I'd call Diary of a Wimpy Kid: Dog Days harmless if it weren't for some totally unnecessary gay-panic jokes that could actually encourage bullying.

How would “Slightly less terrible!” look on a poster? That is my approved quote for Zack Snyder’s Justice League, a perverse exercise in fanboydom on HBO Max that tacks on two extra hours of footage to a maligned 2017 DC Comics movie to create a kind of new, still-bad movie.

The misleading documentary Trumbo paints a golden nimbus of holiness around the onetime highest-paid screenwriter in Hollywood, Dalton Trumbo, an on-the-record hater of democracy, defender of authoritarian rule and avowed Communist.

The one highlight is Julia Nickson, who breathes life into the role of Ethan's evil stepmom.

From bad to worse - Even in verse - The Producers moves like a hearse -Mildness and blandness -Mugging like madness - Who knew that "Rent" would win this fight? - Murdering a genre's just not all right!

A sort of "Babel" of bonking, 360 gives us much in the way of international anguish, frustrated coupling and longing stares, but there's very little plausibility or genuine emotion in its egregiously contrived story of ardor gone amiss.

In the pantheon of James L. Brooks films, “Ella McCay” is far from as good as it gets.

A British indie as tepid as yesterday morning's tea.

Well, it smells, all right, but authentic isn't the word I'd use for this maudlin male weepie, a compendium of the worst clichés of sports and journalism movies.

It makes so little sense on-screen that all you can do is nod along vaguely sympathetically at its sheer creative bravado.

Why was this pointless movie made? Because quality actors like Blanchett and Weaving like to play drug addicts. They can't stop themselves. They need help.

Recalling the lesson about bringing a knife to a gun fight, a British documentary filmmaker brings a spoon to a hatchet job in the film Sarah Palin: You Betcha!

The Return is about bullets, bombs and boobs - the biggest boob being Van Damme, natch, but there are also mammaries aplenty.

Brutally banal chitchat about life and love ensues.

An exercise in cynicism every bit as ugly as the shabby digital photography and muddy sound.

Hyperactive.

It's a film that reeks of stupidity and cynicism, one that makes you feel soiled just to have sat through it.

It's nicely photographed but slow-moving, dull and utterly predictable.

Like the lobby of a Donald Trump building, it looks ever so expensive and amazingly cheap at the same time.

Purposely amateurish.

The movie (Untitled) is a tinny satire destined to go "(Unwatched)" because it is "(Uninteresting)."

A cringeworthy, unfunny example of a culture-clash romantic comedy.

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.

Features some good acting, but most of it doesn't ring true.

The whole movie is so ineptly written and directed that its 90 minutes seem to take twice as long.

Painfully unfunny spoof.

A baffling mixed platter of gritty realism and magic realism with a hard-to-swallow premise.

The most distressing bad choice in CBGB, a movie entirely composed from them, is that those brilliant songs are repurposed studio recordings.