The only conceivable reason for Warner Bros. to (barely) release this mush is as a favor to Clint Eastwood, whose daughter Alison directed.

Approach is too heavy-handed to have much effect. Rod Serling probably could have turned the premise into an enjoyable episode of "The Twilight Zone."

Underworld Evolution has antecedents in literature ("Dracula"), film ("The Matrix") and song ("Don't It Make My Brown Eyes Blue"). How does it rip off so much, yet learn so little?

A Walmart "Wall Street," the hedge-fund drama Supercapitalist is junk merchandise stamped "made in China."

When Mel Brooks checks in to play Dracula’s dad, harrumphing and looking exactly like Grandpa Munster, you realize Sandler and Co. aren’t trying any harder than they did in “Jack and Jill” or “Pixels.”

Amply demonstrates how even a movie with wall-to-wall action can be a crashing bore.

The silliness of Moore's oeuvre is so self-evident that being able to spot it is not liberal or conservative, either; it's a basic intelligence test, like the ability to match square peg with square hole. His documentaries are political slapstick that could have been made by a third Farrelly brother or a fourth Stooge.

Besson provided the story and co-wrote the screenplay for a film directed by McG, who does his usual McGhastly job with action and is McGruesome when it comes to comedy.

It’s long, dumb and there’s nothing below these high-school students’ conspicuously perfect complexions.

This poorly done, digitally animated work, directed by Hiroyuki Kitakubo, might be of interest to die-hard fans of anime. Others should pass it by.

This comedy is cringe-inducingly lame and the dramatic turns are visible as far in advance as utility poles on the prairie.

It's a sugar cube laced with arsenic, a nasty little film whose mean-spiritedness is surpassed only by its mediocrity.

The entire script, which boils down to a hopelessly embarrassing lesson about "this beautiful place that can make people live again," seems to have been written within arm's reach of a bong.

Kingsman: The Secret Service borrows the tone, story, characters and humor of “Kick-Ass,” only this time in a 007 world instead of Batman’s. Nearly everything it does, it does poorly: This one is “Weak-Ass.”

An Eye for Beauty star Éric Bruneau proves to be a haircut in search of a man, which makes him ideal for this vapid adultery drama that delivers the character depth of your average spread in Architectural Digest.

An uninspired gay coming-of-age import from Germany.

A sloppy vanity project, this rambling and toothless Hollywood black comedy stars veteran filmmaker Henry Jaglom's girlfriend, Tanna Frederick.

I suppose it's nice that Romero has a hobby, but he couldn't be more of a bore if he were showing off his pine cone collection.

This poorly acted, directed and written (but slick-looking) vanity project was produced by Andrew Lauren (Ralph's son also ineptly plays G's major-domo) and shot at least four years ago.

What If is a case of the cutes the way the Black Death was a case of infectious disease. The movie is saturated with cute, teeming with cute, rancid with cute. I’d endured all a man could fairly be expected to take when I glanced at my watch and realized there were still 95 minutes to go.

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.

If Canadian director Bruce McDonald’s dreams are anything like the disgusting underworld we see in his new movie Dreamland, get the man a doctor.

An example of Hollywood schlock from the team of Joel Schumacher (director) and Jerry Bruckheimer (producer) that lacks the faintest trace of imagination or genuine feeling.

The failed attempt at cleverness in Lanthimos’ movie is that nobody is actually kind here; they are inordinately cruel. There’s nothing wrong with that — so is Richard III — but these exploits are not particularly entertaining or profound, only random and repetitive.

The danger of dreaming up a predictable adventure for a group of nobodies you hold in contempt is that the audience will see your indifference and raise you.

School for Scoundrels teaches one important lesson: Avoid any thing carrying the banner of The Weinstein Co., which is to the multiplex what bagged spinach is to the produce aisle.

All I wanted to do was escape from this aggressively ugly world and its equally unattractive characters. It's not that the movie is in bad taste or cheesy (though it is) but that all of its hyperviolence adds up to nothing: This thing is dedd.

This is one of those thrillers where the person on-screen is often the only person in the theater who can't guess what'll happen next. Lots of laughable moments provide camp value, though, and Bentley ("American Beauty") makes for a charismatic creep.

The latest labored take on the old British legend, Robin Hood is little more than a pitch-black war film, complete with rudimentary medieval bombs and blood spatter on the camera lens.

This mostly laugh-and scare-free turkey offers an utterly bored -- and boring -- Eddie Murphy taking a back seat to special effects, elaborate sets and a wispy story slapped together by David Berenbaum (the overrated "Elf").

Charmless and underdeveloped knockoff of "The Santa Clause."

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

Relentlessly grim.

The laziness of this filmmaking (which assumes you know that Gray killed himself in 2004) is of a piece with the emphatically uninteresting tales told by a classic dinner-party bore who once referred to his ramblings as "creative narcissism." He was half-right.

There is virtually nothing in Mac Carter’s horror flick that deviates from the standard haunted house plot (or, in this case, plod).

The climax is as dull as reading the dictionary of a language you do not speak.

Family Tree, which seems to have been written using indie-film Mad Libs, devolves into way too many quirky subplots.

The acting, script and direction - not to mention the syrupy score - conspire to make this a perfect storm of a hoot that will find its most appreciative audience among renters who have had a few glasses of wine beforehand.

An exceedingly silly historical fantasy.

A lobotomized attempt to make a no-budget John Waters movie, Men Cry Bullets is a painful reminder of just how bad indie cinema can be - especially when it plays with gender roles. It's desperately unfunny and dreadfully acted, written and directed.

A wan effort at "Annie Hall"-style comedy, has about as much Manhattan sophistication as a gas station in Chippewa Falls, Wis.

The Rock arrives with the power of a pebble in the new action movie “Black Adam,” in which the popular star plays the titular anti-hero in his first solo outing. It’s just as thoughtless and rancid as the rest of DC Comics’ crummy catalog.

At its best, the movie is an unbearably precious slice of stale imitation Wes Anderson. But at its worst, it's dull and strangled by its own would-be jaunty deadpan.

Watching Robin Williams as a pastor giving premarital counseling to lovebirds John Krasinski and Mandy Moore in License to Wed is like having a laugh chastity belt cinched up tight around your funny bone.

A 2 1/2-year-old collection of mediocre stand-up routines and dull backstage chatter, Vince Vaughn's Wild West Comedy Show demonstrates why comedy clubs require you to have a couple of drinks.

It largely consists of Franco musing about depictions of homosexual activity on film. As well as gay cast members speculating whether Franco will take off his clothes and perform in explicit footage. He doesn’t.

Draft Day is lumbering and predictable, and its hero general manager is so dumb it should have been called “Dummyball.”

Like some hybrid beast out of Greek mythology, this young-adult sequel has the body of a “Harry Potter,” the head of a “Twilight,” the feet of a “Hunger Games” and the tail, oddly, of a “Raiders of the Lost Ark.”

A big, incoherent bore, interesting only as an example of assembly-line movie-making gone awry.

Some of the powerful characters you thought were good are evil and vice versa. It’s like “Wicked,” but wretched.

How can it be that a movie as beautiful to look at as Saawariya is so . . . boring?

Fifty Shades will make you dumber.

The characters are so wacky you don’t believe them as killers or strategists or even just bystanders who are in the right place at the right time. You simply don’t buy anything about them. Ever.

A loud, coarse and witless family comedy.

Comes off as nothing more than a TV soap opera, with overwrought acting, simplistic dialogue and a generic plot.

Japan's Takashi Miike has the formula down pat, but Eisener has no idea how to give violence a touch of class.

It all falls apart when the Wendigo unleashes its fury - no doubt upset at being neutered to look about as frightening as Bambi.

With an emotional depth roughly equivalent to that of his lacrosse stick...

Clip hurts your eyes, but if it’s supposed to hurt your heart, it misses the mark.

Maybe DVDs of "Buried" and ATM will be sold in the same package someday. You could call it a trapped-in-a-box set.

An indie exercise in macho posturing disguised as a tale of grief, reminds us that losing one’s parents is psychically debilitating. But that’s about as useful as knowing that rain is wet.

For those of you who thought Al Pacino yukked it up too much as Jimmy Hoffa in “The Irishman,” get ready for this ham dinner.

Most of the movie's plot becomes obvious before you even meet the brother, 10 minutes into it. Even the sex scenes turn out to be tasteful and tame. You've seen hotter stuff on Oxygen.

In execution, this clever idea is far less funny than the original, "Killers From Space," which was directed by W. Lee Wilder, the vastly less talented brother of the great Billy.

From its uninspired, sitcom-y look to its phoned-in dialogue (“I love you plus infinity”; “I love you plus double infinity”) to its creaky plot, Hit by Lightning is anything but electrifying.

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.

Making an outlaw flick — not so easy, is it?

A strained, ultra-predictable and headache-inducing mockumentary.

Hire “Dreamgirls” director Bill Condon to tell the story of Julian Assange and WikiLeaks? Sure, and next let’s hear from Lady Gaga on the Higgs boson particle.

Time for another of Steven Soderbergh's "experimental," i.e., half-assed, films.

It’s often hard to figure out who’s winning, much less care about it. One thing is certain: Nobody is going to be demanding a rematch.

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

The praise for this static, overlong, stagebound work is a mystery to me.

The movie sneers at the journalists covering the trial, but for those of us who followed it at the time, the newspaper accounts were a lot more engrossing than this film.

There is no tragedy without character, yet the way The King drapes heavy situations around its feebly imagined personalities suggests a tire thrown around the neck of a poodle.

One of the year's worst movies.

It's sad to see Quaid in sloppily directed (by Martin Guigui) dreck like Beneath the Darkness less than a decade after the performance of his career as a closeted married man in "Far From Heaven.''

Barely watchable, despite the presence of such pros as Michael McKean and Jane Lynch.

Stone praises Latin America for turning toward "government of the people" (yet ignores Castro's lack of interest in democracy). But it's no wonder he's in such a sunny mood: We see him grow increasingly giddy while chewing coca leaves with Morales (a coca farmer who wants to make cocaine legal).

The first “Independence Day’’ was a lot of fun, with a great lines and cutting-edge special effects. It was much imitated, so the sequel plays like a faded, eighth-generation copy with a cast that’s shooting blanks when it comes to humor.

There is something offensively lazy about the thinness of the Jaglom's movie-industry characters, the simplistic problems they face, and the clumps of clumsy, apparently improvised dialogue they have to deliver.

Seeing as Krampus is about the Alpine demon who punishes Christmas a-holes, this is a promising start — but alas, it’s all downhill from there, making a murky and humorless hash out of a pretty great piece of

A boring and violent French crime thriller, is the sort of routine potboiler that generally goes straight to video in this country, if it's seen at all.

Watching it, unless you’re already a demented diehard fan, is utter agony.

The result is inept, tedious kitsch that even at its best feels like John Waters minus the joie de vivre.

As phony as a re-enactment with finger pup pets.

If you thought Marvel Studios was committed to getting back on track by making fewer movies of higher quality, wait till you see Captain America: Brave New World...The situation over there is so dire, they’ve brought back a plotline from “Eternals.” “Eternals”!

The similar Kevin Bacon HBO movie "Taking Chance" got there first. Worse news: The earlier movie was sober, meticulous and quietly convincing, not a shouty, shoddy bore like this piece of flummery.

Another mean-spirited black comedy from Todd Solondz, tries even harder than the director's two earlier films to shock and outrage -- but the overall effect of his sophomoric excess is tiresome and dull, like watching someone else's 2-year-old act out for the 50th time.

Antonio Banderas is unintentionally hilarious as Father Matt Gutierrez, a sort of Jesuit James Bond.

This is just a slow-moving skin flick broken up by lots of boring discussions about Cherry's future.

The only pro involved in this amateurish labor of love is veteran character actor Arthur Nascarella, cast as Jack's florist father.

A stinker.

The years go fast but the minutes crawl in Wim Wenders’ new drama, filmed in murky 3-D so that, apparently, we can feel as if we’re living through a dozen dull years right along with its main character.

A pretentious Euro-snore that should occasion a fraud prosecution for any marketer who calls it a thriller -- and which stars an actor who seems to wish his name were Jorg Clooné.

Moreover, in attempting to update the play to a buzzing CNN world, Ralph Fiennes proves that as a director, he makes a fine actor.

A clunky movie that feels as if it’s underwritten by the Roman Catholic Church.

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.