Clip hurts your eyes, but if it’s supposed to hurt your heart, it misses the mark.

Maybe DVDs of "Buried" and ATM will be sold in the same package someday. You could call it a trapped-in-a-box set.

An indie exercise in macho posturing disguised as a tale of grief, reminds us that losing one’s parents is psychically debilitating. But that’s about as useful as knowing that rain is wet.

For those of you who thought Al Pacino yukked it up too much as Jimmy Hoffa in “The Irishman,” get ready for this ham dinner.

Most of the movie's plot becomes obvious before you even meet the brother, 10 minutes into it. Even the sex scenes turn out to be tasteful and tame. You've seen hotter stuff on Oxygen.

In execution, this clever idea is far less funny than the original, "Killers From Space," which was directed by W. Lee Wilder, the vastly less talented brother of the great Billy.

From its uninspired, sitcom-y look to its phoned-in dialogue (“I love you plus infinity”; “I love you plus double infinity”) to its creaky plot, Hit by Lightning is anything but electrifying.

The script, attributed to Mark Schwahn, Marc Hyman and Jon Zack, is as confused as it is confusing, and the aimless direction by Brian Robbins doesn't help. It was apparently edited with a roulette wheel.

Making an outlaw flick — not so easy, is it?

A strained, ultra-predictable and headache-inducing mockumentary.

Hire “Dreamgirls” director Bill Condon to tell the story of Julian Assange and WikiLeaks? Sure, and next let’s hear from Lady Gaga on the Higgs boson particle.

Time for another of Steven Soderbergh's "experimental," i.e., half-assed, films.

It’s often hard to figure out who’s winning, much less care about it. One thing is certain: Nobody is going to be demanding a rematch.

A long, tedious and often unintentionally hilarious adaptation of Stephenie Meyer’s sci-fi follow-up.

The praise for this static, overlong, stagebound work is a mystery to me.

The movie sneers at the journalists covering the trial, but for those of us who followed it at the time, the newspaper accounts were a lot more engrossing than this film.

There is no tragedy without character, yet the way The King drapes heavy situations around its feebly imagined personalities suggests a tire thrown around the neck of a poodle.

One of the year's worst movies.

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.''

Barely watchable, despite the presence of such pros as Michael McKean and Jane Lynch.

Stone praises Latin America for turning toward "government of the people" (yet ignores Castro's lack of interest in democracy). But it's no wonder he's in such a sunny mood: We see him grow increasingly giddy while chewing coca leaves with Morales (a coca farmer who wants to make cocaine legal).

The first “Independence Day’’ was a lot of fun, with a great lines and cutting-edge special effects. It was much imitated, so the sequel plays like a faded, eighth-generation copy with a cast that’s shooting blanks when it comes to humor.

There is something offensively lazy about the thinness of the Jaglom's movie-industry characters, the simplistic problems they face, and the clumps of clumsy, apparently improvised dialogue they have to deliver.

Seeing as Krampus is about the Alpine demon who punishes Christmas a-holes, this is a promising start — but alas, it’s all downhill from there, making a murky and humorless hash out of a pretty great piece of

A boring and violent French crime thriller, is the sort of routine potboiler that generally goes straight to video in this country, if it's seen at all.

Watching it, unless you’re already a demented diehard fan, is utter agony.

The result is inept, tedious kitsch that even at its best feels like John Waters minus the joie de vivre.

As phony as a re-enactment with finger pup pets.