With Roth at the helm of a script attributed to Price, there is minimal suspense, audience involvement or coherent social commentary.

There needs to be a 12-step program for movie people to stop sharing their "deeply personal" yet insight-free stories of addiction.

The French affection (affectation?) for conversational film reaches absurd proportions in the talkathon Domain.

Riddick-ulous.

As a narrative, Shem, directed by Caroline Roboh, is a pointless hodgepodge, with a finale that will leave viewers scratching their heads.

It's another in the bicoastal indie industry's endless series of self-congratulatory comedies about the alleged dopiness of middle American hicks who do things like read Parade magazine and decorate with flags.

There is nothing to like or admire in this groaner galaxy. The movie has the unconfident, powder-sugar tone of a Disney direct-to-video release, like “The Lion King 1½,” paired with the overeager advertising of an internet pop-up.

It's awkward, listless and fails to reach any sort of climax.

A film so self-serious that it demands to be remade as a Seth MacFarlane farce, The Truth About Emanuel mixes the ludicrous and the pretentious in a story about mommy issues gone wild.

The CGI, by the way, looks awfully cheap in a market that includes boundary breakers such as Pixar and DreamWorks. Hanna-Barbera was never the animation powerhouse that Disney and Warner Bros. were back in the day, but it overcompensated with personality. Warner Animation Group’s Scoob! has got none of that.

To describe this as a movie about a mediocre businessman biding his time before an appointment probably makes it sound more exciting than it is.

It doesn’t add up to much of anything exciting, even with an appearance by Isabella Rossellini (of Lynch’s “Blue Velvet’’) as the mother of one of the doubles.

The treacly trifle is just more of the same Hallmark-inspired Christmas white noise for people who defend these terrible, sappy movies as chicken soup for the couch potato’s soul.

Flash Point comes loaded with cliches and immediately starts blasting them in every direction.

Just to give you a taste of the movie's sophisticated idea of wit, it also makes fun of gay men.

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

The game cast tries desperately to be funny, but Day hasn't provided them with the material.

The cast includes rappers Da Brat, Mos Def and MC Lyte. Their fans might get some pleasure from Civil Brand. Everybody else best stay away.

What they say is superficial. They never really explain why they risk their lives. In the end, Steep plays like a TV infomercial - and who wants to hand over $11 to watch one?

Proves that what might be (but probably isn't) worth five minutes of your time while you're passing through the Times Square subway station really isn't worth a 1 1/2-hour movie.

An overwrought and patently offensive anti- abortion drama from the director of the accomplished "House of Sand and Fog."

The "Jurassic Park" movie franchise does not evolve. Quite the opposite: It degenerates at great speed.

A dismal rom-com for dudes that makes the average beer commercial look nuanced and plot-heavy.

Some handsome location shooting in New Orleans doesn’t make up for the Oscar winners’ relentless hamming and a plot that twists way beyond credibility.

Mary is a mess. An interesting one, yet still a mess.

A leaden retelling of the legend of Australia's Jesse James that has understandably been sitting on the shelf for a couple of years.

Greenwald does nothing with the interviews, basically just posting them, one after the other, with the hope that viewers will do his job for him. The result is one-sided and bone-dry.

A schmaltz-laden soap opera from Saskatchewan.

It's hard to make a dull movie with copious nudity and all kinds of sex (straight, bi and gay), although French filmmakers Olivier Ducastel and Jacques Martineau manage to do so in Cote d'Azur.

It's depressing to see how far Herzog has fallen.

Within five minutes you’ll guess why John Cusack, not overly encumbered with big film roles these days, didn’t return for the sequel: The script is monotonous, meandering and witless.

A two-hour trailer: explosion, shape-shift, chase, wisecrack, repeat. Its most amazing trick will be how it vanishes from your memory before the seat you vacate has stopped moving.

In the appalling documentary If a Tree Falls, a narrator referring to an arson attack by the Earth Liberation Front solemnly intones, "In one night, they had accomplished what years of picketing and writing had never been able to do." Well, yes -- terrorism does make short work of red tape, doesn't it?

You must lead a dull life if it would be enlivened by 76 minutes' worth of Old Joy.

The parallels between the kids' war and the real one are made far too obvious by Christophe Barratier, who made the equally treacly "The Chorus" and infests the movie with nonstop musical goo.

The fighting is unsatisfying, and renders the film a failure.

My only question: Why does Kleine -- who's married to Andre Gregory of "My Dinner With Andre" fame -- think that anybody outside her family gives a damn?

The Queen biopic “Bohemian Rhapsody” had plenty of issues, but the electricity of the re-creation of the Live Aid concert was not one of them. While “Michael” shares the same producer as the Freddie Mercury flick — and a nearly identical performance from Mike Myers as a jokey music exec — it boasts none of the nostalgic thrills.

A convoluted, pointless thriller that wastes the considerable talent of Max von Sydow.

Carl Kranz, as a possibly autistic boy enamored of Natalia, offers his scenes some heart. But Soft in the Head is drab, ramshackle stuff — up in everyone’s face, and finding very little there.

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.

Painfully stupid.

The Greeks have a word for Blackmail Boy: boring.

James Purefoy (“The Following”) makes a pretty decent bad guy. Olga Kurylenko (“The Water Diviner”) is passable as an action heroine. Neither of those facts makes Momentum any fun to sit through, crammed as it is with leaden dialogue and predictable plot turns.

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

Even if you overlooked the production values from a 1986 porno and special effects like something your nephew cooked up on his Mac, the movie's "Yay, money!" zingers are just a big bag of sad.

An Amsterdam mess.

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.

Please wipe this movie from my “Memory.”

It’s a tiresome, preachy, repetitive, disorganized and dismally unfunny attempt to appeal to Michael Moore fans. The overall temperature of their efforts is strictly room: Call this “Fahrenheit 68.”

For a film with the nuance of a nuke, Palmer’s by-the-numbers journey nods along like elevator music.

An alarmingly unfunny French comedy where the two main characters are constantly yakking on a cell phone at an airport.

Lovable misanthropes can be a lot of fun, but someone forgot to put in the lovable.

Yelchin is an immensely likable actor who does what he can, but his charm isn’t enough to save this awkwardly worded — and paced — wannabe thriller.

Hollywood isn’t just churning out crummy remakes of great films anymore — now it’s doing awful remakes of mediocre films. For evidence, see Overboard. Or, rather, don’t.

Fails to draw much humor from farcical situations.

So over the top that it often plays like a parody.

A pathetic stoner comedy.

Ineptly directed by Simon West, the scare-free When a Stranger Calls is the worst of the seminal horror movies from the late '70s and early '80s that have been getting the remake treatment lately.

Preposterous, slipshod, unfunny and emotionally null.

The landscapes are exotic and Kilcher is erotic, but the film plays like a generic made-for-TV biopic.

The talented cast doesn't stand much of a chance in this rambling, pointless narrative.

Carousel is one of those tundra, dimly lit living-room movies that snobs defend as closer to “real life.”

Thirty years after "Annie Hall," the beloved actress is scraping below the bottom of the barrel with this desperately unfunny farce, in which she mugs and pratfalls in the worst performance of her entire career.

A maudlin and unintentionally hilarious romantic weepie.

It's a shame, because the actors are so much better than the threadbare material.

If we can agree on anything in this great divided land of ours, it's this: Mischa Barton can't act.

Overlong and not well-acted.

The Oscar-winning director of "Rain Man" - whose last film, the abysmal documentary "PoliWood" never went much further than the Tribeca Film Festival - demonstrates he can make a shakycam found-footage horror movie every bit as fake-looking, clumsy and unscary as your average college student working on a $200 budget.

Neither a concert film nor a documentary but a ghoulish “event” offered just in time for Halloween, This is It is sadly -- and reprehensively, if you ask me -- the movie equivalent to the National Enquirer’s infamous post-mortem shot of Elvis Presley.

Interspersed with the gore is banter between the leads, who fall into a predictable odd-couple pairing of fussy (Reynolds) and gonzo (Jackson). Their rapport is amusing, but entirely, clumsily incongruous with the thuggish mayhem all around them.

There are some surprisingly attractive shots in director Rhys Frake-Waterfield’s low-budget film — honey drips from Winnie’s mouth in a sadistic “Silence of the Lambs” way — and the acting is committed rather than arch (even if the dialogue is lousy-to-inaudible). Yet it is impossible to recommend to the average horror fan in search of a good movie.

“Short Circuit” meets “RoboCop” — with asides to “WALL-E,” “E.T.,” “The Road Warrior” and many other better movies — in Chappie, an interminable, violent, incoherent and wearying R-rated sci-fi action comedy.

Cancels itself out by being too campy to take seriously and too tragic to laugh at.

The best thing about Some Body -- an amateurish, quasi-improvised acting exercise shot on ugly digital video -- is that it's all over in 80 minutes.

Apprently novice filmmaker Angela Ismailos' definition of a Great Director is one who's willing to sit or walk with her while she lobs innocuous questions and gives herself lots of awed close-up reaction shots.

80 for Brady would be close to worthless were it not for the prodigious talents and chemistry of its marvelous cast.

With awkward acting, plotting and direction, this is no "Guess Who's Coming to Dinner," "Jungle Fever" or "One Potato, Two Potato."

It's not surprising to learn that the story -- which the press notes assert is loosely based on fact -- has been kicking around Hollywood for 15 years. It's that bad.

Nothing happens that hasn't been done better in other films, among them Thomas Vinterberg's excellent 1998 "The Celebration."

Lacks even a trace of imagination. Its by-the-numbers plot is depressingly familiar, and each line of dialogue is so predictable that the script... could have been generated by a computer.

This indie documentary is egregiously Hollywood in spirit. That a take-charge white football coach can buck up a place like Manassas HS with some gridiron grit is a lie we want to believe.

Lou Diamond Phillips is let down by an uninspired supporting cast, including Bruce Weitz as a crippled con artist and Tracy Middendorf as the requisite femme fatale, a clichéd script, and flat direction by Stephen Purvis.

At 96 minutes it is exactly 93 1/2 minutes too long. If they're going to put this artifact in theaters, they'd better charge 1973 grindhouse prices: a dollar a ticket.

Darlings, there's nothing quite so tragique as a boring eccentric.

The Hateful Eight is basically an expensive vanity project allowing Tarantino to expound on his bizarre theories about race relations.

Donna Summer’s disco classic “Last Dance” does a good job of summing up Steven Soderbergh’s new movie Magic Mike’s Last Dance: When it’s bad it’s so, so bad.

Israeli soldiers are cast as the killers, while the Palestinians are the hapless bunnies. The Israeli-Palestinian conflict is thus reimagined as "Bambi."

Melodramatic and heavy-handed.

Don’t expect a single novel element here — everything is recycled from the junkyard.

It's condescending, it's vague, it's unfair and, ultimately, it's pointless.

Naomi Watts is the only explanation for the existence of the student-y digital video feature Ellie Parker.

The latter is played by Parker Posey, who looks baffled throughout. As well she should.

So bad it's awful.

Old Dogs does to the screen what old dogs do to the carpet. It's unfortunate that only the latter can be taken out and shot.

Legends is the latest in a long line of terrible “Karate Kid” movies. A passing of the torch, such as it is, to the next inferior rip-off.

Never rises above the level of a second-rate TV sit-com.

The plot is a watered-down grab-bag of old, tired ideas.