Scar and even Pride Rock come from. Who cares? The backstories only make us crave the peerless 2D original.

Here comes Wayne Kramer's Crossing Over, a bid to create the "Crash" of illegal-immigration dramas.

With the exception of “Tape 49” — the Simon Barrett-directed segment about the PI — the films are ridiculously shaky, their camerawork so determinedly guerrilla-style that it’s difficult not to look away, sometimes at crucial moments. Found footage is all well and good, but if it’s unwatchable, it might as well have stayed lost.

Love in Space is just what movie fans have been waiting for: a romantic comedy from Communist China.

The movie doesn't really begin or end. Whether the lights have just gone down or the credits have begun to roll, things are pretty much the same for Henry.

In any case, the presence of O'Hara, Kline, Ramis, Black, Tomlin and John Lithgow (who plays Shaun's father) serve mainly to underline the feebleness of the screenplay and the slackness of the direction.

I hereby award the World War II drama The Great Raid a Cement Star for faithful and distinguished service to the cause of mediocrity.

As for a villain, you could do worse than Bryan Cranston as the evil political overlord who is trying to stamp out the resistance -- When he goes mano a mano with Farrell, it's not spine-tingling. It's embarrassing, like watching a dude beat up his dad.

Despite a crafty premise and a clever kink in the tale that almost saves it, Connolly isn't dexterous enough to achieve the Hitchockian level of suspense the movie needs.

Hopefully Jennifer Lawrence will actually be given something worthwhile to do next time around. That would actually be worth paying to see.

A 12th-grade "Sixth Sense" with a third-rate plot.

This messy, disappointing, self-important and utterly humorless version of the Marvel comic book character may be the toughest flick with a green protagonist to sit through since "The Grinch."

The only possible interest the movie will inspire in anyone comes when Paltrow flashes a breast toward the end, far too late to pump any excitement into an aggressively boring film that gurgles with self-indulgence.

A depressingly predictable journey of self-discovery.

Every good joke in the movie is to be found in those trailers.

There are a few sweet moments as the story reaches its unsurprising conclusion. But, all in all, Flakes isn't going to bowl you over.

Feels like it was written and directed by an audience focus group in Omaha?

What’s said to be Marvel’s most powerful superhero ever is served Melatonin by Larson. There is precious little texture or detail, ups and downs, or emotions of any kind in her performance. The character, even when kicking ass, is a total bore. Such as it is, the film’s best moments are provided by Jackson and a hilarious cat.

Smartphone apps don’t particularly lend themselves well to political allegory or satire. But that’s precisely what the makers of this fitfully amusing animated adaptation of the once-popular game seem to be fruitlessly attempting.

Vivid visuals can't save an insipid plot.

No, this film by director/co-writer Gillian Robespierre just isn’t funny, and the mismatched leads aren’t even interesting together.

Filmmaker Josh Stolberg claims to have been inspired by real-life events, but mostly he ineptly rips off other movies and wastes a cast that includes Rosanna Arquette, Adam Arkin and Elizabeth Perkins.

The plot is predictable, as complications line up like jets awaiting takeoff. Even the camera work is predictable: The attractive-girl's-scary-boyfriend-suddenly-pops-up shot; the morning-after, face-in-the-pillow shot.

There are some funny moments, plus occasional nudity and sex, but the joke quickly wears off. What might have worked as a half-hour TV show doesn't suit itself to a feature-length film.

In this pretentious art-house downer version of "The Bad Seed," the only surprise is that the folks didn't ship the little monster off to the looney bin before he reached puberty.

There probably aren't enough futuristic Goth rock musicals, but Repo! The Genetic Opera is weak on a couple of things a musical needs: music and lyrics.

A slow, self-consciously low-key, very dull film that strains for eeriness with long silences and affectless performances.

Where is Wright’s mastery of tone and zany-but-unnerving quick-cut style? It’s been replaced by a cacophony of assembly-line sci-fi noise in a blah “Blade Runner” that, depending on the scene, is either stupidly serious or seriously stupid.

It’s kind of cute but mostly just awkward, somewhere between watching bros who slept through French class trying to work their game in Nice and endless CBS sitcoms about nutty guys ruled by exasperated, boring women.

That someone as smart as Duchovny would get bogged down in such predictable treacle is a mystery worthy of investigation by Scully and Mulder.

Made to win awards, and I'm here to present it with one: the Cliché of the Year honors, otherwise known as the Hackney.

Transporter 3 is made for airplane viewing, and not just any airplane: an Eastern European one, on the flight from Hrubbishnik to Slutnya.

"Rush Hour" was acceptable. It was to "Rush Hour 2" what McDonald's is to White Castle. "Rush Hour 2" is to Rush Hour 3 what White Castle is to cat food.

This intense psycho-sexual drama doesn't easily lend itself to the camera.

It's deeply frustrating to discover that this 2012 movie has precisely the same concerns as the ["The Women"] - appearance and men - with raunchy frankness about sex added and every trace of real wit siphoned out.

Heavy-handed, predictable and almost completely unbelievable.

A particularly gross exploitation of the Holocaust for financial gain.

The film as a whole goes from intriguing to irritating.

We watched a story of a Labrador. Who eats the couch and disobeys. I said to Lady, "It's a labra-bore."

Less fun than any circus movie I've ever seen - and I've seen lots. Maybe they should send in the clowns.

Essentially a downscale TV movie about spousal and child abuse.

Dopey as the film is on a plot level, it’s equally vapid in its psychology.

Rarely have I wanted to fast-forward through a movie as much as Click, a treacly and not-funny-enough Adam Sandler comedy.

Aside from these curious role reversals, though, Alex Cross is a mess. Drawing on every conceivable '80s B-movie action cliché and treating its beleaguered female characters like pieces of meat (literally, in one scene of butchery), director Rob Cohen squanders a surprisingly recognizable cast on a half-baked plot adapted from James Patterson's series of novels.

Goldblum's wobbly German accent and the staginess of the script doom this effort by Paul Schrader ("American Gigolo").

Even a hardened voyeur would require the patience of Job to get through this interminable, shapeless documentary about the swinging subculture.

A misguided exercise - a crude merger of "Fiddler on the Roof" and "Schindler's List" that somehow reminds you of "Hogan's Heroes."

Lust, Caution could have done with a lot more lust and a lot less caution.

At some point, this movie must have been a screenplay. But it's an enigma why anyone would bet tens of millions of dollars that people would laugh.

A misfiring black comedy oddly reminiscent of all those bad 1990s movies about strippers getting killed at bachelor parties.

I don't think he (Apatow) did enough research on his topic. Because no one could be as whiny, spoiled, tasteless, combative and reliant on annoying stand-up comedy riffs as the entire cast of this film, the most disappointing one of the year.

not so much a movie as an "act," one that belongs at a club called Shenanigans or maybe Chuckleheads.

It's like "Waiting for Guffman" without the wit or irony.

The voice work and the overly smooth animation mostly stink.

Its images came from a dusty box in the horror-movie attic, and the attic is where the entire picture will be in a month.

Even if Corben hadn't photographed Gatien with lighting that makes him look like a horror-movie villain, he'd hardly come off as innocent.

The plot goes nowhere glacially. Underdeveloped side characters are so far to the side, they’re out of frame.

A murky and morbid dirge of a gay romance.

Antony Cordier's Four Lovers offers only dull characters playing for extremely low stakes.

Despite the blazing guns, this script is not so tough.

Detention does have imaginative editing and a stylish, candy-colored look - that is, so long as no one's vomiting, an activity that takes up an ungodly portion of the running time.

Arlyck spends more time following himself and his own lefty family than checking up on Sean.

Isn't as bad as you'd think, but this comic mash-up of "The Bourne Identity" and "Fat Albert" doesn't have much heft.

The characters are so cartoonish, it's hard to care on any level -- except that it wastes such talented performers.

Watching Meryl Streep act can be an exhausting experience - and never more so than during Music of the Heart.

Every Little Step shows only this: It hurts to flunk an audition, and it's nice to get hired. Everything it has to say about Broadway was said better in Bob Fosse's movie "All That Jazz" -- in its opening five minutes.

Just because the goods are made in Italy doesn't mean they're designer-quality; Don't Tell is glossy on the outside, cardboard and staples on the inside.

If you want to punish your kids, send them to bed without dinner. If you want to disturb, frighten and depress them while making sure they fail biology, take them to the animated feature Barnyard.

Unlike Van Sant's grittier, less sentimental recent small films, it's twee enough to make your teeth ache. It's the director's biggest miscalculation since "Even Cowgirls Get the Blues" 18 years ago.

In Machine Gun Preacher, Gerard Butler says, "I've done a lot of things I'm not proud of that hurt a lot of people." But enough about "The Bounty Hunter," "The Ugly Truth" and "P.S. I Love You."

A rote exercise in both animation and storytelling.

This overlong, obvious and indifferently acted melodrama was written and directed by Luke Eberl, a former child actor, before he turned 21.

Part of the limp-rag ambience is due to Talt, who seems to be channeling Sarah Jessica Parker — which, unsurprisingly, does not work. Mostly it’s due to the script, which fails to meet the major romantic-comedy requirement of being clever about keeping lovers apart. All by itself, “The hero is kind of a drip” doesn’t cut it.

Exploring pain in novel ways in film is a good thing. Next time, though, pick a different novel.

It's a thinly disguised lecture about intolerance, spotted with historical inaccuracies and groaning with dialogue so dreadful that it makes a fine cast look ridiculous again and again.

Coming-of-age road trips have rarely been more tedious or predictable.

A lame stoner comedy.

A truly baffling late entry in the "Pulp Fiction" sweepstakes that ends up drowning in its own pretensions -- along with, quite possibly, what's left of Val Kilmer's movie career.

Better than most Martin Lawrence movies - much as strep throat is better than malaria.

Pineda is lovely, but I stopped believin’ in this documentary long before it was over.

Seldom does The Bang Bang Club show much interest in the big picture of South Africa. When moral issues do come to the forefront, the big worry seems to be not questionable behavior but bad publicity.

The characters are so flat and the dialogue so dull you expect it to be one of those movies whose existence is justified by a big final twist. But it's three days after the screening, and still no twist. Maybe it's coming in the mail?

An unrelenting assault on the brain and eardrums.

Justice League is a pointless flail of expensive (yet, somehow, cheap-looking) CGI that no amount of tacked-on quips, or even Gadot’s luminescent star power, can rescue.

The mutants are brain-damaged; the filmmakers don't have that excuse to justify this movie, which is the kind of thing the sergeant would call "a stunning display of individual and group stupidity."

Compelling drama it is not.

It's so gosh-darned darling it almost turns your stomach.

Dicey entertainment, indeed.

One of the silliest, most sieve-like screenplays of the year.

An exhausting, overindulgent film, at least for American audiences...the experience feels like Grampa Simpson meets "Cinema Paradiso."