It’s unspeakably depressing to see Anna Paquin playing the mom (of a teenager!), but the pointlessness and mediocrity of the Paquin-produced Free Ride is even more depressing.

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.

A trite, incoherent and pretentious bomb.

The movie’s one saving grace — so to speak — is Raymond Cruz (Tuco from “Better Call Saul”) as a priest turned shaman. He, at least, injects a little wry humor into a film that otherwise bored me to tears.

Spun is quickly exposed as being all flash, no substance.

A campy, brightly colored musical comedy.

Crude and cheerfully sophomoric teen sex comedy.

The last time I saw this much talent in a losing cause was Super Bowl XLII. Trying to mix farce with heart, Drillbit Taylor is instead as soulful as Kenny G and as wacky as public television.

Such a comedy cannot depend solely on its supporting cast, especially when they’re tasked with lifting up subpar material.

A campy guilty pleasure that serves up a “Gladiator’’ knockoff as an appetizer to the impressively flame-filled main course.

Stoned carries a freaked-out buzz of nostalgia for the era when celebs willfully destroyed themselves for our amusement.

Alas, the complications don't arrive nearly quickly enough for the overlong and slow-paced Lucky to really cook.

The long-gestating thriller The Woman in the Window, based on A.J. Finn’s novel, is here, and it sure is dusty.

Only the French could or would make a movie like this. You'll enjoy it if you turn off your brain and concentrate on the eye candy.

Nearly as good as the average episode of TV’s “Friday Nights Lights,” which makes it better than most movies and one of the better sports films of recent years.

One of that film's funniest performers, John Michael Higgins, is on hand as a maniacal European celebrity handler who keeps swearing, "I am no homoist."

If the filmmakers had spent $14.98 of that $100 mil on a DVD of "The Mummy," they might have learned a few things: You need a head villain who is surpassingly evil, you need some jokes that get laughs - and a few sword-fighting skeletons wouldn't hurt.

This is one of those movies that's too cool to have a plot.

The dreadful acting, direction and script make Nowhere Man a nowhere movie.

A lukewarm film about what might happen to three New York City friends if the draft were reinstated, proves that even the most controversial of topics can be the basis for the dullest indie films.

Weatherford and Murphy lead a young and bright cast. All in all, Money Buys Happiness shows that Lachow is a director worth keeping an eye on.

It's still easily the funniest movie of the year.

A hit-and-miss affair.

The film feels unbelievably long at 84 minutes, and the color-drained, hand-held cinematography serves only as a reminder of just how good "Night of the Living Dead" really was.

None of the actors has the heft to elevate this rote material, though to be fair, the task may be impossible. The dreamy shots of a poisoned sea in Little Birds show an imagination sorely missing from its drab plot and characters.

The documentary is unapologetically one-sided, and spends more time canonizing Abu-Jamal than exploring the murder and trial themselves. Still it raises issues of racism in America (flashback to George Wallace) that are worthy of discussion.

A mockumentary that veers unsteadily between satire and an infomercial for Dash's Roc-A-Fella records.

Note to Greek chorus of execs: Turning a space psychodrama into a “He went to Jared” commercial is pretty low, even for you.