Stinks from the Earth to the moon.

Perhaps a bit miscast, and with a penchant for too many double-takes, Perry nonetheless is game.

Little Nicky is but a meek gross-out cousin of "The Waterboy."

Like a guy who finally gets what he wants, you just want to go home once it's over.

The best and worst of old school -- retro but stale. Frankenheimer, along with Ben Affleck, donates what cool there is.

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.

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

If only director Luis Llosa and his cast could see the joke and seize upon it; instead, like its computer-morphed snake, the film doesn't have a clever bone in its body.

Tired comedy.

One of those good video movies that should do decent box office based on the drawing power of the stars. It helps that there's a fair amount of suspense and some decent gunplay, but there's not much reason to see it on the big screen unless you just love that over-used "whup-whup" sound effect of rotating helicopter blades.

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 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.

Sympathizing with Moreau would be difficult in any case. But with Brando in the role, there is the added obstacle of needing to suppress laughter every time he opens his pursed mouth.

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.

It's often a lapsed, under-informed documentary with restagings.

Too dumb to realize that the senselessness is viral.

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.

It's fast-moving, it's got fine special effects, the hero and heroine are pure and quick-thinking, the bad people die badly, and the script draws its fair share of laughs.

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.

It's downright boring.

No-one's-home acting by Bierko and Mol doesn't help, while the talented D'Onofrio ("The End of the World") and Mueller-Stahl (a veteran of European pictures) are better than the material.

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.

A somewhat-smarter-than-average science-fiction flick.

The writer-director has come up with a sumptuous, happy piece of fluff.

An infuriatingly indulgent piffle of adolescent wish-fulfillment.

Of course, turning a novel by Woolrich into a light romantic froth is a little like turning King Lear into a musical comedy. But Benjamin has the right comic touch to pull this off.

A film where suspense and exhilaration are incompatible, and a receding plot line is merely the platform for cars to fly through panes of glass.

But in its own overblown, melodramatic way, complete with hideous and obtrusive music by Michael Kamen, clanging sound effects that will leave your ears ringing and a penchant on the part of director Paul Anderson ( "Mortal Kombat" ) for quick flashes of blood-drenched gore, Event Horizon is kind of a hoot.

It's simply terrible.

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.

About a moron - oxy and otherwise.

An arthritic failure, genuine only when the two outcast lovers' eyes dart toward each other, then retreat.

The film is obviously a long-form episode of a show better digested in 22-minute segments.

It's an experience as frustrating as watching Jeff Gordon drive a stock car through a bowl of oatmeal.

Good-looking and empty.

The title is exactly the sort of juvenile joke the entire movie leans on.

There are some semi-funny bits, but few are worth repeating and none will make much sense on paper. The only time when the film truly clicks is during a staged concert featuring the veteran Seattle grunge band Mudhoney. Suddenly there are wacky camera angles, wild editing, actual ideas. Despite her low-brow comedy rep, Spheeris still excels at capturing the intensity and drama of live rock music, which she did so well in both editions of "The Decline of Western Civilization."

Not even his gap-toothed charm and willingness to make fun of his usual take-no-prisoners persona made it easier to swallow the mess of pottage that is Jingle All the Way.

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 also goes out of its way to give you a schlocky B-movie vibe by wrangling bait in the form of a bunch of Big-Gulp stupid stock characters - that's a whopping 44 oz. more stupid than you probably were bargaining for.

Second-banana material.

Excess Baggage aims to broaden her appeal beyond her established, youthful audience. It won't, because it's a messy mixture of so-so comedy and unmoving drama; its inconsistent tone suggests a production where no one was fully in charge.

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

Feels like an interminable pilot for a show to fill that deadly 8:30 slot between "Friends" and "Will and Grace."

Without much of a plot to speak of and relying almost entirely on the girls' star power and charisma - which they have in spades - turns out to be a truly entertaining movie for anyone with even a bare knowledge of the Spice Girls' history, which in this age of absolute over-saturation, is hard to avoid.

While the picture periodically skids into sentimentality and characters lapse into schtick, its good-natured quality and winning cast sustain our sympathy.

There's more gymnastic yammering in Loving Jezebel than in a season of "Dawson's Creek."

Too screwy to be really funny.

Competent, to be sure, with some good lines.

A high-spirited, big-bottomed Polaroid of the comedian in a fat suit.

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

Frill-less almost to the point of minimalist, teary without being lachrymose, hers is a performance you'd think was great were the movie in a language you didn't understand.

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

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

A wicked, light-headed first half dissolves into a bloody, head-bashing second half . The previews make it seem like a comedy. It isn't.

A movie that features rich Mexican American characters and an uncompromising story line is always timely.

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

Overlong, naggingly pretentious, more absurd than absurdist and a cruel, cruel bore.

An unsteady stab at noir.

One of those truly biodegradable experiences.

One of the funniest movies to come along in awhile.

Painfully unfunny.

A way-below-par golfing comedy.

Francis Ford Coppola's Jack has its affecting moments, but in the end illustrates the pitfalls of the "concept" movie, the kind you can boil down to a one-line hook.

Unfortunately, it stars Keanu Reeves and Cameron Diaz, so it has, more than anything else, a sense of ridiculousness.

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

An undernourished exercise in pop critique.

If you buy the gross, it's surprisingly funny .

DENIS LEARY may be a funny guy when he's standing on stage spraying invective at a live audience, but as a movie star he has a lot to learn.

Like two hours of outtakes in search of a studio audience.

A particularly egregious array of Kodak moments.

Mildly satisfying.

The single worst movie David Lynch never made.

Two points save "Lousy 2" from the absolute abyss. One is a couple of imaginative touches in the art design: Cori drives an old Citroen, and a couple of Vespa-like motor scooters are briefly glanced. The other is the performance of Frewer, who played the lead in TV's "Max Headroom." He endows the character with more sardonic humor than we have a right to expect from the junky script by TV-oriented director Farhad Mann.

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

Lacks genuine magic.

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.

Timely in that it joins an already mammoth list of bad movies about post-hippie static, including the recent "Steal This Movie."

Marshall has an astounding instinct for popular entertainment. He's done it again with The Other Sister.

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.

Of course, there's little else of interest about Pokemon beyond the consumption factor. Buy more.

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

If your name's on the marquee, chances are your agent's already dead.

A depressing show of how truly, madly, deeply outmoded Hollywood can be.

Vampire is hardly a consequential film, nor does it suggest hitherto buried reserves of Murphy's talent. But it's a diverting mixture of horror, romance and comedy.

Doesn't have what it takes to be truly terrible.

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

A gooey-sweet, beautifully photographed romantic fantasy…It's also -- at the risk of sounding like a Grinch -- a mess.

Highfalutin swill determined to pass itself off as a jazzy caper.

Could have been maudlin from start to finish. Instead, more than half the 154-minute film is riveting - filled with funny, touching bits that don't stoop to cheap sentimentality.

Godawful.

Any movie that opens with a Goo Goo Dolls song and ends with a line like "I'm going to live -- just not as long as you" is bound to leave somebody reaching for a Kleenex.

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

This movie may not be brilliant, but every now and then it's really funny.

Schlesinger, working from a script by Amanda Silver ( "The Hand that Rocks the Cradle" ) and Rick Jaffa (he produced that film), gives the film a zippy pace and a natural momentum as direct as a hot knife negotiating a butter stick. Schlesinger is also still canny at casting.

That Berkley cannot act is indisputable. But her dancing looks like a seizure.

Fails to be the histrionic bubble bath that you want to carry you away.

Brainless thriller.