About as artistically profound as those framed 3-D photos of the Twin Towers emblazoned with "Never Forget'' that are still for sale in Times Square a decade after 9/11.

If the sight of naked, sweaty French hunks gets you going, well, then, Three Dancing Slaves is a must-see.

Watchable in a train-wreck kind of way, but you'll probably want to take a shower afterwards.

The "Prinze" of terrible movies is back - in what might charitably be called "Rear Window" for morons.

Clayburgh is the most dignified thing about this dreadfully overwrought, often preposterous romantic comedy.

Cliched, amateurish and feeble.

Might as well be called "Around the World in 80 Yawns."

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

Biehn has appeared in dozens of B-movies and evidently had no greater ambition than to come up with a grindhouse movie full of sex, gore and cheap thrills, but there is far too little of any of these to maintain interest in a straight-on story that reserves its only surprise for the final 30 seconds.

Eric Schaeffer's rip-off -- er, homage -- to "Magnolia," is a marginally better movie than his previous self-absorbed atrocities like "My Life's in Turnaround" and "Wirey Spindell."

Even without the laughable new material, the addictive quality of the short story is lost in adaptation from the get-go.

A dull, listless, derivative chunk of celluloid lacking any spark or even basic storytelling ability.

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

Wavers between extreme silliness and unbearable earnestness.

Not especially scary or funny, this lame comedy-thriller wastes a decent cast in a plodding tale.

If you stay awake, you'll certainly feel more than a little ground down after watching perhaps 15 minutes of skateboard footage padded out with nearly 90 minutes of strenuously unfunny toilet humor - all cheaply filmed on a budget that looks as if it would scarcely cover the catering bill for "Gigli."

Excruciatingly lame and laughless romantic comedy.

Zhang Yimou, one of China's best-known filmmakers, deserves a great big lump of coal in his holiday stocking thanks to his ludicrous soap opera The Flowers of War.

Pointless and mind-numbing.

There is, of course, a maximum of blood and gore. Sometimes the director's ideas work; often they don't.

A supernatural horror-comedy that's frighteningly lacking in wit, John Dies at the End thinks it's "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" for dudes. But in its randomness, its vulgarity and its level of humor, it's more like the collected writings on the walls of a roadside men's room.

A rare dud in the Shooting Gallery series.

The only part of this movie anyone's ever going to remember is the pair of scenes in which Ghost Rider pees flame.

I think I’d rather have the waterboarding than the movie’s bromides about how we’re all victims and hate must end.

Gets sillier and sillier as it goes along.

Isn't very good. Not only has Ritter made his documentary a one-sided one, but he commits the journalistic sin of using himself as the film's main talking head. In other words, he's interviewing himself.

The abysmal “Gucci” would get a better grade, perhaps, if it was a term paper titled “How to Make the Assassination of a Famous Person Boring.”

In reality, it’s a tiresome parade of gory and sexist cliches that are, frankly, insulting to a cast that includes Laurence Fishburne, Barry Pepper, Adam Goldberg, Leslie Bibb and Clifton Collins Jr.