Unsalvageable B-movie junk.

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

De Bont's effects-riddled remake of the '63 spook-out adaptation of Shirley Jackson's novel is not nearly as creepy as either its cinematic or its literary precedents. But it's a hokey, hokey entertainment and a $100 million Lili Taylor movie.

Exists as a seldom represented American time capsule, and it's all good.

Works more as an object of pop curiosity than as a work of popular entertainment.

Blair Witch forgoes a literal boogeyman in favor of the unseen, which, in this case, is as scarily bone-chilling as anything they could show you.

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.

A movie that sports more cameos than a "HeeHaw" marathon but not much else.

Deceptively keen as both a paranoid political thriller and a caveat against the trustworthiness of your friends and neighbors.

A limp excuse for a coming-of-age flick, more interested in sexploits than sex, more adept at gross-out than girls.

A demanding, rewarding (if overlong) and - yes - a personally felt experience.

One of Lee's unsung gifts as a filmmaker is his discovery of that place between eye-popping surrealism and wrenching Greek tragedy.

These pictures need a light touch and a lot of attitude, but this time you can hear heavy breathing in the background.

It's a gas, dude!

A featherweight parlor-room French farce in need of an anchor to keep it from being blown away by the summer blockbuster gales.

In a sense, Sandler is damned if he develops, damned if he devolves. But he needn't apologize for being who he is by turning a goldmine sitcom into a tame "Baby Boom" for guys.

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.

A knock-down, haywire ballad of the adrenalinization of love and despair.

Leans so heavily on its stars that their performances are marred by their emptiness.

Beautiful. Simply, beautiful.

A collection of arbitrary sketches, bits and improvs jammed into a locker room-style variety show masquerading as some semblance of a narrative.

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.

A 140-minute film masterpiece.

By aiming for something more ambitiously, ambiguously philosophical, [Sayles] forgot to include a heart and a soul.

The deft, hilarious Notting Hill finds Grant's dour-droll-deprecating affliction at its most dead-on.

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 absence of substance, or its banishment, and the director's reliance on allure (in the film's casting and in its look and sound, which features haunting music by Beethoven and Chopin), leave Innocence with the quasi-profound, giggly overreach of a magazine layout come to shameless, shallow life.