Feels like little more than a stale rehash with a promising cast whose talents haven't been tapped.

Dennis Quaid is mostly lost at sea as Lawrence Wetherhold, the Carnegie Mellon lit professor; he apparently saw fit to tinker with his performance as filming went along, greeting us in some scenes as a noticeably swishy highbrow, while at other moments he's channeling the smiling, drunken menace of Nicholson's Jack Torrance.

Zombie's film plays more like an experimental pastiche than an outright homage to those classic road-trip-gone-wrong movies.

Too slack to do much harrowing and falls back on some very raggedy commonplaces at the points when it should be delivering knockout scares.

There's a lot of "stuff" here, and Kelly's biggest problem -- he's got more than a few -- is that he can't tell his good material from his bad.

This is a perhaps even more misbegotten remake than the Farrelly Brothers' update of "The Heartbreak Kid."

Not charming, but not cynical, The Spirit is wholly unrecommendable, but made with greater care than many movies that are.

It would be sad if Tinseltown used this poorly executed remake as proof that there's no audience for female-driven films, because that's not the case at all.

All told, however, this bland little movie fits right into it's late January slot. It's a little bawdy - the fat-lady thong bit was funnier in "Shallow Hall" - and it passes the time.

For his fourth paycheck-cashing run through “J-Bruck’s” action-hero gauntlet, Cage lazily plays Benjamin Franklin Gates-the first of many overstuffed social-studies references.

For adults -- even adults with fond memories of the TV series -- this is one bizarre mess.

The filmmakers may have wanted to deconstruct any sense of a formal, cohesive narrative; instead, they have merely demolished it.

Unstylized, inconsistent, unconvincing, and familiar to a fault.

Time doesn't just slow down while you're watching Catch and Release -- it actually comes to a dead stop.

The reason for all this dull-to-offensive story stuff is, of course, the dancing, which has its moments but overall seems so calculated to impress that it loses all other reason for being.

Clunky and riddled with clichés from start to finish, which is a shame because the cast is able and is led by Oscar-nominated director Mike Figgis.

With its cheap scares, its defiant lack of special effects, and the most blatant usage of a red coat as a stand-out prop since Schindler’s List, Godsend is as much an experiment-gone-wrong as its Frankensteinesque plot.

Affable Ted Danson makes few ripples as Bridget's husband Don; while Roger Cross and Adam Rothenberg also glide through the film in their minor "significant other" roles to Nina and Jackie, respectively.

It’s not cynically bad, it’s simply a case of movie malpractice.

A relatively harmless (and thankfully, not entirely laughless) trifle.

To find a comparison for You Don't Mess With the Zohan in Adam Sandler's filmography, you have to go back to 2000's "Little Nicky," a film with a fantasy slant that allowed for jokes of unencumbered silliness.

The movie is a leaden, slow-moving beast.

Wan wants to have something both ways, and in the end, he gets almost nothing. As Clint Eastwood said in yet another genre picture: A man’s gotta know his limitations.

The premise of the film is serviceable, but the execution is flawed and entirely underwhelming.

With its ho-hum hero and lackluster love story, The Order would likely be one big implausible bore if it wasn't for production designer Miljen Kreka Kljakovic.

I suspect Scott sees Domino as the ultimate provocation, his way of grabbing Hollywood by the throat and shouting, "You want reality??! I'll give you REALITY!!!" Sort of.

Absence of motive makes the movie provocative; the explanation renders it irrelevant and defuses any interesting debate the film might have inspired.

It is the overwhelmingly acrid sense of humor that leaves a bad taste in one's mouth at the end of the film.

About the best thing that can be said about The Brothers Solomon is that it's harmless. It's mild, familiar, and as inconsequential as a sitcom episode.

The movie does feature a nice, teasing chemistry between veteran actors Voight and Mirren (who clearly relishes the chance to break out of stuffy melodrama), but this shallow, empty puzzle requires more than playful banter to satisfy audiences willing to pay to play.

For a while, it works, until it suddenly decides to abandon the "what you don't see is scarier than what you do see" for a ridiculous and ultimately insulting explanatory ending.

It's an empty-headed look at a national problem with modern surveillance society, but if everyone acted as stupidly as the incredulous screenplay would have you believe, then it's safe to say the movie inadvertently reflects, rather than critiques, the insanity of our times.

A disappointingly schlocky effort that gives up on trying to make a realistic Punisher movie, settling instead on a hokey, multi-colored-neon gun rave best enjoyed in Rob Zombie's family room.

This completely rips off "Heroes," which itself ripped off a great deal from the "X-Men," so no real imagination here...except for the "Sniffs," who creepily track people by smell.

Laughably clichéd, abominably written, astonishingly dreadful attempt at a psycho-sexual thriller.

It was received at Sundance 2007 with a resounding thud. Not because of this controversial rape scene, but because, well, it just wasn't good. Unfortunately, even with over a year of rejiggering, it's still not good.

Despite the attempts of the Academy Award-winning makeup artist behind Mrs. Doubtfire, these doubtful misfires can't pass as white or as chicks.

Director Sylvain White, whose last film was the equally unnecessary "I'll Always Know What You Did Last Summer," manages to take the joy out of a dance movie by jerking the camera around and speeding up the dance moves so much.

Like the equally dull romantic drama "Catch and Release," which was in theaters for a nanosecond back in January, In the Land of Women strains to convince the audience to that it's telling a real story about real people. But with its glossy visuals and photo-shoot ready cast, the movie ends up presenting us with the very opposite of reality.

Each segment introduces new characters and a radically different scenario, which suggests that Hancock's structure may actually be an insecure attempt to deliver a horror movie.

The movie suffers from convoluted plots, turgid pacing, and strange disrespect for its source material.

As coincidence would have it, Steve Carell's "The 40-Year-Old Virgin" spun comedy gold from a similar idea just last week. Virgin shares not only The Baxter's basic premise, but also two of its key cast members (Paul Rudd and the beautiful Ms. Banks), allowing audiences to see just how much better The Baxter might have been if Showalter had given us some reason to identify with his socially awkward protagonist.

Isn't quite self-aware enough to be really funny, and certainly isn't serious or genuinely exciting enough to be thrilling because of it's action.

An exhausting 90 minutes of SNL-centric mediocrity that gives one the nagging feeling that Tina Fey's inability to cut the cord is going to quickly start to cool interest in her upcoming projects.

Flashy, forgettable fluff.

Threadbare sequel.

The whole film, in fact, feels slapped together and unfocused. Though the movie’s too dopey for anyone older than ten, there are scenes where characters drink and go skinny-dipping.

An ambitious disaster, Alexander is the rare historical portrait that leaves you feeling as though you know less about its subject than you did upon entering the theater.

The studio wimped out, and the result is a lesser production on every level: talent, script, content, and purpose.

The problem is the material itself, with its trite observations and shockingly flat writing.

A self-impressed epic with grandiose vistas, flat characters, and a subplot about Native Australians.

Both Harris and Gooding, Jr. are fine actors trapped in a mawkish, pandering production that wastes the latter and is a waste of time for the former.

Amid every action cliche in the book, outmoded stereotypes, and a plot derivative of every futuristic drama made in the last fifteen years, Ultraviolet comes off as nothing more than a pale copy of better, more inventive films.

Kevin Spacey is a darn good actor, and he's a pretty good singer to boot. But those traits alone do not excuse the painful experience to be had sitting through Beyond the Sea.

Some of the effects are squirm-worthy, if not actually frightening. Amid all the fake profundity, those moments -- you know, when the film is actually entertaining -- are rare.

The movie tires itself out setting up the complex plot.

The pretentious title might be trying to make a statement about the new, fast-moving economy. It's also a weak reference to the first Wall Street. But mainly, no, it's just pretentious.

It's just a spectacularly lazy movie that's content to trod the same well-worn ground as its predecessors.

The climax is the only thing for which the rest of this flick exists.

What once was a gifted comic's fluid improvisation is now a doddering old man so embarrassing he's uncomfortable to watch, and the surrogate father-daughter needling he has with Johansson is creepy when you realize Woody the director is shooting her seductively in that skintight bathing suit.

Trust the Man mainly feels like the work of a New Yorker who hasn't left his trendy neighborhood in ten years.

Director Brad Anderson (Session 9) overtly cribs from everyone from Dostoevsky to Kafka.

Krasinski and Moore are an adorable couple, but marriage material they aren't, especially since they're given a mere ten minutes to form a full-fledged relationship before Williams breathlessly barges into the picture.

Overall, Little Black Book is the cinematic equivalent of chic lit--mildly amusing, but completely forgettable once you're done with it.

By straining to make a respectful war film for everyone, Winkler and Friedman have wound up with a toothless picture that won't satisfy anyone.

Overall, I Am Legend is a wasted opportunity -- a rickety, weather-beaten framework around an otherwise strong central performance from Smith.

At best, this movie functions as a brief companion piece to Boy George's new Broadway show, “Taboo.”

We'd really like to crawl into William Hurt's head and experience whatever movie he thought HE was making.

There are certainly some laughs to be had in Holiday (mostly of the "so dumb it’s funny" variety), but not much else.

What little anti-war critique Peirce presents -- and she has it in her, which makes it all the more dubious -- gets trampled over by jingoistic Rambo porn.

For the most part, Murphy is pitching somewhere between "American Beauty" and "The Royal Tenenbaums"; indeed, the characters Bening and Gwyneth Paltrow play in Scissors are, in a sense, inversions of their roles in Beauty and Tenenbaums, respectively.

Paycheck is a bogus journey.

The story is a vapid "Casablanca"-lite.

Earle fans might see this film as a satisfying portrayal of a man they know and love, but those unfamiliar with the man and his music will likely leave the theater without much more interest in him than when the movie began.

A nonsensical vision of pre-history that lurches randomly between "caveman vs. jungle beast" encounters -- Roland Emmerich's Shlockalypto -- and a rococo Stargate spin-off involving pyramids, slave uprisings and oracles.

There's no question that Civil Brand has an ambitious premise, but it feels boxed in by the standard prison-movie formula.

A tediously noisesome English-language remake of an Asian horror picture that wasn't any great shakes to begin with.

While "House of Sand and Fog" remained (somewhat precariously) balanced on the knife-edge that can turn tragedy into bathos, this picture doesn't fare nearly as well, and begins weighing down the viewer with its putative significance only minutes after its opening credits.

The streetball scenes, much like the plot, have a few high points but never hit their stride.

The supporting players do a serviceable job in their roles, but no amount of Oscar-nominee nuance from Giamatti or Linney can salvage what amounts to a candy-striped trifle for post-collegiate slacker existentialists.

This film should have soared, but doesn't quite get off the ground.

From an audience perspective, the title’s fairly apt as well.

Although it wasn't quite the comedy we had hoped for, the idea behind it is pretty cute; we just wished the laughs weren't so awkward and forced.

In the age of reality television, Paparazzi feels desperately out-of-touch, the jaded grousings of an industry burnout.

Blunderingly out-of-touch, star-studded embarrassment of a sequel.

Noisome, fragmented mess of a movie, the fourth film based on Jack Finney's novel "The Body Snatchers" and the worst of them all.

This booming, cartoonish confection is a transparent attempt to take a property Disney owns rights to, and to try and create a Harry Potter-like franchise.

Little Man only proves that some should just stick to the sketch comedy, and leave the big screen to "Big Daddys" like Adam Sandler who the critics tend to snub, but who know how to make an audience laugh.

Chan still sounds silly talkin' jive, the action sequences are peppy if not exactly memorable, and the gags have been sitting out long enough to make penicillin.

Lichtenstein's putative switcheroo on the Vagina Dentata trope is to play it as some kind of token of female empowerment, but it's pretty clear that the writer/director didn't think things through on any counts, contenting himself that the putative outrageousness of the concept could see him through.

Ultimately, the reason Charlie St. Cloud loses its momentum is because a love triangle between a grieving man, a beautiful woman from his past, and a spectral shade is just too strange.

At the end of the movie, the only mystery left unsolved is where your time and money have gone.

Who knows what might have been if everyone involved had a little more fun with the project instead of just going through the motions?

Sticky, saccharine, bordering on diabetic, Honey overindulges.

Lacks the heart that might otherwise have breathed life into the pointless shtick.

Paths collide and allegiances form between the good, bad, and ugly, but under the incoherent direction of Chalerm Wongpim, a clunky dullness sets in whenever the action subsides.

As a fan of the genre, and someone who genuinely loves such recent horror efforts as "The Descent" and "The Host," I respectfully suggest that the atmosphere for horror movies might be better if moviemakers stopped making ones like this.

Close is the best and worst thing about the film, delivering a performance that upstages even Christopher Walken (!), taking her over-the-top Cruella de Vil turn to its saccharine-sweet opposite.