Watching I'm Reed Fish is like being forced to read the diary of a dull-witted teen who is breathlessly beginning a lifelong fascination with himself.

For a movie that so strenuously rips off “Ghostbusters” and “Men in Black,” R.I.P.D. manages to come up with fresh new ways of being absolutely terrible.

It's hard to say what's worse in the strange Portuguese drama Two Drifters: the insufferable wordless stretches, or the sudsy dialogue.

Just because your comedy is dumb doesn’t mean it’s funny.

This spoof of "The Da Vinci Code," "Pirates of the Caribbean," "Harry Potter," "The Chronicles of Narnia" and other recent blockbusters piles up sex gags, toilet gags and make-you-gag gags.

I can't remember ever seeing such a spectacular implosion of a squad of all-stars as Rise of the Guardians. Well, not since Yankee Stadium in October.

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.

If Think Like a Man Too was a man, he would be the world’s worst date: humorless, shrill, speaking primarily in clichés (“what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas!”) and absolutely terrified of women.

Calling it pretentious doesn't do justice to the toxic faux-bohemianism and unearned self-regard that bubble and ooze out of every aspect of Chelsea Walls.

A painfully earnest and totally unfunny magic-realist fable set on the Lower East Side that works in no way whatsoever.

Paul Haggis’ Third Person has nothing to say and spends 2 ¹/₂ hours not saying it. Its combination of pretentiousness, vanity and vapidity suggests Alain Resnais directing a triple episode of “Guiding Light.”

The only feeling the character seems capable of is lust -- and when he hits on the male nurse looking after his newborn baby in the hospital, this hollow, unfunny "comedy" moves from merely tedious to nasty.

Little Fockers may not be the worst, most vulgar, most pathetic and least funny picture of the year. But it's a strong contender for second place behind the picture Brett Favre allegedly sent over his cellphone.

There's a reason you've never seen the words "Will Forte" topping the billing of a major motion picture. After the throbbing flameball of unfunny that is MacGruber, you never will again.

A dumbass "Kick-Ass," the superhero comedy Griff the Invisible sits on the screen like a steaming lump of Kryptonite.

If I wanted to spend $10.75 making myself sick, I'd buy a bottle of cheap tequila.

Train wreck.

WARNING: Do not take your mom to Georgia Rule unless she's Roseanne Barr. You may expect a three-generational chick flick, but what you get is a child-rape comedy.

Part of the problem is that the Finbar character is both underdeveloped and unattractive - you don't get a sense of why anyone would miss him, let alone go searching for him in the snow. [17 Mar 2000]

The only truly lethal weapons in the criminally unfunny action comedy Let’s Be Cops are the lame script, putrid direction and pair of sitcom stars mugging nonstop in frantic pursuit of laughs that have fled over the state line.

The cinematography and sets look great, but the script is a bummer. It's overlong, overwrought and overblown.

“I see dead people,” Adrien Brody all but exclaims in Backtrack, a movie that tries to make a choo-choo out of “The Sixth Sense” but immediately goes off the rails.

Calls to mind Grandpa taking out his dentures and trying to put on a comedy monster show for little kids at Halloween: When he tries to be scary, he's goofy, but when he tries to be goofy, he's scary.

This time out, Broomfield comes up with maybe enough halfway decent material for a 10-minute segment on a second-rate tabloid TV show.

This kids' cartoon from France is such a surreally demented attempt to connect with children that it's the equivalent of foie gras breakfast cereal or a bleu cheese milkshake.

The good news is that The Hangover Part III isn't a rerun like the second episode. The bad news is everything else. For all the promise of mayhem and WTF moments, the final episode hits you with all the force of a warm can of O'Doul's.

Luc Besson keeps ralphing up scripts about beautiful lady killers, but that doesn't mean you have to keep seeing them. Case in point: Colombiana...[a] dull cable-TV-quality item.

A buddy comedy that reeks like stale underpants.

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."

For a horny-road-trip flick that's actually funny, check out last year's "Sex Drive," which just came out on video.

88 Minutes holds you in a state of acute suspense, keeping you wondering until the very last minute whether this is the worst Al Pacino movie ever made.

A grubby cut-price sci-fi thriller.

Stay Alive is D.O.A, a notion of an outline of a rough draft of a killer video-game flick.

Summer Catch is the sludge at the bottom of the barrel.

Struggling for the same vibe as male-bonding comedies like “Diner,” Growing Up & Other Lies instead feels like a really long beer commercial, except beer commercials usually contain at least one witty idea.

89 minutes go by like 89 hours. Not just 89 regular hours either: 89 hours of being stuck in an airport. During a blizzard. While Lewis Black sleeps drooling on your shoulder.

Cage and director Joel Schumacher, who has fallen so far from the A-list that he provokes a demand for new letters of the alphabet after Z, have each found their cinematic soulmates.

More than lives up to its name with ultra-campy performances, high-glucose direction, laughable dialogue, cheesy effects and a back-lot simulation of a Manhattan street that wouldn't pass muster on an after-school special.

If you thought Matthew Broderick looked uncomfortable playing “himself” in “Trainwreck,” wait till you get a load of the actor portraying a married man who wonders if he’s gay in Neil LaBute’s mean-spirited comedy Dirty Weekend.

This spring, boredom has a new name: Lucky You. In the poker flick, an announcer calling a climactic poker match uses a Texas hold 'em term frequently, saying, "And the flop. And the flop. And the flop." This movie reviews itself.

The movie has two modes - very loud and extremely loud - and all of the actors are encouraged to mug their hearts out. That even includes Cusack's real-life sister Joan, normally one of the most reliable performers in the business.

The laughs begin with the excellent title Hamlet 2 - and they end there.

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

Isn't quite insipid, although if it were a little better, it could be.

This one resembles a James Bond film about as much as Belgrade resembles London.

This film is headed quickly for DVD. In the video store, though, it isn't funny enough to be shelved in the comedy section nor dirty enough to be filed with the smut. It might be useful in propping up a wobbly chair, though.

Someday, The Bounty Hunter and last month’s “Cop Out” will be featured in a cable movie double bill as the two worst 1988 films of 2010.

A comedy for no ages, has an amazing amount of CGI - Cuba Gooding Incompetence.

Sandler's latest ode to projectile vomiting, passing gas, gay jokes and physical insults to the groin is basically a feeble cross between "The Revenge of the Nerds" and "The Bad News Bears."

As if the witless cultural stereotypes weren't bad enough, misogyny is rampant -- bare-breasted women abound, yet the protagonist remains fully clothed while having a bullet removed from his butt.

It's something old, it's something new, it's something borrowed and it's something that blows.

This movie -- G.I. Joke, The D-Team -- tries to do so little, and yet falls so short. A clue comes when the girl asks Clay, "How's your steak?" and he replies, "Meaty." Simple enough to achieve in theory, but this would-be treat for cinematic carnivores is a sawdust sandwich.

How do you inject life into a film whose central character is dull, slow, stupid and grim?If you're Arnaud Desplechin, you don't.

Besson co-wrote and produced this cheesy mash-up of elements from James Bond and "Battlestar Galactica."

Beyond-lame satire.

Everybody flirts with everyone else as director John Irvin pours on a level of shopping-mall-gift-shop-kitsch that would shame Wayne Newton.

Amazingly amateurish, the film lands wide of satirical targets that should be impossible to miss.

A strong, early candidate for the worst movie of the year.

It's "Das Bomb." It's "The Perfunctory Storm."

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

One bad movie -- in the original sense of the word.

A chaotic mess.

Stinko movies often unwittingly critique themselves -- and the brain-dead romantic comedy Down to You (which Miramax understandably didn't screen in advance for critics) is no exception.

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

Amateurish, irritatingly gabby indie.

Thin yet excruciating, the film is a quintessential vanity production. The script feels like a first draft that aspired merely to mediocrity and fell well short.

It stumbled onto an accomplishment truly awe-inspiring: It makes “Battleship” and “The Watch” look good.

The toilet caper is the lowest point of a movie with many low points, including bad acting and a generic script.

Contains much more prosaic ingredients. Like props and sound effects that could have been borrowed from an off-off-Broadway play, a host of painfully strained performances and a plot that's almost unbearably stupid.

The Promise employs laughable computer effects and second-rate martial-arts fighting to tell the hard-to-figure story of a princess and her three lovers.

Put it this way: Jimmy Carter was funnier than this movie.

Ho-ho-huh? Arthur Christmas is an animated kiddie comedy that delivers all the wonder you'd expect in a movie about a guy delivering one package. Maybe they should have called it "UPS Man: The Movie."

This witless action comedy begins to insult the audience's intelligence from the opening scene.

Depravity and addiction can be dramatic and fascinating, or they can be as they are in this week's indie filthathon Cook County.

If the script serves any purpose at all, it is to allow jocks to show off their buff bodies. They're hot, but not worth 12 bucks at the box office.

Formerly a maker of bad, but at least angry, movies, Spike Lee now seems to be trying to be the world's oldest student filmmaker. Take out the rookie mistakes from Red Hook Summer, and there'd be nothing left.

Parents should take their children to Hoodwinked Too! Hood Vs. Evil, if only because kids are never too young to learn the important and liberating skill of walking out of a movie and demanding a refund.

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.)

A low-end scam by Lions Gate Films -- whose recent "The Wash" was a masterpiece by comparison.

The mystery is why the filmmakers thought third-graders or anyone else would be willing to pay for this master class in tedium.

A sleazy and pointless film about sleazy and pointless people, Killer Joe reminds us that what Quentin Tarantino does isn't easy.

Getaway is so bad that what’s most surprising about it is that Nicolas Cage didn’t manage to star in it. But one man can only do so many low-rent projects a year.

More prettily photographed pretentious rubbish from the ridiculous Peter Greenaway.

The movie boasts five Oscar winners. That figure exceeds by five the number of times I laughed at this cheap collection of icky jokes.

Someday, when gay Americans enjoy full equality, we can all hope their sexuality will finally stop being used as fodder for dopey, hopelessly contrived dramas like I Do.

Shapeless, tedious, hopelessly bad sequel.

An impressive supporting cast can't save this painfully unfunny, ham-fisted mockumentary poking fun at reality TV shows.

Even worse than the hacky chick revenge fantasy now showing on channel 186 of your box.

One of those movies that comes "straight from the heart" - the heart of the hack screenwriter's manual that pushes formulaic structure to cover up a lack of compelling characters, genuine emotion or actual humor.

Zookeeper barely avoids a zero-star rating because of James.

The title It's About You is something Kurt Markus claims Mellencamp told him when he commissioned the film. With the elder Markus' self-important, egotistical narration rarely shutting up, it was a fairly prophetic remark.

Mortdecai is mortdifying, a mortdal sin of a movie that’s headed for the cinematic mortduary.

Not just a shabby "Wall Street" knockoff clogged with dull, jargon-spewing trading-desk scenes that fail to advance the plot in any way. It's also a nondescript "Sex and the City" retread.

A Liam Neeson thriller so lacking in ambition they should have called it "Paycheck."

Racially offensive quips, flagrant sexism and Tourette syndrome gags all contribute to this witless, scare-free junk.

Molly Ringwald-like, Wren must choose between two guys: the nerdy Roosevelt (Thomas Mann) and the Porsche-driving Aaron (Thomas McDonell), but both are so dull it's hard to care. So feeble is the movie that even the wacky, redheaded best friend (Jane Levy) isn't funny.

Every possible film student visual cliché (plus quite a few from the world of music video) gets a thorough workout.

Contraband aims to be dumb fun but gets only the first half right.