Interspersed with the gore is banter between the leads, who fall into a predictable odd-couple pairing of fussy (Reynolds) and gonzo (Jackson). Their rapport is amusing, but entirely, clumsily incongruous with the thuggish mayhem all around them.

There are some surprisingly attractive shots in director Rhys Frake-Waterfield’s low-budget film — honey drips from Winnie’s mouth in a sadistic “Silence of the Lambs” way — and the acting is committed rather than arch (even if the dialogue is lousy-to-inaudible). Yet it is impossible to recommend to the average horror fan in search of a good movie.

“Short Circuit” meets “RoboCop” — with asides to “WALL-E,” “E.T.,” “The Road Warrior” and many other better movies — in Chappie, an interminable, violent, incoherent and wearying R-rated sci-fi action comedy.

Cancels itself out by being too campy to take seriously and too tragic to laugh at.

The best thing about Some Body -- an amateurish, quasi-improvised acting exercise shot on ugly digital video -- is that it's all over in 80 minutes.

Apprently novice filmmaker Angela Ismailos' definition of a Great Director is one who's willing to sit or walk with her while she lobs innocuous questions and gives herself lots of awed close-up reaction shots.

80 for Brady would be close to worthless were it not for the prodigious talents and chemistry of its marvelous cast.

With awkward acting, plotting and direction, this is no "Guess Who's Coming to Dinner," "Jungle Fever" or "One Potato, Two Potato."

It's not surprising to learn that the story -- which the press notes assert is loosely based on fact -- has been kicking around Hollywood for 15 years. It's that bad.

Nothing happens that hasn't been done better in other films, among them Thomas Vinterberg's excellent 1998 "The Celebration."

Lacks even a trace of imagination. Its by-the-numbers plot is depressingly familiar, and each line of dialogue is so predictable that the script... could have been generated by a computer.

This indie documentary is egregiously Hollywood in spirit. That a take-charge white football coach can buck up a place like Manassas HS with some gridiron grit is a lie we want to believe.

Lou Diamond Phillips is let down by an uninspired supporting cast, including Bruce Weitz as a crippled con artist and Tracy Middendorf as the requisite femme fatale, a clichéd script, and flat direction by Stephen Purvis.

At 96 minutes it is exactly 93 1/2 minutes too long. If they're going to put this artifact in theaters, they'd better charge 1973 grindhouse prices: a dollar a ticket.

Darlings, there's nothing quite so tragique as a boring eccentric.

The Hateful Eight is basically an expensive vanity project allowing Tarantino to expound on his bizarre theories about race relations.

Donna Summer’s disco classic “Last Dance” does a good job of summing up Steven Soderbergh’s new movie Magic Mike’s Last Dance: When it’s bad it’s so, so bad.

Israeli soldiers are cast as the killers, while the Palestinians are the hapless bunnies. The Israeli-Palestinian conflict is thus reimagined as "Bambi."

Melodramatic and heavy-handed.

Don’t expect a single novel element here — everything is recycled from the junkyard.

It's condescending, it's vague, it's unfair and, ultimately, it's pointless.

Naomi Watts is the only explanation for the existence of the student-y digital video feature Ellie Parker.

The latter is played by Parker Posey, who looks baffled throughout. As well she should.

So bad it's awful.

Old Dogs does to the screen what old dogs do to the carpet. It's unfortunate that only the latter can be taken out and shot.

Legends is the latest in a long line of terrible “Karate Kid” movies. A passing of the torch, such as it is, to the next inferior rip-off.

Never rises above the level of a second-rate TV sit-com.

The plot is a watered-down grab-bag of old, tired ideas.