It's really just about a bunch of pathetic losers whiling away the hours with their hands jammed down their pants.

It's their hard luck that this movie is being released as the Olympics wind down. The contrast with the beauty and self-discipline seen for the past two weeks doesn't exactly work to the advantage of Nitro Circus.

The only conceivable reason for Warner Bros. to (barely) release this mush is as a favor to Clint Eastwood, whose daughter Alison directed.

Approach is too heavy-handed to have much effect. Rod Serling probably could have turned the premise into an enjoyable episode of "The Twilight Zone."

Underworld Evolution has antecedents in literature ("Dracula"), film ("The Matrix") and song ("Don't It Make My Brown Eyes Blue"). How does it rip off so much, yet learn so little?

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

When Mel Brooks checks in to play Dracula’s dad, harrumphing and looking exactly like Grandpa Munster, you realize Sandler and Co. aren’t trying any harder than they did in “Jack and Jill” or “Pixels.”

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

The silliness of Moore's oeuvre is so self-evident that being able to spot it is not liberal or conservative, either; it's a basic intelligence test, like the ability to match square peg with square hole. His documentaries are political slapstick that could have been made by a third Farrelly brother or a fourth Stooge.

Besson provided the story and co-wrote the screenplay for a film directed by McG, who does his usual McGhastly job with action and is McGruesome when it comes to comedy.

It’s long, dumb and there’s nothing below these high-school students’ conspicuously perfect complexions.

This poorly done, digitally animated work, directed by Hiroyuki Kitakubo, might be of interest to die-hard fans of anime. Others should pass it by.

This comedy is cringe-inducingly lame and the dramatic turns are visible as far in advance as utility poles on the prairie.

It's a sugar cube laced with arsenic, a nasty little film whose mean-spiritedness is surpassed only by its mediocrity.

The entire script, which boils down to a hopelessly embarrassing lesson about "this beautiful place that can make people live again," seems to have been written within arm's reach of a bong.

Kingsman: The Secret Service borrows the tone, story, characters and humor of “Kick-Ass,” only this time in a 007 world instead of Batman’s. Nearly everything it does, it does poorly: This one is “Weak-Ass.”

An Eye for Beauty star Éric Bruneau proves to be a haircut in search of a man, which makes him ideal for this vapid adultery drama that delivers the character depth of your average spread in Architectural Digest.

An uninspired gay coming-of-age import from Germany.

A sloppy vanity project, this rambling and toothless Hollywood black comedy stars veteran filmmaker Henry Jaglom's girlfriend, Tanna Frederick.

I suppose it's nice that Romero has a hobby, but he couldn't be more of a bore if he were showing off his pine cone collection.

This poorly acted, directed and written (but slick-looking) vanity project was produced by Andrew Lauren (Ralph's son also ineptly plays G's major-domo) and shot at least four years ago.

What If is a case of the cutes the way the Black Death was a case of infectious disease. The movie is saturated with cute, teeming with cute, rancid with cute. I’d endured all a man could fairly be expected to take when I glanced at my watch and realized there were still 95 minutes to go.

Even the audience at whom the movie is aimed — the crowd for whom dinner and a movie means meeting up at 3 p.m. — will be bored by the stale funk coming off every scene.

If Canadian director Bruce McDonald’s dreams are anything like the disgusting underworld we see in his new movie Dreamland, get the man a doctor.

An example of Hollywood schlock from the team of Joel Schumacher (director) and Jerry Bruckheimer (producer) that lacks the faintest trace of imagination or genuine feeling.

The failed attempt at cleverness in Lanthimos’ movie is that nobody is actually kind here; they are inordinately cruel. There’s nothing wrong with that — so is Richard III — but these exploits are not particularly entertaining or profound, only random and repetitive.

The danger of dreaming up a predictable adventure for a group of nobodies you hold in contempt is that the audience will see your indifference and raise you.

School for Scoundrels teaches one important lesson: Avoid any thing carrying the banner of The Weinstein Co., which is to the multiplex what bagged spinach is to the produce aisle.