The movie’s one saving grace — so to speak — is Raymond Cruz (Tuco from “Better Call Saul”) as a priest turned shaman. He, at least, injects a little wry humor into a film that otherwise bored me to tears.

It’s a little less cute these days to watch his Jack Sparrow swish about drunkenly, knowing the actor’s an abusive lush. Equally wearisome is the spectacle of a once-entertaining franchise staggering around, devoid of purpose.

Viola Davis lets her Charles Bronson flag fly in Lila and Eve, a ludicrous revenge thriller that should have been called, “Stop! Or My Mom Will Shoot.”

The movie approaches the final scene with a straight face, but it left the audience giggling spasmodically. This script probably should have gone all the way and thrown in a few quips: If your movie is a joke, at least be intentionally funny.

This bomb, which premiered at last year's Sundance Film Festival, belongs in the same remainder bin as Spacey's "Pay It Forward," "K-Pax" and "The Life of David Gale."

Their conversation is so insipid that watching this movie is no more interesting than talking to any random New York couple about what makes them tick.

Bay swipes elements from other popular movies and TV shows, such as “The Da Vinci Code,” “Star Wars: The Force Awakens” and “Game of Thrones.” This director’s motto? Throw everything at the wall and then blow that wall sky-high!

Hathaway floats in the air a few times and the sides of her mouth are slit, a la Heath Ledger’s Joker, but even that deformation doesn’t make her frightening or threatening. You’re supposed to believe this woman wants all children dead, and instead, you believe she is sometimes rude to Bergdorf’s employees.

Boasts one of the most ludicrous plots ever committed to digital video.

A pointless drama that trafficks in cliché.

As it stands, there’s little to explain the existence of this confoundingly unfunny film. It’s as if a talented cast (Wilson, Zach Galifianakis, Amy Poehler) assembled to make a comedy and at the last minute was told to play everything straight.

When the legend of Elvis is reimagined as a mushy Christian heartwarmer in The Identical, it’s as if “Boogie Nights” is playing in the background while we hear about the life story of Edna, Dirk Diggler’s nice librarian cousin from Idaho.

You'd be better off renting "Eddie and the Cruisers" (1983) than slogging through this latest, far more dire recycling of the same rock clichés.

Stakes aren't the only problem with this sloppy thriller, which combines careening images with turgid storytelling.

If Swedish villains are this dumb, put me on the next plane to Stockholm. Just don't make me watch these idiotic movies on the flight.

Promoted as "the year's scariest movie," it's anything but.

Ryan, the bodacious Seven of Nine on "Star Trek Voyager," is the only excuse to suffer through writer-director Harry Ralston's feeble comedy.

Annoying.

Sexist, racist humor abounds, with Jews and gays especially taking a beating. I don't always object to non-PC humor -- but I like it to be funny, and here it isn't.

Except for Brolin as an unlikely born-again Jew, nobody fares well under Mulroney's ham-fisted direction.

There’s nothing wrong with being a brainless B-movie, but this one is funless and lackluster, a grinding mess of pulp clichés with dull characters, perfunctory violence and dim plotting.

It’s a shame that George Michael’s final major artistic contribution to the world is the crummy movie Last Christmas. In its shoddy attempt to make a splash in the British romantic-comedy genre, it amounts to nothing more than a careless whisper.

Linklater, a director who usually earns his sentiment, just can’t get the tone right. “Bernadette” is supposed to skewer the norms of family, suburban life and motherhood. While Bernadette should be a creature out of Wes Anderson, Blanchett and her director opt for “The Addams Family” instead. Nothing about it works.

Schwartz throws in so many characters and implausible subplots - none worth mentioning - that Perception sinks under its own weight.

I was searching for a metaphor to capture the experience of watching The Night Before when a character fell backward into a dumpster full of garbage bags. Thanks, guys!

Let the French stick to love stories and leave stupid comedies to Tinseltown.

Most of this movie is beyond lame. It almost makes "A Cinderella Story" -- the ever-mugging Duff's surprise hit of last summer -- look like a real movie by comparison.

The documentary tells us little we don't already know and is overwhelmingly one-sided. It would make a nice TV infomercial, but certainly doesn't deserve a big-screen release.

About as artistically profound as those framed 3-D photos of the Twin Towers emblazoned with "Never Forget'' that are still for sale in Times Square a decade after 9/11.

If the sight of naked, sweaty French hunks gets you going, well, then, Three Dancing Slaves is a must-see.

Watchable in a train-wreck kind of way, but you'll probably want to take a shower afterwards.

The "Prinze" of terrible movies is back - in what might charitably be called "Rear Window" for morons.

Clayburgh is the most dignified thing about this dreadfully overwrought, often preposterous romantic comedy.

Cliched, amateurish and feeble.

Might as well be called "Around the World in 80 Yawns."

This cynical rom-com subgenre has been done to death.

Biehn has appeared in dozens of B-movies and evidently had no greater ambition than to come up with a grindhouse movie full of sex, gore and cheap thrills, but there is far too little of any of these to maintain interest in a straight-on story that reserves its only surprise for the final 30 seconds.

Eric Schaeffer's rip-off -- er, homage -- to "Magnolia," is a marginally better movie than his previous self-absorbed atrocities like "My Life's in Turnaround" and "Wirey Spindell."

Even without the laughable new material, the addictive quality of the short story is lost in adaptation from the get-go.

A dull, listless, derivative chunk of celluloid lacking any spark or even basic storytelling ability.

At last: Uwe Boll has made his first intentionally funny film.

Wavers between extreme silliness and unbearable earnestness.

Not especially scary or funny, this lame comedy-thriller wastes a decent cast in a plodding tale.

If you stay awake, you'll certainly feel more than a little ground down after watching perhaps 15 minutes of skateboard footage padded out with nearly 90 minutes of strenuously unfunny toilet humor - all cheaply filmed on a budget that looks as if it would scarcely cover the catering bill for "Gigli."

Excruciatingly lame and laughless romantic comedy.

Zhang Yimou, one of China's best-known filmmakers, deserves a great big lump of coal in his holiday stocking thanks to his ludicrous soap opera The Flowers of War.

Pointless and mind-numbing.

There is, of course, a maximum of blood and gore. Sometimes the director's ideas work; often they don't.

A supernatural horror-comedy that's frighteningly lacking in wit, John Dies at the End thinks it's "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" for dudes. But in its randomness, its vulgarity and its level of humor, it's more like the collected writings on the walls of a roadside men's room.

A rare dud in the Shooting Gallery series.

The only part of this movie anyone's ever going to remember is the pair of scenes in which Ghost Rider pees flame.

I think I’d rather have the waterboarding than the movie’s bromides about how we’re all victims and hate must end.

Gets sillier and sillier as it goes along.

Isn't very good. Not only has Ritter made his documentary a one-sided one, but he commits the journalistic sin of using himself as the film's main talking head. In other words, he's interviewing himself.

The abysmal “Gucci” would get a better grade, perhaps, if it was a term paper titled “How to Make the Assassination of a Famous Person Boring.”

In reality, it’s a tiresome parade of gory and sexist cliches that are, frankly, insulting to a cast that includes Laurence Fishburne, Barry Pepper, Adam Goldberg, Leslie Bibb and Clifton Collins Jr.

This crude, deeply dishonest documentary does no such thing. David Russell's fictional "Three Kings" does a much better job.

This furious finger-pointer's doc is so one-sided, it undermines its own integrity.

Two decades after his last film, the legendary Jerry Lewis performs a truly unfortunate encore playing an elderly widower in writer-director Daniel Noah’s morose and thoroughly unconvincing drama.

Even at a supposed celebration, the well-bred and well-off aren't really happy at all. So the title is ironic. Thanks for that profound insight.

John Travolta's From Paris With Love assassin/ superagent Charlie Wax is the master of whatever the opposite of wisecracking is. Fooljoshing? Lametalking? Flatlining?

The Italian film industry must be in sad shape when its latest import to the US is a tired bit of trash from 1997, To Die for Tano.

Netflix needs to add a category for its new original film The Laundromat. Right under “Movies you might like” should be “Movies you will loathe.”

The problem with Gigli is that it is an inept attempt to do Elmore Leonard by Martin Brest, a filmmaker whose coarse sensibility makes him catastrophically unqualified to the task.

What's Spanglish for "oy"?

The thing is a virtual remake of the fusty oldie "Sweet Home Alabama," which came out back when movie scripts were written on stone tablets.

With its poky pacing, thin characters, obvious message and predictable plot, the movie amounts to a cinematic sermon that, like many of those given in houses of worship, has a good-hearted message that will be difficult to deliver to a snoozing audience.

Thanks to Marvel, many films are trying to cash in on cape-and-spandex mania right now, but unlike the MCU, they look like crapola. If you’re going to make a superhero movie today, you gotta have a budget. “Secret Society,” perhaps, had Microsoft Paint.

Should have gone straight to video. It'll be there soon enough.

This boring, torpid movie notices its own flaws and unwisely underlines them.

A slow-moving, ridiculous police thriller that would have been shipped straight to the remainder bin at Blockbuster if it starred anyone else.

The plot plods along — they drive a bit, guy gets shot, they drive some more, guy gets shot — and the dialogue is bottom of the barrel.

Huppert is wonderful, as usual, and she's to be congratulated for taking this daring role. But, alas, even she can't save Ma Mere.

Yet the moral at the end is that we should all be more tolerant of different cultures. Is that really true, though, if the culture you're trying to tolerate is trying to open your skull with a circular saw?

Anybody involved in the underground scene might get a kick out of Maestro -- but others will likely be bored stiff.

Maybe being able to look back in time is comforting for Block and company, but what makes him think complete strangers give a damn about his not-especially-interesting family? I certainly don't.

Among gay Jewish French postman movies, Let My People Go! may be a Hall of Fame entry, but alas, by any other standard this would-be sex comedy is a dismal failure.

A lot of this is typical rom-com fare. The genre is not boundary-pushing and that’s perfectly fine — ideal even. But Ryan doesn’t have the sparkle and fizz as a director to make this lacking material sing.

With any luck, this’ll be the death knell of the idiot-savant rom-com.

The latest, and let's hope the last, in the raft of uninspired, quickie Bush-bashing documentaries churned out by producer Robert Greenwald

Barrymore is still cute, and she and Sandler at least seem to like each other as they get on with the grim business of rom-com contrivance.

Cheesier than a Kraft Singles truck but half as subtle, Dinesh D’Souza’s documentary Hillary’s America: The Secret History of the Democratic Party is an attack on all things Democratic whose many valid points get buried under bluster

It’s hard to believe Costner left “Yellowstone” to make such an embarrassing, poorly told mess.

Painfully sincere. But it wrings almost no laughs or tears from this seemingly idiot-proof premise.

This blathery, misogynist indie from first-time director David Grovic — which seems to be aiming for “Pulp Fiction” territory with its blend of crime, banter and the mysterious contents of a bag — falls far short, rife as it is with noir and gender clichés.

A dispiriting rehash of dysfunctional family clichés that seems to last longer than Thanksgiving Day dinner.

The climate-change documentary Time To Choose makes the disaster movie “The Day After Tomorrow” look like a model of judiciousness and restraint.

Manages to be excruciatingly unfunny despite the presence of Pierce Brosnan and Emma Thompson in the lead roles.

Plays like an unintentional mashup of “Being There” and “Elf.”

Relentlessly stupid.

There’s no better time than summer for a fun, brainless thriller. All you need is three key ingredients: a charismatic hero, a hateable villain and a snappy screenplay...Skyscraper, regrettably, cuts likable star Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson off at the knees by failing to deliver on the other two.

The jovial, hyperverbal comic has played against type before, but his presence feels like epic miscasting in this underwritten dramedy.

Aheroin-stuffed hipster buys a dog, eats Vietnamese food and sells drugs to pay for rehab in Fix, the latest piece of cine-junk stamped out by the indie fakedocumentary factory.

Clive Owen stumbles around the scenery doing unfortunate drunken-writer shtick in Words and Pictures, a formula movie whose script is yet more unfortunate.

Neil Jordan’s Byzantium dares to rework “Twilight” with twice the teen moping and Robert Pattinson replaced by a guy with the sexual magnetism of a sickly Ron Weasley.

At first glance, Grassroots doesn't seem like much of an idea for a movie. Nor at second, third or fourth glance. Your fifth glance will be at your watch, and at sixth glance your eyelids will be getting very, very heavy.

The movie left me amazed — amazed that Nicolas Cage wasn’t in it.

This pointless study of a witless character is a sad waste of Law’s talents. The more zestily he delivers Dom’s profane tirades, the more you wish Shepard gave us a reason to care about this lout.