A wink of self-awareness might have made this a guilty pleasure; instead it's a howler along the lines of this fall's "Law Abiding Citizen."

Utterly predictable and full of trite dialogue.

Ineptly written and directed, the nihilistic The Son of No One flaunts an attitude best summed up by a cynical Pacino -- "A man has to live with s--t.'' Maybe so, Al, but audiences have the option of skipping this bomb.

Mostly unfunny, extremely silly pingpong comedy.

Dom DeLuise, as a fruitcake director, and John Waters fave Mink Stole, as Robin's Jewish mother, spice things up, but not enough to make Girl Play worthwhile.

A flaccidly pretentious and snooze-inducing trilogy of allegedly racy tales.

The autobiographical script meanders and the acting never solidifies. Besides, the leads look too old to be in high school - maybe even college.

The considerable comic talents of Alison Brie (“Community”) are squandered by this exhaustingly quirky indie romance.

The story is so contrived and the dialogue so stilted that no amount of talent could save Exist.

To describe Love, Honor and Obey as a cross between "Duets" and "Snatch" doesn't begin to suggest how desperately unfunny this musical gangster comedy is.

A shipwreck. They say a dead fish stinks from the head first - but the animated shipwreck Shark Tale arrives reeking all over.

The MPAA's rating explanation for this PG-13-rated snoozer misleadingly claims it contains "intense sequences of terror/violence"; it would be more accurate to state that Boogeyman contains "virtually every horror-movie cliché of the past 30 years."

Tucker's message is sometimes on target, even if his film isn't.

Remember how "Double Indemnity" featured smart criminals and a smarter investigator? The indie film If I Didn't Care, with its dumb criminals and dumb cops, is a sort of "Double Stupidity."

A self-serving remark on the part of the filmmakers, who place only the tiniest fig leaf of a story on a panoramic canvas of the gory, gross and repellent.

More "it stinks" than *NSYNC.

The movie takes us on a journey to an ugly, contentious period in our misty, ancient past - all the way back to four months ago, when "Apocalypto" came out.

I'd call it a depressing soft-core porn flick, but that overstates its titillation factor. Mainly it's just icky.

Basically a much schmaltzier fantasy version of “Love Story.’’

A kill-a-minute gore-a-thon whose twist is so obvious your grandma Edna will see it coming, Kite never gets off the ground.

For nearly two and a half hours, director Todd Phillips’ pathologically unnecessary movie cycles through so many potential reasons to exist. But, as “Deux” grows increasingly disturbing, repulsive and strange on the hunt, it ultimately never finds a satisfying one.

Moretz, meanwhile, acts like Little Red Riding Hood talking to her conspicuously hairy grandma — impossibly naive, and therefore dull and unbelievable. She’s a solid actress, but she shines best in indies or in parts with real edge. Greta is a camp-fest.

The dialogue is banal and the acting, especially Wortham's, is unconvincing. Even the sex and nudity, of which there is a lot, grows tiresome after a while.

The movie, directed by the formerly promising Rawson Marshall Thurber (the hilarious “Dodgeball” and the awful “The Mysteries of Pittsburgh”), thinks it’s subverting the conventions of the sitcom with a revolutionary new idea, which is: Do everything exactly the way a sitcom would, plus lots of swearing and dirty jokes.

“Scratch the surface and there’s only more surface,’’ a character all too accurately observes in this clunky, ugly and dull mash-up of a mystery.

The movie isn't insulting to homosexuals but to comedy.

So nasty, hysterical and long-winded -- and unintentionally makes capital punishment foes look so twisted -- you wish someone had administered a lethal injection to this dreck in its planning stages.

Shouldn’t Moore run his yellow crime-scene tape around the White House instead of Wall Street? Anyway, President Obama said this month that in cases where the government has fully sold its TARP bank holdings, it has gotten back its money plus 17 percent. Damn those capitalist barons, breaking into our treasury and filling it with their filthy money.

Resembles a period version of "The Rocky Horror Picture Show" - played dead straight.

Suspenselessly directed by Robby Henson, Thr3e commits the eighth deadly sin - boredom.

At the end of it all comes McKay’s big angry harrumph about the meaning of the crisis — a sign of failed, frustrated satire. If you can make your message clear through comedy, there’s no need to say, “Here’s my moral.” A funnyman can’t afford to get caught wagging his finger.

Stiller’s one good idea is turning things over to Will Ferrell, who does some amusingly demented things while haranguing Anna Wintour and Tommy Hilfiger and is probably funnier in his sleep than Stiller is at his best.

Trite and vulgar boxing flick.

A trite, incoherent and pretentious bomb.

Who’s the audience for this movie? It’s not smart, scary or funny enough for adults and older teens, and it’s inappropriate for young kids.

A cautionary tale for the age of reboots, “International” takes over from a perfectly good comedy film series, and turns it into witless, generic space debris. It is the “Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull” of “MiB” — but somehow the aliens here are even worse.

Crashing chandelier, crashing bore.

It wouldn't matter so much that this arrogant Richard Pryor wannabe's routine is offensive, puerile and unimaginatively foul-mouthed if it was at least funny.

Any way you slice it, A Tale of Two Pizzas is so ineptly written and directed that it's pretty soggy entertainment.

An exercise in drudgery... The whole thing is so patently uninteresting it's hard to see it as anything but a Douglas family vanity project.

Say hello to my leetle dagger! Shakespeare meets "Scarface" in an Aussie adaptation of "Macbeth" gone gangsta.

This movie wasn't just made for 11-year-old girls; it seems to have been made by 11-year-old girls.

Little more than a rehash of old news.

Comes about five films after writer-director-star Ed Burns should have found another career.

A slow-moving, dirt-dull narrative crammed with clunky expository dialogue and obscure Biblical references.

Has a split personality. It starts as a comedy but morphs into an icky family melodrama. It should have stuck with the yuks.

This movie is resolute about being as homey and obvious as it can possibly be. Somewhere, Norman Rockwell is thinking, “Sheesh, even I was edgier than this.”

They’ve been around so long that they’re now the Middle-Aged Mutant Ninja Turtles, and their ’80s vibe — cowabunga, dude! — is so strong that I kept expecting a cameo by Huey Lewis or Max Headroom.

I’d like to take back all those times I said Nicolas Cage was one of the most annoying actors on film. It turns out he’s equally terrible when he’s only on the soundtrack. And yet Cage is the least of the problems with The Croods.

So dull, the kids in my audience didn’t laugh until 45 minutes in — And that was at a coconut head-bonk, a gag so timeless it almost doesn’t count.

This whole movie is pretty much a mental colon blow.

A total disaster.

Dear John is the sort of movie that gives tearjerkers a bad name.

A crass, mechanical attempt at a thriller that should have gone straight to video.

Degreasing a stove is a more enjoyable way to spend your Saturday night.

Isn't particularly funny, romantic or well-acted. It drags on endlessly.

Meet Moondog — a movie character you’ll want to punch in the face.

Hard-core Hollywood haters will best appreciate Maps to the Stars, a campy poison-pen letter to Tinseltown that makes “Sunset Boulevard’’ look like a tourism infomercial by comparison.

In the end, what “Caught Stealing” has stolen is time and talent.

A vague, syrupy soundtrack plays across scenes both current and past, making the whole thing feel like a bad soap opera.

The promising tension between Gypsy and the arrogant Lucian never amounts to much, and the climax is comically melodramatic.

This oddly scrambled new version eventually falls apart so badly you feel embarrassed for the people who made it.

Shlocky, sloppy and crass adolescent comedy.

A 42-minute TV soap has more story than this limp and familiar tale of domestic woe.

The Transporter Refueled is a story of bodies: sleek, curvy, luscious bodies, purring for action and ready to let you do anything to them. They’re hotties, these Audis.

Rock appears to have edited I Think I Love My Wife with a roulette wheel.

The script is garbage, the voice acting is wooden and the songs are as infectious — and deadly — as the Mister Softee jingle.

Nothing would help make this dud understandable.

The dancing’s fine here, but there’s little else to distinguish Make Your Move, an entirely generic drama.

A bland, dull and only occasionally funny waste of time that will very soon be gathering dust in the remainder bins.

Meet American Beastly, perhaps the most bitter studio film of the year.

The movie, directed by Mick Jackson, leaves no cliché unturned, from the predictable plot to the characters straight out of central casting.

The film's violent finale comes out of nowhere and will leave bewildered viewers wondering if they might have dozed off for a reel or two.

Painful, misshapen and a little gross. It's an enlarged prostate of a movie.

Mostly The Matador romanticizes a brutal tradition that has no place in the 21st century.

Anselmo handles sensitive issues not with kid gloves, but with a metaphorical baseball mitt, fumbling with tone and obviously laboring to force quirks upon characters and situations.

The sort of misfire that Hollywood has long buried in January.

The writing, acting and direction are so amateurish that the only thing you'll care about is escaping the theater.

Rarely is a sports movie so inept that it can't even make its central figure likable.

Larry the Cable Guy channels both Moe and Curly in the Three Stooges-go-to-war comedy Delta Farce.

An almost chuckle-free mess, so amateurish and lame that the cast often has that embarrassed look you see on dogs given ridiculous haircuts.

Wastes some veteran performers in a slight, silly musical fantasy with two left feet.

When Will I Be Loved would rate no stars except for Campbell's brave, totally committed performance -- which deserves a far better movie than this.

Veteran screenwriter John Pogue, in his second directorial outing, tries repeatedly and mostly unsuccessfully to jolt his audience by amping up the abundant sound effects to ear-shattering levels.

Most of the interviews are as brief as they are obvious, and it doesn't help that none of those interviewees, including clergymen who served as technical advisers, are identified.

Tries to be "The Karate Kid" of gymnastics. It looks more like "The Karate Kid" as imagined by Details magazine.

The real mystery is this: Even if you find this guerrilla art project utterly fascinating, why would anyone bother to release an incomplete film about it?

A searing, penetrating look inside schizophrenia is exactly what Enter the Dangerous Mind isn’t.

Excruciatingly unfunny.

I have no idea how to blow up a two-page fairy tale into 100 minutes of blockbuster, but frankly I was hoping for more backstory about the titular cape in Red Riding Hood. Thread count? Machine washability?

There are many new Japanese movies that deserve a stateside release. Why this hapless mess beat them out is a question that deserves an answer.

There's no excuse for a thriller as lame, leaden and unthrilling as Godsend, which manages to take a potentially interesting subject - human cloning - and use it to put audiences to sleep.

This is a horror movie that’s really a supposed comedy; she’s (Lohan) a supposed comedy actress who’s actually scary.

If the poor really interested such filmmakers, these movies would have something to offer other than lugubriousness masquerading as seriousness, and clichés presented as hard truths.

Interminably long, dull and incomprehensible, John Carter evokes pretty much every sci-fi classic from the past 50 years without having any real personality of its own.

Argyle is a pretty pattern. “Argylle,” meanwhile, is the latest example of a pretty irritating pattern from director Matthew Vaughn.

Writer-director Michael Mohan’s “drama” tries to be a modern Rear Window (emphasis on “rear”), but Hitchcock it ain’t. The Voyeurs is a cheap, never-ending trifle that takes itself more seriously than Hamlet.

Self-righteous, economically illiterate and sometimes flatly dishonest.