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.

There's never any real danger in the movie, which makes The Expendables feel like one of those chummy Rat Pack flicks that were just excuses for a bunch of pals to get together and goof off.

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.

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.

Jonah Hex tries to hedge its bets too much, and the result is a movie that probably won't please the few faithful with Jonah Hex bedsheets, nor fans of mindless summer action flicks.

Sarah Jessica Parker’s Carrie should be a cautionary tale of perpetual adolescence; her character should be out dating any number of Hollywood’s graying beer bellied frat boys. But no. Instead, we are asked to identify and sympathize with a person who gets everything she wants, but complains anyway.

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

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

A charmless, vandalized version of a classic.

When your movie is nothing more than a cheap and uninteresting homage, best not to call attention to that fact with a ten minute opening scene to that effect.

Chris Columbus, true to his namesake, has chartered new waters of lazy hackdom with this "Clash of the Titans" remade as a CW tween soap.

If you are a fan of brainless comedy that willed with bits that seque magically into some semblance of a plot…then The Goods is for you.

We loved this movie the first three times we saw it, when it was called "Life of Brian," "Wholly Moses," and "History of the World Part 1."

There is also a sense that the filmmakers weren't quite certain if they wanted to make a fun, kid-friendly adventure or a bawdy adult-skewed comedy. Walking the tightrope doesn't work.

Feels like a re-hash.

We don't needlessly hate on the romantic comedies, but this one takes the corniness and predictability of the genre to a whole new level.

When the hits finally do come, they are really only capable of scaring 13-year-olds making their first trip into the horror genre.

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.

It's tough to get through because it's so slow; the beautiful Kristen Bell, who we love in almost everything, doesn't fit in with a bunch of nerds.

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

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

The leaden performances (Erik Scott Smith is the worst offender), the unlistenable musical interludes, the amateurish caricatures, and the short stories' lack of overall cohesion make this a garden party you should take a rain check on.

A disaster, representing a number of negative firsts for Shyamalan.

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.

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.

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.

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.

The heretofore nothing-but-delightful Simon Pegg stumbles in the long-anticipated feature film directorial debut of -- ta-da! -- David Schwimmer, who takes the sow's ear of a script given him by Pegg and Michael Ian Black and deep-fries it into a burnt pork rind of a movie.

Visually ugly, morally non-existent and a complete black hole in the departments of insight and wit, Chapter 27 is quite possibly the most godawful, irredeemable film to yet emerge in the 21st century.

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.

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.

These site-shifting extravaganzas sometimes reach an exhilarating level of near-abstraction. So it's too bad that just about everything surrounding the action scenes of the picture is such unmitigated cr--.

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.

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

The silver lining in the film is Paul Rudd, who brings some nuance to his character that, given his past work, you can assume was all his doing. Jason Biggs, in his role as Ashley's gay best friend and catering partner, carries out an interesting, if somewhat left-field plot twist.

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.

Takes a long time to say nothing new, which is a shame because it wastes fine performances across the board (it's a nice reminder that Farrell, can, in fact, act), and, well, a really effective score by Philip Glass.

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.

With his preferences for static, colorless visuals and exposition-laden dialogue over conversation, director Valette has now set the bar for the worst film of 2008.

This terminally ill, terminally awful dramedy marks a sad cinematic milestone: The Bucket List is the first film in history to feature a truly wretched Nicholson performance -- and we're not talking about the character he plays.

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.

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

For a movie built around a brightly-colored, magical toy store, Mr. Magorium's Wonder Emporium is surprisingly forgettable. In fact, it's most wondrous feat is just how it manages to waste good actors and fine performances.

What doesn't work at all -- saving the worst for last -- is a ship-sinking performance by John Leguizamo as Lorenzo.

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.

Filmed in 2005, the first of two Cusack widower flicks this season (the weepier and more indie "Grace is Gone" hits theaters in December) Martian Child is also a Franken-schmaltz monster of cobbled-together Cusack movie parts.

One of those infuriating films that can't allow this already dramatic situation to fester and develop on its own.

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

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

Its climactic highway shootout, and much else in the picture, is rendered in the best Paul Greengrass manner that Hollywood money can buy. But where Greengrass pictures aim to keep one on the edge of one's seat throughout, the tension here, such as it is, is designed to stoke audience bloodlust. If that's your kind of thing, The Kingdom certainly satisfies.

If raunch-comedy maestro Judd Apatow had not just an evil, but an evil-and-untalented twin, this grotesque excrescence would be his signature work.

Director Julie Taymor's gargantuan all-Beatles-songs musical is that rarest of animals, the perfect disaster that fulfills expectations by defying them.

This one's been sitting on shelves for two years -- never good news -- and you can almost see the dollar signs in the cast's eyes.

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.

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

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

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.

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.

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

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.

Ichaso seems far too interested in what led to Lavoe's downfall rather than what made him great.

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

I can’t say I was too surprised by how risible, grotesque, and incoherent I Know Who Killed Me is. But I can’t say I was prepared for its pretentiousness. If the picture has any use at all, it’s as a case study in what happens when the talentless attempt to emulate the inspired.

So go on, pay your ten bucks and get your hate on.

Thoroughly irritating little film.

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.

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.

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

Fails in what amounts to its only distinct purpose: to smugly push the envelope of depravity farther than anyone else.

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

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

Movies in which the same person serves as writer, director, and star should carry a special warning for audiences, even if that individual happens to be an actor as endearing as Luke Wilson.

One of those celebrations of idiocy that never seem to go out of vogue.

And so it goes, leaving an awful taste and the inevitable question: Jane Fonda made a comeback to do dreck like this and "Monster-in-Law?"

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.

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.

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.

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

The pumped up sound effects play like an overplayed laugh track on a sitcom that just isn't funny and only draws more attention how ineffective the filmmaking is.

The film drags by, charmlessly, endlessly. Shrieking.

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

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.

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.

The film is ultimately so repetitive, un-enlightening and lacking in substance, even Drew Carey seems bored by the end when he asks, "When are you guys going to make the 'c*nt' documentary?"

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.

The film is laughable when it tries to be dramatic and stone-faced when it strains to be funny. Beyond that, Man of the Year is often so wildly off the mark in its depiction of how elections are run, it's hard to believe that it was directed by the same guy who helmed "Wag the Dog," one of the savviest political films ever made.

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

A thin sprinkling of exuberance and a couple of choice cameos, that's about all this underwritten and overly choreographed spectacle has to tease us with.

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

One of the film's few virtues is Danny Glover as the voice of Miles the mule.

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.