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

Turistas has mastered the international language: stupidity.

A shrill farce that strains credibility even by the standards of black comedy.

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

A glitzy and shallow satire about shallow people.

This stuff is strictly run of DeMille.

From time to time, it works.

For all of its homicidal aliens and toothy beasts, I Am Number Four did contain one element that genuinely unsettled me: the line "produced by Michael Bay." Nooooooo!

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."

The movie hopes to be regarded as childlike too, but there's a difference between kid-friendly and just regular old dumb.

It's a testament to Goodwin's skill as an actress that we almost buy this.

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

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.”

The street action is a grabber, but the story itself isn't.

Make no mistake, Father of Invention is the hilarious Spacey's show all the way.

If you've come to appreciate Hal Hartley's idiosyncratic style through films like "Flirt" and "The Unbelievable Truth," his take on the monster movie genre will intrigue you. But, ultimately, disappoint you.

A talky, pretentious soap opera about Spanish intellectuals.

Under Jordan Susman's inept direction, these twentysomething airheads, angry about the proliferation of Starbucks outlets and other societal ills, all resemble nubile models.

It's really just about a bunch of pathetic losers whiling away the hours with their hands jammed down their pants.

The two youngsters are not polished performers, but that's actually part of the subtle charm.

Since the thing is increasingly impatient to jump forward to the next big torture set piece, there isn't any time to establish anyone's character. Butcher shops are bloody, too, but they're not scary.

A grubby cut-price sci-fi thriller.

No amount of actorly dedication can change the pointlessness of watching unpleasant things happening to uniformly unpleasant people.

Acquires a little vigor and some fun from Tracy Morgan as a friendly drug dealer who lives with his mom.

Branagh's attempt to meld Shakespeare's densely verbal early comedy with Broadway show tunes fails, thanks to stunt casting, poor singing and dancing, and the incompatibility of the two art forms.

This incoherent screenplay seems to have been written by a roomful of the gorilla-like trolls who show up in the movie at one point.

It’s a mildly interesting thriller — Paris through the eyes of a director who doesn’t know how to make its beauty menacing.

Even the audience at whom the movie is aimed — the crowd for whom dinner and a movie means meeting up at 3 p.m. — will be bored by the stale funk coming off every scene.

Someone describes his writing as "snarky, bitter, witless." The last part pretty well sums up this movie.

It's so incoherent that at first you wonder if the reels are being shown out of order.

Despite a terrific cast and a sexy noir look to rival the two “Blade Runner” films, Jones (son of David Bowie) delivers a bit of a letdown.

An ugly, failed attempt to pull off a "Heathers"-style, teen-oriented black comedy.

The scene where a pilot bails out in Stealth is so over-painted with CGI that it doesn't look as real as the sequence starring Shepard that inspired it in "The Right Stuff," a movie made with model airplanes.

A murky and morbid dirge of a gay romance.

Lucas' films are like Cher's face. No matter how many times you rework the same material, it's never going to be new and fresh again. And so it is with his latest, Star Wars: The Clone Wars.

The sometimes painfully sincere and slow-moving For Greater Glory clearly aspires to be inspirational, but history won't cooperate. The Cristeros triumphed not because of their faith, but because the United States exerted diplomatic pressure to protect its oil interests in Mexico.

Gould’s lugubrious presence is always welcome, and Rue plays her lovelorn part with verve.

It’s doubtful that Scorsese will redo this new Lau thriller, which is OK because the Chinese original is all fans need.

“Venom”? More like cyanide. The latest movie off the Marvel assembly line is a disaster on every level, from the hatchet-job writing to the horrid performances. Like so many recent superhero movies, Venom has put its focus on juvenile humor instead of heart or action.

A totally ridiculous and incoherent sci-fi adventure.

Reiner, who came in to rescue this picture after the original director was fired, once gave us "When Harry Met Sally," but seeing him work now is like watching Willie Mays hobble around in a Mets uniform during that pathetic final year when he hit .211.

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

It's a reasonably funny religious satire that takes potshots at easy targets but is quite watchable due to the participation of two Oscar winners and two Oscar nominees.

A loony con-job that comes up short on being convincing.

Dazzles the eye, numbs the mind and may cause deafness in some cases. Did I mention to bring along some Excedrin?

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

This excruciating adaptation of the innocuous '70s cartoon show makes the film version of "Josie and the Pussycats" look sophisticated by comparison.

A schlocky thriller choking under the weight of its own psychobabble.

The film looks like it cost 10 cents, but a lot of the jokes are gold. Hollywood, take notice of writer-director James Westby.

Her star billing notwithstanding, Jolie has perhaps the ninth-largest part in the movie (behind seven humans and a dog), playing Cage's ex-girlfriend.

About as edgy as a cup of Ovaltine, A Walk to Remember is an old-fashioned teen romance so sweet and free of irony that criticizing it feels like taking a baseball bat to a sack full of newborn kittens.

Was Alma a masochist? Repressed? Neurotic? A pre-feminist? Don't look for insight here.

I’m a sucker for films with great surfing footage, let alone wacky ’70s hairstyles. But this overlong, cliché-infested Aussie period drama tested my patience.

A long, tedious and often unintentionally hilarious adaptation of Stephenie Meyer’s sci-fi follow-up.

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.

At times Halloween II dances on the line between alarming and disgusting, and it doesn’t all hold together — I couldn’t figure out what the goblin banquet was doing in this movie. But if it was meant to freak me out, it worked.

Mansome is basically a reality-TV episode, with similar production values and precisely the same depth of perception.

This humorless, sadistically violent wreck has not a single satisfying second. It does, however, have more than 50 F-bombs.

So swaddled in good intentions that it's like taking a very short journey cushioned on all sides by air bags. That are stuffed with cotton candy.

There is fun to be had at Van Helsing, but it requires considerable suspension of disbelief at the apparently deliberately ridiculous plot necessary to bring the three monsters together.

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

A predictable tearjerker whose main redeeming feature is that you don't actually see any of the angels in the title.

A deep disappointment to fans of sci-fi and the once great John Carpenter.

Some may find it titillating; more will find it offensive and deeply disturbing.

There's not much story but there are plenty of colorful, almost David Lynchian drug freakouts, as well as lots of sick violence.

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

Multiple Sarcasms happens to be the title of the play within the movie, and it turns out to be by far the most interesting thing in the film. Not that many people will want to suffer through the first 90 minutes of this vanity production to get there.

Fortunately, Winters' legendary inventiveness as a comedian has not diminished with the years.

Funny and promising as the first act is, the entire second act is pretty awful, as the script chucks in one tiresome, unlikely gag after another.

Mindless, vapid fare... Watching the movie, you'll feel really dirty.

[Hernandez] is obviously a man more concerned with art than commerce, but good intentions don't always make for good filmmaking.

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.

Director-writer Shimon Dotan takes this iffy story and makes it nearly unwatchable by jumping back and forth in time, using screens within screens and bouncing between color and black-and-white.

The cacophonous ending sets up a sequel, but I hope it never sees the light of day. Actually, considering it’s about vampires, maybe I do!

While this is ultimately a tragic film, Meeske captures the joy in the paradise these Deadheads lost. Jerry would have liked this movie.

Aside from one tasteful nude scene, this well-meaning if bland romantic drama plays and looks a lot like a "special" episode of "Dawson's Creek."

Dreamcatcher is a lark probably best enjoyed by 12-year-olds -- or anyone still able to get in touch with their inner 12-year-old.

So bland that it fails to make an impression.

If there's a fresh idea in When Harry Tries To Marry, I couldn't find it.

This infomercial for Helnwein's work as designer for an Israeli opera called "The Child Dreams" doesn't tell us a lot about how opera comes together, but it is accidentally revealing about its subject.

Despite the dramatic dystopia, performances here are uniformly low-affect, which isn’t helpful given the exposition-heavy dialogue and unremarkable set (though Nick’s extraterrestrial visions have a pleasantly kitschy look). Also puzzling is the fact that the pivotal song is not actually performed by Morissette.

This is nothing but nasty, misogynist torture porn.

Time to pull the plug on this brain-dead franchise.

Though Freddy is basically the same guy as in the 1984 original, his back story is different. For a few minutes the movie threatens to become interesting -- then retreats.

The kind of movie that is beyond criticism.

The script, attributed to Mark Schwahn, Marc Hyman and Jon Zack, is as confused as it is confusing, and the aimless direction by Brian Robbins doesn't help. It was apparently edited with a roulette wheel.

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.

Romantic comedies are often as contrived and irritating as Loosies, but few feature a lead character so lacking in appeal.

God, if you exist, why do you keep letting morons like Walsch get rich?

No matter how charmingly loopy she is, Faris can't transcend the stale gender clichés and rehashed rom-com set pieces.

While Fienberg's direction is no great shakes, the film showcases its veteran cast.

If someone ran this guy through a scanner, the readout would say: “Mark down and stock in straight-to-video aisle."

For a long while, director Benjamin Epps goes for breakneck farce; at its best, this is a batty mixture of family-values editorial and teen spoof.

Writer/director Andrew Levitas needlessly pads this captivating theme with over-used tropes.

One of the few monster-crocodile movies that simultaneously tries to rip off "Jaws" and "Meet the Press."

Noooo! Anything but another slapdash horror film with a lazy plot that hinges on artificial intelligence!

Rip Torn's recent real-life misadven tures are slightly echoed in Happy Tears, a moderately diverting black comedy in which he plays (what else?) a crazy old coot, to perfection.

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.