I’d like to take back all those times I said Nicolas Cage was one of the most annoying actors on film. It turns out he’s equally terrible when he’s only on the soundtrack. And yet Cage is the least of the problems with The Croods.

So dull, the kids in my audience didn’t laugh until 45 minutes in — And that was at a coconut head-bonk, a gag so timeless it almost doesn’t count.

This whole movie is pretty much a mental colon blow.

A total disaster.

Dear John is the sort of movie that gives tearjerkers a bad name.

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

Degreasing a stove is a more enjoyable way to spend your Saturday night.

Isn't particularly funny, romantic or well-acted. It drags on endlessly.

Meet Moondog — a movie character you’ll want to punch in the face.

Hard-core Hollywood haters will best appreciate Maps to the Stars, a campy poison-pen letter to Tinseltown that makes “Sunset Boulevard’’ look like a tourism infomercial by comparison.

In the end, what “Caught Stealing” has stolen is time and talent.

A vague, syrupy soundtrack plays across scenes both current and past, making the whole thing feel like a bad soap opera.

The promising tension between Gypsy and the arrogant Lucian never amounts to much, and the climax is comically melodramatic.

This oddly scrambled new version eventually falls apart so badly you feel embarrassed for the people who made it.

Shlocky, sloppy and crass adolescent comedy.

A 42-minute TV soap has more story than this limp and familiar tale of domestic woe.

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.

Rock appears to have edited I Think I Love My Wife with a roulette wheel.

The script is garbage, the voice acting is wooden and the songs are as infectious — and deadly — as the Mister Softee jingle.

Nothing would help make this dud understandable.

The dancing’s fine here, but there’s little else to distinguish Make Your Move, an entirely generic drama.

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

Meet American Beastly, perhaps the most bitter studio film of the year.

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

The film's violent finale comes out of nowhere and will leave bewildered viewers wondering if they might have dozed off for a reel or two.

Painful, misshapen and a little gross. It's an enlarged prostate of a movie.

Mostly The Matador romanticizes a brutal tradition that has no place in the 21st century.

Anselmo handles sensitive issues not with kid gloves, but with a metaphorical baseball mitt, fumbling with tone and obviously laboring to force quirks upon characters and situations.