Price of Glory isn't an embarrassment on the order of the last major boxing movie, "Play It to the Bone," but it's not especially worth intercepting on its way to the video racks.

From the incessant rain that blurs the joyless Boston setting to the mysterious decision to make a brunette Hudson look as plain as possible, it's an evanescent fancy devoid of sparkle.

Low-end schlock that will likely land with a dull thud in the video remainder bin before the frost is on the pumpkin.

Soggy, strictly by-the-numbers crime thriller.

Most of the comedy comes from dull situations like a fat guy trying to put on a fat suit for no reason.

Less an updated version of the Dostoevsky novel than an unusually somber Hollywood teen love story.

Could hardly be more predictable.

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.

Never decides whether it wants to be a black comedy, drama, melodrama or some combination of the three. The acting and direction are all over the map in this consistently depressing, if occasionally interesting, slice of life.

A Hole in My Heart will disgust many (probably most) viewers as it cements Moodysson's reputation as one of today's most daring filmmakers.

Overall, the insubstantial Lucky Stiff feels like community theater with an extravagant budget.

Director Andy Tennant’s tone, by the way, resembles that of religious films, like last year’s “Breakthrough” with Chrissy Metz. Holmes is wholesome, and her third-wheel suitor, Tuck (Jerry O’Connell), is well-intended, if tortilla-flat. The music is cheesy and inspirational. But the whole thing is covered in materialist grime.

Buscemi is appealing as always, but the movie, is only sporadically funny.

The bloodshed is artful, at least.

The movie chides us for being a sick voyeuristic society, hungry for the sight of violence. The purity of this moral stance is somewhat clouded by the movie's habit of staging sick violent acts.

A lobotomized attempt to make a no-budget John Waters movie, Men Cry Bullets is a painful reminder of just how bad indie cinema can be - especially when it plays with gender roles. It's desperately unfunny and dreadfully acted, written and directed.

If this cheesy, cheap-looking update of "A Connecticut Yankee at King Arthur's Court" had been co-produced by the Ku Klux Klan itself, it could hardly be more repellently stereotypical.

It's a wretchedly dumb, lazy and incoherent movie that's magically rendered watchable by Eddie Murphy's charm and Robert De Niro's presence.

It isn't entirely clear if Games People Play is a spot-on but longwinded and excessively campy spoof of those TV "reality" game shows... or just a particularly ingenious and sleazy example of the genre.

Mostly Unfinished Business is a tale of unfinished jokes.

The characters are so wacky you don’t believe them as killers or strategists or even just bystanders who are in the right place at the right time. You simply don’t buy anything about them. Ever.

Repo Men is a rare film where Toronto plays itself. It's also the first I've ever seen where a typewriter is used as a lethal weapon.

The MPAA's rating explanation for this PG-13-rated snoozer misleadingly claims it contains "intense sequences of terror/violence"; it would be more accurate to state that Boogeyman contains "virtually every horror-movie cliché of the past 30 years."

If this movie were a teenager, you'd put it on Ritalin right away.

What starts as a fairly lighthearted satire ends in a tiresome, ultra-violent shootout -- and the film pretty much throws away the possibilities of Cruz's gender-bending role.

The writer-director of Dying of the Light is Paul Schrader, screenwriter of “Raging Bull.” The star is Nicolas Cage — Raging Tool.

The attempts to out-Matrix "The Matrix," with bullet-time super-slo mo, are staged with such theatrics that they're unintentionally funny. This movie also has "Blade Runner" on its mind, and Raymond Chandler, but mostly it's a weak little sister to "Sin City."

Laughless, pointless and downright creepy, Say Uncle is a would-be black comedy.