With its molasses pacing and bland direction, this film is an absolutely forgettable dud.

It's rare that a film is this devoid of characterization, rarer still that a serial killer horror is this lacking in tension.

Scream 7 injects nostalgia and self-referentiality like a weak drug, a stash of weed purchased so long ago it has gone so stale it crumbles to the touch.

Sykes brings what she can to the proceedings, but there's only so much she can do to make Undercard even slightly distinctive.

The creepy imagery in the first act improperly sells just how dull the movie ultimately ends up being for the majority of its overlong runtime, and while its snail-like pacing and lackluster acting fail to make its psychological themes land with anything more than a mute thud.

The only thing Harlin has done here is to remove the element of surprise. Without that, the film is nothing, nothing at all.

None of it works. I'll cut to the quick: The Moment is an unmitigated disaster.

Ultimately, there are few filmmakers whose work I admire more for its sophistication and undeniable humanity than that of Brooks, but this film isn’t just bad — it’s unbearable.

It hits the familiar beats that many find comforting, it has an undeniably adoring dog front and center for much of its runtime, and has a well-meaning enough outcome to its plot. But for those looking for something that doesn't quite literally skate the surface of its premise and characters, this is definitely not the film for you.

The dialogue is clunky and almost universally awkwardly performed, much more so than in the first movie. The tonal mix of horror and silliness feels more jarring than complementary, and the filmmaking, which could accomplish so much just by sticking to genre fundamentals, is often egregiously sedate.

The film is woeful from top to bottom.

Not to put too fine a point on it, but Peas and Carrots is amateur on almost every front, and whatever it has to say about finding one's proper role in society is hidden inside some utterly confounding plot devices.

Nearly everything Ritchson and James do in the name of comedy is forced and untethered from reality. Then again, so is the movie, so at least it's consistent.

Bull Run is so devoid of substance that much of it is taped together with ironic usage of stock photos and archival footage, as if to constantly point at the vapidity of its own enterprise.

The revelations of the film, once they come, are admittedly disturbing. But the route to get there is paved with blandness and awkward acting.

With Nuremberg, James Vanderbilt is less interested in showing Hermann Göring (Russell Crowe) as "normal," as he is in accentuating Hitler's right-hand man as a charming charlatan. But this intentionality is miscalculated, and the film, bloated as it is with jarring tonal changes and thickly laid-on sentimentality, tilts so far into humanizing Nazis that it seems, at times, to apologize for the behavior of the high command.

The chamber drama of a rich family in collapse is only successful as much as the context within which it exists, and, because that context is as slippery as it is, Anniversary just feels toothless.

Perhaps the lesson of the film is that regret is a waste of emotional bandwidth, but regret is easy to feel when the story is a fumbled as this.

What results is an utter slog from start to finish.

The twist is sufficiently tragic, but it is also mawkish. The structure is misguided.

Petsch and Scipio are both extremely attractive and breezy performers, but, the film is as sputtery as an old car on the fritz, failing to update its cinematic lineage in any conceivably positive way.

Bigelow's film, disconnected as it is from the very people this type of situation would actually harm, is a futile salute towards hope, which unfairly assumes powerful people's positive intentions, underscored here by largely cookie-cutter characters and a lack of complexity.

In the end, Waltzing with Brando will leave you with more questions about the man than you probably had going into it, which would be interesting enough if Fishman leaned harder into the murky waters of this particular celebrity's mythology. But, like the land upon which Judge tries to build an island escape, the film is in a constant state of drowning under its own ambition.

Unlike the comedy, Ungar does know how to shoot action decently well, and it's in those scenes when the film momentarily comes alive.

By the time the film turns off autopilot, it's far too late, and the ending lands with the dull thud of a long-rotted body wrapped in an old rug.

Trust is a disappointing and lackluster attempt at exploring a tense and important issue.

Year of the Fox is a movie far too marred by its narrative missteps to fully embrace its better parts. The dialogue becomes increasingly predictable and mind-numbing, which makes for a very misguided effort.

Red Sonja falls short of expectations from beginning to end; it only succeeds in following in the footsteps of the 1985 flop.