This overlong drama plays like a threefold infomercial: for Christianity, the cheesy resort chain Sandals and Jeff “Ja Rule” Atkins, the rapper-turned-actor playing drug kingpin Miles Montego.

In Pay the Ghost, Nicolas Cage investigates a supernatural abduction, but has no solution for the maggot-eaten zombie that is his undead career.

A painfully earnest and totally unfunny magic-realist fable set on the Lower East Side that works in no way whatsoever.

A lame TV sitcom with big-screen ambition that's almost touching in its hopelessness.

A stultifying vanity piece.

Wince-worthy as Guttenberg is, he cannot be accused of being worse than the amateurish direction and the trite script (both by Allie Dvorin) stuffed with insufferable romcom banter and putrid dirty jokes. Some films go straight to video; this one should have bypassed that step and headed for the incinerator.

An exceedingly dull and stillborn attempt to update the Brothers Grimm.

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.''

Someday, The Bounty Hunter and last month’s “Cop Out” will be featured in a cable movie double bill as the two worst 1988 films of 2010.

It's deeply frustrating to discover that this 2012 movie has precisely the same concerns as the ["The Women"] - appearance and men - with raunchy frankness about sex added and every trace of real wit siphoned out.

The scenes are either too heavy (the climax is the downer of the year), too sedate or too gross.

Suffers from terminal hoof-in-mouth disease.

Painfully stupid.

Elaborate vanity production.

Relentlessly dopey and vulgar.

The fighting is unsatisfying, and renders the film a failure.

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

Mind-blowing and headache-inducing. But the kids loved it.

A searing, penetrating look inside schizophrenia is exactly what Enter the Dangerous Mind isn’t.

Kicks off with an inauspicious premise, mopes through a dreary tract of virtually plotless meanderings and then ends with a whimper.

It feels as shopworn as a dusty VHS tape of "Less Than Zero."

I have zero reservations about telling you how much I loathed New Year's Eve, a soul-sucking monument to Hollywood greed and saccharine holiday culture.

At last: Uwe Boll has made his first intentionally funny film.

Dreadful, misogynist slog of a film.

Brainless and pointless.

A self-serving remark on the part of the filmmakers, who place only the tiniest fig leaf of a story on a panoramic canvas of the gory, gross and repellent.

Even when scary, Murray is somehow funny, too, and he steals the show as always.

Getaway is so bad that what’s most surprising about it is that Nicolas Cage didn’t manage to star in it. But one man can only do so many low-rent projects a year.