Travolta is terrific as a bad guy, making Saint almost sympathetic. His co-stars however, flounder in a sea of bad lines, with poor Romijn-Stamos getting stuck with the worst.

At 86 minutes, the film spends exactly 86 more minutes with its subjects than can possibly be tolerated. Coincidence?

A witless, stale and half-hearted rehash of cliches borrowed from the likes of "The Wedding Planner," "The Wedding Singer" and "Four Weddings and a Funeral," this pathetic, alleged comedy certainly wasn't improved by clueless direction by Clare Kilner.

Excruciatingly acted and ineptly directed by Bob Odenkirk, The Brothers Solomon is faux Farrelly brothers that should have gone straight to video.

The latest catastrophe from the Weinstein Co.

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.

May be well-intentioned, but it's as obvious and inert as a spoonful of mashed potatoes.

Light on dialogue and heavy on creepy atmosphere. See this movie and a visit to the tailor's will never be the same.

An awkward hybrid of genres that just doesn't work.

Toomuch of the humor in Not Another Teen Movie is either lame (the school in the movie is called "John Hughes High") or lamely disgusting.

A weird hybrid of cloning thriller and futuristic love story, with hints of "The Godfather" and "Ice Castles" - and it wears its disjointed nature like a badge of honor.

You get the feeling the guy who wrote Transformers: Age of Extinction used the entire script as a passive-aggressive running joke on his boss, director Michael Bay.

In the end, the movie (executive produced by the late Wes Craven) degenerates into a routine, though ably constructed, horror flick.

To call Ride Along 2 rubbish is unfair to rubbish, which at some point had a purpose.

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

Though Fiennes has done (far) better work, the blurry story seems almost profound when seen through his eyes. To the extent the movie works at all, it works best when it's just the camera and Fiennes in a bleak white room.

It's bone tired.

Plays to none of Rock's strengths (even though he co-wrote the film with members of his HBO team) and intensifies his tendency to mug and shout.

There is a limit to the redemption Nicolas Cage can grant a terrible movie, and Primal is it.

Isn't especially hilarious, but it has a warm sense of humor instead of a string of gross-out jokes. It'll be a cable mainstay.

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."

This one is essentially “The Firm” with smartphones.

A horror-comedy that takes a weak premise (do high school boys even go scouting anymore?) and barely uses it, anyway.

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.

Formerly a real American hero, G.I. Joe is no longer a hero (it's a group) or American. (It's a multinational team of military superstars, though the way it does business, you'd feel safer with the Croatian navy on your side.)

Borrowing a few tricks from Martin Scorsese, the film isn’t a slavish imitation but an engrossing and grounded drama. It’s a pity, then, that director Federico Castelluccio, best known as Furio of “The Sopranos,” can’t deliver a powerful conclusion.

An incomprehensible Bob Dylan vanity project that is not only nearly impossible to sit through, but embarrasses a long list of stars who lined up to work for scale opposite the legendary musician.

Enough to give you brain strain -- and the pay-off is negligible.

Beyond-lame satire.

Painfully unfunny spoof.

Martin Short as Jack Frost, means we're getting a turkey and a ham for the holidays. As for Tim Allen as Scott Calvin, an ordinary guy who took over Santa's job by chance, he's more like a tasteless lump of mashed potatoes.

The results are too predictable.

No, Warcraft isn’t a ridiculous mess; it holds together on its own musclebound terms. It neither tries to be jokey nor undercuts itself by being unintentionally funny. And it offers a bit more complexity than some other nonstop action flicks adapted from video games. It’s a real movie, just not a good one.

Peros probably intends Footprints to be an homage to Hollywood's Golden Age. But the script's so incoherent and the acting so amateurish that it makes the worst old-time Hollywood B-flick seem like "Citizen Kane."

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.

Please wipe this movie from my “Memory.”

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

This cliché-filled labor of love is staffed with some fine performers - Jennifer Holliday sings at a juke joint and Frances Sternhagen plays an older version of Emily's sister.

Should have been stopped at customs -- as family entertainment, it constitutes child abuse.

Makes an earnest stab at illustrating the hardships and sacrifices humanitarian workers contend with - but in the end, all the suffering merely forms an amorphous backdrop for a Harlequin romance.

This erotic noir is about as substantial as one of its female lead’s string bikinis, but it’s an enjoyable trifle nonetheless.

Will Ferrell's terminally stupid, sloppy, campy and cheesy -- and thoroughly unexciting and unfunny -- experiment in "family entertainment."

Melodramatic and heavy-handed.

It’s somehow both too drawn-out and abrupt — but it’s got creepiness galore.

A sluggish and prototypically earnest little indie on the not exactly fresh theme of a woman undergoing a midlife crisis.

It's a film that reeks of stupidity and cynicism, one that makes you feel soiled just to have sat through it.

Has little to offer beyond titillation and pretty landscapes.

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.

Price of Glory isn't an embarrassment on the order of the last major boxing movie, "Play It to the Bone," but it's not especially worth intercepting on its way to the video racks.

From the incessant rain that blurs the joyless Boston setting to the mysterious decision to make a brunette Hudson look as plain as possible, it's an evanescent fancy devoid of sparkle.

Low-end schlock that will likely land with a dull thud in the video remainder bin before the frost is on the pumpkin.

Soggy, strictly by-the-numbers crime thriller.

Most of the comedy comes from dull situations like a fat guy trying to put on a fat suit for no reason.

Less an updated version of the Dostoevsky novel than an unusually somber Hollywood teen love story.

Could hardly be more predictable.

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.

Never decides whether it wants to be a black comedy, drama, melodrama or some combination of the three. The acting and direction are all over the map in this consistently depressing, if occasionally interesting, slice of life.

A Hole in My Heart will disgust many (probably most) viewers as it cements Moodysson's reputation as one of today's most daring filmmakers.

Overall, the insubstantial Lucky Stiff feels like community theater with an extravagant budget.

Director Andy Tennant’s tone, by the way, resembles that of religious films, like last year’s “Breakthrough” with Chrissy Metz. Holmes is wholesome, and her third-wheel suitor, Tuck (Jerry O’Connell), is well-intended, if tortilla-flat. The music is cheesy and inspirational. But the whole thing is covered in materialist grime.

Buscemi is appealing as always, but the movie, is only sporadically funny.

The bloodshed is artful, at least.

The movie chides us for being a sick voyeuristic society, hungry for the sight of violence. The purity of this moral stance is somewhat clouded by the movie's habit of staging sick violent acts.

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.

If this cheesy, cheap-looking update of "A Connecticut Yankee at King Arthur's Court" had been co-produced by the Ku Klux Klan itself, it could hardly be more repellently stereotypical.

It's a wretchedly dumb, lazy and incoherent movie that's magically rendered watchable by Eddie Murphy's charm and Robert De Niro's presence.

It isn't entirely clear if Games People Play is a spot-on but longwinded and excessively campy spoof of those TV "reality" game shows... or just a particularly ingenious and sleazy example of the genre.

Mostly Unfinished Business is a tale of unfinished jokes.

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.

Repo Men is a rare film where Toronto plays itself. It's also the first I've ever seen where a typewriter is used as a lethal weapon.

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."

If this movie were a teenager, you'd put it on Ritalin right away.

What starts as a fairly lighthearted satire ends in a tiresome, ultra-violent shootout -- and the film pretty much throws away the possibilities of Cruz's gender-bending role.

The writer-director of Dying of the Light is Paul Schrader, screenwriter of “Raging Bull.” The star is Nicolas Cage — Raging Tool.

The attempts to out-Matrix "The Matrix," with bullet-time super-slo mo, are staged with such theatrics that they're unintentionally funny. This movie also has "Blade Runner" on its mind, and Raymond Chandler, but mostly it's a weak little sister to "Sin City."

Laughless, pointless and downright creepy, Say Uncle is a would-be black comedy.

A mild cross between "The Big Chill" and "Sex and the City," this English-language German oddity is a romantic comedy passing through on its way to video.

Mildly interesting.

So bad it's almost (but not quite) good, Dan Ireland's Jolene is an unusually elaborate and excruciatingly long vanity production based on a short story by E.L. Doctorow ("Ragtime").

Sunk by too much schmaltz (even for the Lower East Side).

Either a ludicrously bad movie or a parody of same. Either way, it's pretty funny.

While that winding, buzzword-filled title sounds like a cheap-o parody of a science-fiction epic, this is about as unfunny and unadventurous a movie as you could possibly imagine.

In the dumps.

A great-looking but stupefyingly incoherent supernatural thriller adapted from a popular video game that ransacks the entire catalog of horror film tropes for more than two mind-numbing hours.

There’s no doubt at all that the schlocky The Lazarus Effect should have been euthanized and shipped directly to video rather than haunting movie theaters, however briefly.

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

As lifeless and unfunny as a corpse on a slab.

Earnest but not terribly original.

I Smurf-ing loathed it.

Unlike Cursed, which resorts to blatant but unconvincing gore and violence, "The Wolf Man" (1941) gets its point across through suggestion, makeup and spooky sets.

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.

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.

Heavy on quirk and light on wit, first-time director Gillian Greene’s comedy leans too heavily on the badly wigged Kranz.

Have you ever seen a movie without a single believable moment? Perfect Stranger, a convoluted and altogether risible thriller with Halle Berry and Bruce Willis, manages this difficult feat.

Your Highness refuses to take itself seriously, which is both boring and sort of charming to a limited extent.

Kicks off as a cheap piece of retro schlock and quickly devolves into a putrid bloodbath with a thin narrative made utterly indecipherable by the first-time director's clueless approach to filmmaking.

A dull, dumb and derivative horror film.

Nearly totally laugh-, chemistry- and coherence-free, this fiasco from the director of "Charlie's Angels: Full Throttle'' has a script whose sensible parts would fit on a napkin with enough room left over for the Gettysburg Address.