In Pay the Ghost, Nicolas Cage investigates a supernatural abduction, but has no solution for the maggot-eaten zombie that is his undead career.

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

A lame TV sitcom with big-screen ambition that's almost touching in its hopelessness.

A stultifying vanity piece.

Wince-worthy as Guttenberg is, he cannot be accused of being worse than the amateurish direction and the trite script (both by Allie Dvorin) stuffed with insufferable romcom banter and putrid dirty jokes. Some films go straight to video; this one should have bypassed that step and headed for the incinerator.

An exceedingly dull and stillborn attempt to update the Brothers Grimm.

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.''

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.

It's deeply frustrating to discover that this 2012 movie has precisely the same concerns as the ["The Women"] - appearance and men - with raunchy frankness about sex added and every trace of real wit siphoned out.

The scenes are either too heavy (the climax is the downer of the year), too sedate or too gross.

Suffers from terminal hoof-in-mouth disease.

Painfully stupid.

Elaborate vanity production.

Relentlessly dopey and vulgar.

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

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

Mind-blowing and headache-inducing. But the kids loved it.

A searing, penetrating look inside schizophrenia is exactly what Enter the Dangerous Mind isn’t.

Kicks off with an inauspicious premise, mopes through a dreary tract of virtually plotless meanderings and then ends with a whimper.

It feels as shopworn as a dusty VHS tape of "Less Than Zero."

I have zero reservations about telling you how much I loathed New Year's Eve, a soul-sucking monument to Hollywood greed and saccharine holiday culture.

At last: Uwe Boll has made his first intentionally funny film.

Dreadful, misogynist slog of a film.

Brainless and pointless.

A self-serving remark on the part of the filmmakers, who place only the tiniest fig leaf of a story on a panoramic canvas of the gory, gross and repellent.

Even when scary, Murray is somehow funny, too, and he steals the show as always.

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.

A cheerfully dopey snobs vs. slobs teen comedy.

Excruciatingly bad.

The longer the movie goes on, the more annoying Benigni's infantile behavior becomes.

Talk about toxic masculinity — Buddy Games leaves you feeling dead inside.

A loud, coarse and witless family comedy.

A crass, mechanical attempt at a thriller that should have gone straight to video.

With any luck, this’ll be the death knell of the idiot-savant rom-com.

Levy's innovative movie should appeal to mumblecore fans while perplexing mainstream audiences.

A woefully earnest indie about a crime and its aftermath.

A slow-moving, dirt-dull narrative crammed with clunky expository dialogue and obscure Biblical references.

This crowd-funded — and overcrowded — collection of interwoven stories, directed by John Herzfeld, plays like an amateur-acting exercise in which each participant picks a name and a couple of defining props.

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

Shallow and blatantly manipulative variation on "Awakenings" in which every plot development is telegraphed.

Unfortunately, this version of the familiar formula lacks the inspiration, genuine wit and raunchy charm of 1998's outrageous "There's Something About Mary."

In his feature debut, Bormatov doesn't much bother with things like character development, relying instead on raw brutality, profanity and sex. It shouldn't be long before the Hollywood remake with Angelina Jolie.

Odd and not entirely uninteresting little docudrama.

The jovial, hyperverbal comic has played against type before, but his presence feels like epic miscasting in this underwritten dramedy.

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

Plays like a bad daytime soap opera. The acting is amateurish. Ditto the uninspired script (continuity? what's that?) and direction.

Thanks to the amateurish, spectacularly talent-free quality of its cinematography, direction, writing and acting, Emerald Cowboy is simply impossible to sit through.

Virtually unwatchable and laugh-free.

If I wasn't already convinced of this movie's obnoxiousness, its rendering of Graham's character sealed the deal.

Offensive and unwatchable.

It would be easy to dismiss House of the Sleeping Beauties as a lewd male fantasy, but that would be ignoring the German film's deeper purpose as - in the words of the director, Vadim Glowna - a meditation on "transition, remembrance, mourning, guilt, loneliness, sex and death, eroticism and dying."

Ryan Reynolds isn't around this time - and neither is most of the wit.

This is a cheap-looking lowbrow comedy that likely would have gone straight to home video.

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

The screenplay is packed with so many hilariously bad lines (it's hard to believe that writer-director Helgeland won an Oscar for co-writing "L.A. Confidential") that the movie would be perfect material for a resurrected version of the TV spoof "Mystery Science Theater."

Wavers between extreme silliness and unbearable earnestness.

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

No, Bratz, an unwitting and witless critique of American consumerism run amok, does not star Lindsay Lohan, Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie.

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

Feels much more like a very, very long, music video, albeit one made for an audience that gets off on high-tech firepower rather than nearly-naked babes.

Like many first films, Boricua's Bond is wildly uneven.

Shapeless, tedious, hopelessly bad sequel.

It's like "Waiting for Guffman" without the wit or irony.

Even if it weren't three years too late to parody Moore (ineptly played by Kevin Farley), Moore's ridiculous tribute to Cuban health care in "Sicko" is far funnier than anything in this desperately laughless farce from David Zucker ("Scary Movie 3").

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.

The movie, directed by Mick Jackson, leaves no cliché unturned, from the predictable plot to the characters straight out of central casting.

Having Damon Wayans in the cast might attract viewers to Harlem Aria, but they're bound to be disappointed by the amateurish drama.

Tedious and tawdry.

There's an argument to be made that sex scenes, done to death, are best left to the imagination - but only if they're replaced by something more interesting. In 30 Beats, the conversational foreplay is hopelessly flaccid.

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.

Would you rather . . . watch this movie, or spend an hour and a half having your arm hairs plucked out with a rusty pair of tweezers? I’d have chosen the latter if it’d been on offer.

It puts a conservative twist on Michael Moore-ism, with campy stock footage, deadpan humor, mocking musical cues and less-than-ingenuous questions.

A witless and vulgar sequel.

If M. Night Shyamalan sold his soul to the devil for the success of "The Sixth Sense," I think His Satanic Majesty has finally collected in full with The Last Airbender.

Little more than a series of sketches, tied together by Joe's on-air interrogation by a nasty shock jock played by Dennis Miller.

An assembly-line high-school comedy that flunks miserably in all three subjects.

Set in the drab suburbs of Paris, The Stroller Strategy doesn’t even offer pretty backdrops.

The lamest in the recent run of comedies about uptight white people getting jiggy with it, would also be the most offensive -- if it weren't also the dullest.

This is a lazy, careless film that feels strangely unfinished.

After the monster is subdued, then there's a much less humorous, and more mindlessly violent second half.

Corny action scenes and borderline-hilarious direction by Isaac Florentine mark the film as an obvious straight-to-video item that somehow took a wrong turn into a movie theater.

This cynical rom-com subgenre has been done to death.

The narrative itself, attributed to three former "Seinfeld" writers who also worked on "The Grinch," reeks of desperation.

Skin-crawlingly awful.

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.

The only hint of professionalism comes from Cheech Marin as Cannon's boss, who at times seems to be acting in a different movie.

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.

Good Luck Chuck, a fungal little sex comedy, doesn't need a review. It needs a tube of ointment and a shot of penicillin.

Produced with the best of intentions by a California church and directed without distinction by first-timer Brian Baugh, To Save a Life would be bland and boring even as a half-hour after-school special.

Another repulsive, fetishistic trawl through the life and crimes of a serial killer.

The movie lurches from one gross-out scene to another, flipping the bird at continuity and logic. It honestly seems as if Sandler and his team descended on a random suburb, halfheartedly improvising and moving on when they got bored.

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

When the villain is revealed, you are neither surprised nor scared. You just think, "That guy?"

A harmless celebration of idiocy that is the cinematic equivalent of an overeager, block-headed puppy chasing its tail.

After Fall, Winter would play better minus at least half an hour of flab.

A kill-a-minute gore-a-thon whose twist is so obvious your grandma Edna will see it coming, Kite never gets off the ground.

An icky S&M thriller.

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