This is my idea of a nightmare.

A terribly bad movie, one of the worst of its kind in recent years.

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

It's a truly strange coupling of mooning romanticism and rank stupidity that fairly screams, "Teenage America, we love your money!"

SORRY, SALLY. I didn't like it. I really didn't like it.

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

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

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.

This is not a movie for the squeamish, by any means. But for those who like their thrillers dark and their heroes a bit more complicated and flawed than the average shoot-without-a-blink type so prevalent in today's movies, 8MM fills the bill.

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

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.

Whatever It Takes is DOA -- dated on arrival.

An archaic rail-ride into the heart of boredom.

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.

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

Hush, which is an absurdly bad mixture of "Rosemary's Baby" and any Bette Davis movie from the 1960s, seems to be a classic case of a grasping mother trying to possess her beloved son.

Especially fine are Spade and Louiso, the latter possessing a quality of injured integrity that is priceless here.

Another "Exorcist" bastard -- one with a chick-flick pedigree.

Tedious, unfunny.

You're smarter than this, but occasionally it tricks you into thinking it might be up to something you haven't considered, like an above-average, extra-bloody episode of "Scooby Doo."

Cult shocker has been turned into throwaway megaplex fodder.

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

Latest Freddie Prinze Jr. vehicle stalls at on-ramp.

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

Breaks new ground both as an abominable enterprise in guy-talk and as no-budget hackwork.

If filmmaking has ever been less thrilling and more disengaging, I'd like to see it.