In order to like Striptease, you have to be a pretty serious Moore fan because although director Andrew Bergman's script (based on the book by Carl Hiaasen) has a few funny lines, this is otherwise one of the dumbest movies I've ever seen.

A scary example of bad movies happening to good people.

An artificial and hypocritical effort to escape the artistic limitations of teenage slasher flicks.

Moore can't help but be rotten. She has no grace and little nuance, which is why she's always best as a hard-ass in movies.

This is the most-off-the-mark adaptation of a novel since Brian DePalma's what-was-that "Bonfire of the Vanities."

Lacks genuine magic.

It's a movie so foul even the folks at the NAACP Image Awards would have to look the other way.

Offers nothing new, and a lot less. It's a hollow shell of a film, rife with plot twists that go nowhere.

The new version has been speeded up and dumbed down, which does not reflect well on the mouse factory's view of its audience these days.

It's simply terrible.

There are episodes of "Rugrats" with stronger sexual suspense.

Unfortunately, this movie needed an attractive, irresistibly charismatic performer to give us some reason for watching. Madonna is made up to look like Eva, but this is hardly enough to carry the movie.

Particularly because unlike so many other boring movies one sees, Jarmusch films require many more words to explain the boringness than less certifiably artistic films would.

There are enough mullets to win this movie a Stanley Cup.

While the original conception of The Saint gave us a debonair, sophisticated and roguish detective, the new movie, directed stiffly by Phillip Noyce ( "Clear and Present Danger" ), gives us Val Kilmer as a greedy high-tech daredevil thief with the moves of Batman, the clunky disguises of Tom Cruise in "Mission: Impossible" and the morals of an alley cat.

The movie equivalent of the fruitcake you get every year from the folks back home. It's brick-heavy and full of nasty bits you don't want to put in your mouth, lovingly wrapped in pink cellophane.

It should be renamed "Drop Dead Ghetto" and hauled off to the "Jerry Springer" hall of shame.

It took four people to write the screenplay for The Relic. All I can say is that I hope these people have not quit their day jobs.

Imagine if "On the Road" ended with Sal and Dean settling down in the 'burbs. Or if the carnal encounters in Henry Miller's "Sexus" were prefaced with admonitions to the reader not to "objectify" women. The Basketball Diaries is a similar travesty: It turns a celebration of outlaw life into a just-say-no cautionary tale that Nancy Reagan would love.

In stupidity, this movie ranks up there among the greats.

Not much of a plot, but the trouble is that Shana Larsen's script, as directed by Risa Bramon Garcia, isn't very deep. Worse, none of the self-absorbed characters are that likable nor are they funny.

A football epic on performance enhancers that may be more flagrantly flawed, more shockingly predictable and just plain cornier than its rickety predecessors.

Quickly degenerates into a grueling piece of unpleasantness.

Dead Man on Campus, a supposed black comedy produced by MTV, is simply awful.

A particularly egregious array of Kodak moments.

So it's hard to know who gets the blame for Payback. I say we cut Mel some slack and put the hex on Helgeland.

Trash is trash, even if it used to be in French.

A dimwitted, fill-in-the-blanks horror opus that slanders a fine and useful mammal.

The movie is a dismal and misguided special-effects romp featuring two of the deadest performances recorded this year so far.

Unsalvageable B-movie junk.

Things to do in the movie theater until you mercifully die of boredom sums up this witness' response to the ordeal of sitting through this movie.

If there is a reason anyone would voluntarily agree to make this movie it probably dwells somewhere in a realm only accessible to the thinking of ambitious actors.

An amusement park special, screaming from start to finish with no brakes, no plot and no acting to speak of.

An hour into the picture, Spade offers a pretty funny imitation of belter Neil Diamond, but it's a long 60 minutes for such a pitiful payoff.

This is right up there with the dumbest pictures of the year.

Gray is more interested in hobnobbing with thespian greats than he is in making a good movie.

Korine's trying to offer a radical vision of rotten America, but the whole thing feels warmed over.

Flawless is what happens when a filmmaker has no sense of naturalism, no sense of realism and no real natural sense.

The movie is a turgid, swollen, wheezing old contraption, a crashing bore of special effects in which the most exciting moment gives us two ships sitting in water sending cannon balls at each other for what seems like hours on end.

Half-comedy, half-coming-of-age movie with another half or so of sports film and maybe another quarter of soundtrack that adds up to 175 percent of a bad movie.

What we get are quirky characters who are such cartoons that they undermine the effectiveness of the scare scenes (Brad Dourif's turn as the weird doctor is an example) and well-composed camera angles that mean nothing.

A way-below-par golfing comedy.

Maybe there's a real use for Carrie 2 after all. Stand it up against the original, and you have a pretty good lesson in what's happened to the movies in the last couple of decades.

A wildly dull, predictable script whose holes seem to be courtesy of random sniper fire.

My guess is you'll probably have more fun watching a game at the ballpark than you will at The Fan.

Tedious, unfunny.

Ineptly written and shot like a fashion mag, rings hollow throughout. It's a long, long way from "Jules and Jim."

About a moron - oxy and otherwise.

Clooney's stiff cornball delivery and tendency to smile during the most tragic moments bring this as close to the cartoonish Batman television series of the 1960s as any of the movies have come.

Ideological disaster!

It's a tale of two missused Academy Award winners trying to justify their participation in a moribund, noisome redux of any disposable prison movie you care to remember by lobbing Oscar clips at each other.

I wouldn't say this movie is actually harmful, but skipping it is probably the wisest policy.

I HATE to whine, but if Michael Douglas is half as tired of playing yuppie scum as I am of watching him do it, then he must be napping on a regular basis by now.

An undernourished exercise in pop critique.

With the exception of a couple of inspired moments, Mary Reilly is merely a curious variation of an often-told story.

It's downright boring.

The big trouble with the movie is that it's difficult to care whether these two get together. Ultimately I did care - when I realized that their union would presumably represent a chance that the movie might end soon.

Stinks from the Earth to the moon.

The plot twist is clever, but it's way too little, too late, and too implausible (whence comes this doggie amnesia?) to redeem this maudlin tale.

It's also troublesome that Murphy, a generally charismatic actor, is downright dull here. He and Goldblum are curiously flat in their line readings; they don't seem convinced by the story they're asked to act out, and with good reason.

Even the most vigorous tear-duct manipulation, and a few funny scenes, cannot save Dumbo from its dominant tone of stilted corniness and prefab sentimentality.

Neeson simply has no spark here. He is good and honest and honorable until your face turns blue. He's just no fun.

It's mesmerizing nonetheless for its flagrant disregard for narrative, character, pacing, performance and good lighting.

Most of the movie seems stilted and uncomfortably girdled by efforts to work around the cumbersome Brando, who is shot mostly from above the waist, where the full effects of gravity and avoirdupois do not seem so egregious as they do at belt level.

When a movie is nothing but relentless action, there's little chance for dramatic tension to develop.

It just doesn't work.

Otherwise, the movie, which borrows from a dozen pop sources and improves on none of them, is pretty much a washout.

Underscores everything that was utterly wrong-headed about the original material.

There's gangsta rap with funnier insights into the opposite sex.

Too screwy to be really funny.

Opening with a wearying series of nasty and violent episodes attesting to Bill's predilection for solving problems by shooting at them, and his nearly comic indignation at having his hat touched (men have died at his hand for committing that transgression alone), the movie quickly establishes a pattern of bad decision-making on the part of the writer-director.

This movie is bad on a galactic scale.

Muddled futuristic thriller.

An infuriatingly indulgent piffle of adolescent wish-fulfillment.

My question is, why has director Costa-Gavras taken it upon himself to dissect American cultural foibles when he has so clearly proven himself unequipped for the job?

This is my idea of a nightmare.

You may have surmised that Americans have held the copyright on turning out awful movies about serious musicians (especially musicians with physical or mental afflictions), but along comes the high-gloss weepie.

What keeps coming to mind throughout The Jackal is that for what it cost to make this movie you could probably pay some nice hit man to eliminate everyone at Universal who thought making the movie would be a good idea, and still have enough left over to throw one of those hit man parties and have a really great time.

Painfully unfunny.

A complete misfire.

A downright dumb movie that, with its breathless pace, lack of character development and uninventive gags, might be torture for even the kids to sit through.

Dante's Peak expands the concept of badness in movies.

A slick, supercharged popcorn flick of the erstwhile Bruckheimer-Simpson brigade in which the only thing more shameful than the proceedings is a very well-paid male star assigned to make you less aware of that sucking sound.

One of the most self-in-dulgent, muddled, badly written, vague and pointless exercises in filmmaking I have ever had to sit through.

As movies about relic sex machines go, this one lacks mojo.

When Annabel Chong sits in front of Gough Lewis' camera and complains about her need to have one of those normal everyday lives, you want to tell her that having intercourse on camera with more than 200 men is probably not the way to get to normal.

The hiccupping inelegance of this movie's narrative and direction makes it impossible to empathize with or even really comprehend any of the characters.

The closest this movie comes to delivering any titillation are a few open-shirted shots of Grammer that display major chest fur. You know you're bored when you have to devise a comparative body hair study to amuse yourself.

The movie itself simply misses the mark.

Wesley Snipes runs around a lot shooting people in plotless film.

Baumbach is obviously a bright man, but this material is too thin for anything more than a slight New Yorker short story about thoughtful screw-ups.

While it may be true that in space no one can hear you scream, groaning should be a perfectly audible way of saying the intergalactic alien-buster Wing Commander sucks.

A lot of noise and nothing to justify it.

Schnabel can't decide whether he wants to tell a traditional rise-and-fall morality tale or make an art film. His attempt at telling Basquiat's story straightforwardly collapses under its own banality.

And once, just once, I'd love to see a teen flick that doesn't send out a message to young girls that to be acceptable, you have to conform. I liked the artist girl much better before.

As bad movies go, Gregg Araki's Nowhere is right up there with the best of them.

The sudden cranking of the volume that makes us jump, even if we're just watching a cow chew on its cud.

The best that can be said about this film is that it's watchable, and that's not the way it could or should be.