Pretentious mess of a movie.

What finally sinks the film is that the more it tries to dazzle us, the more uninterested we become.

There is no stylistic thrill to this blunt object of a callous action film. It's content to bludgeon the audience into numb resignation.

This shambling mess -- offers nothing but a lesson in how not to make a movie.

Terrible in a terrible way: It's pretentious, incomprehensible and just numbingly dull.

Is Hollywood so disconnected from its past and bankrupt of ideas that it doesn't even know this movie is a screaming cliché?

Preposterous, empty-headed and tedious.

Just a crappy flick for the Beavises of the world.

When the veterans of this war are finally allowed to tell their own stories, we will have something worth listening to. Body of War is just election year claptrap.

It has absolutely nothing to say -- no redeeming commentary about nihilistic, narcissistic society and its appetite for instant gratification -- which would have made it sociologically interesting, or at least sort of Faustian in theme. Instead Sex and Death 101 is as empty-headed as its protagonist.

Plays like a pilot for a situation comedy about a 40-year-old carpenter who decides to return to the boxing ring.

While too bland and stupid to be offensive, Never Back Down spouts a hollow message of nonviolence while celebrating the brutal satisfaction of beating the crap out of someone.

The dismal high school comedy Charlie Bartlett has the look, feel and sentiment of a made-for-video cheapie that might have been grudgingly whipped together by Robert Downey Jr. as some sort of court-ordered community service project for his many drug busts.

The film's one original moment comes when Bluto has a conversation with a cow. The rest of it, from the distorting lens used randomly to suggest unreality, to the twist ending lifted verbatim from the superior "High Tension," is about as imaginative as a portobello steak with onions.

The most insipidly innocuous film ever made about facing mortality and living it up before passing away, The Bucket List has as much poetry and poise as its clumsy, clunky title.

A sleazy, uninspired, pathetically unfunny sex farce.

Exploitive while it pretends to be empathetic.

It's a complete by-the-numbers daddy-day-care movie that doesn't have a genuinely enchanting moment or shred of inspiration in its overlong running time.

It tries to be a sappy love story, an incredibly vile gross-out comedy and an envelope-pushing soft-core porno movie all at once. It ends up being an unappealing abomination.

Besides being inept, it's also pretentious and boring: an ambitious art film gone horribly wrong.

Before the movie reaches its climax, it has created a mess that requires divine intervention.

A gruelingly dull slog through basic horror-movie conventions, should be dumped in the Seine.

A sloppy, indifferent action movie with a sadistic edge and a sour hypocrisy.

As a thriller, Next goes a certain distance on Cage's sad-sack charm and sense of humor, but it does nothing with its intriguing premise, and it's mostly just one more tedious and progressively dumb collection of Hollywood action clichés.

It is a pretentious and incoherent blend of ghost story and frontier adventure that becomes more preposterous and idiotic with each passing scene.

It's a tedious experience in almost every way: The acting is numbingly one-note, the CGI work is unconvincing and often downright shoddy, and the action is poorly staged and framed so close you can never tell for sure who is lopping off whose head.

Sylvester Stallone is filming a new episode of his "Rambo" action series, but Mark Wahlberg has beaten him to the punch with Shooter, a preposterous gut buster that follows the formula so closely it would probably lose a plagiarism suit.

It's a shrill cacophony of puerile clichés about men and women and sex, delivered in adrenaline-driven harangues and arrogant lectures. When the stage clears, all that's left is the unpleasant odor of all that hot air.

This is a much dumber movie than "The Lake House." In fact, the script is an ungainly mess and ultimately a shaggy-dog story.

Not just a bad film, Hannibal Rising is downright dull, which is a far worse crime.

It's recidivist Murphy: bad-skit comedy populated by caricatures in search of a movie.

It's hard to imagine how the movie year could possibly produce a more annoyingly stupid movie. It's so witless, broadly played and insulting to anyone's intelligence that it's almost as offensive, in its own way, as "Jackass: The Movie."

As stiff and slogging as animated films come.

This is one of the most confusing, horribly written movies I've ever seen, and I'm the king of watching bad movies ... and liking them.

It is so contrived and utterly stupid in every way that it surely must be the nadir of the genre.

When the little girl tells her decapititated doll, "It's not just a bad dream," she is right. It's just a bad movie.

It's a tired rehash of animation cliches that distinguishes itself only by the extent to which it's crammed full of scatology and gleeful violence to animals, and otherwise panders to the worst instincts of its audience.

There is a point, however, at which the movie becomes simply sickening. Between the electric shocks and hot-iron branding, feats of grossness are accomplished that are so vile even the hardiest among the cast cannot suppress the upchuck.

The actors, all unprofessional with the exception of Kim Chan as the Zen master, step on each other's clipped lines so regularly that it becomes a stylistic affectation, like Mamet directing Beckett.

Welcome to the tawdry end of paradise, where no melodrama is too obvious and no conflict too contrived.

The most ridiculous period film since rappers took on the Old West in "Posse."

The script drowns out its ideas with arch melodramatic devices and ridiculous twists while Babbitt smothers even the daylight scenes in an oppressive gloom.

It comes off as tedious, pretentious, self-indulgent, talky and so garbled it might have been improvised by the actors.

Yes, in this day and age, a tall man can pretend to be a very short man pretending to be a baby who uses his innocent disguise to molest women and whack men in the nuts. Isn't that funny? No, actually, not so much.

Disastrously unfunny sex farce.

It's an unimaginative, mean-spirited affair that makes you hate yourself for laughing at it, and it's so devoid of anything close to wit, subtlety or sophistication that it stands as damning evidence that Hollywood has surrendered wholesale to stupidity and crassness.

Mostly unfabulous.

The humorless and self-important execution attempts an operatic scale but only succeeds in sinking the remnants of the story's integrity. By the time it makes landfall, this incoherent production has blown itself out.

The whole affair comes off as thin and artificial as a super model after a botox party.

There is potential for laughs in a satire of rich people spending big money on religious galas, but that is not even the real subject of the picture.

Redfield's fans will rejoice, if only to see the beloved novel illustrated on the screen, no matter how tediously. The rest of us probably should stay away.

Ever wondered what the bastard stepchild of "Rear Window" and "Harry and the Hendersons" would look like? Probably not. Nevertheless, here it is in the form of a Bigfoot horror flick gone horribly awry.

In a better movie, this grand-dame performance might have been fun, but it's surrounded here by an impossibly dull and unsatisfying whodunit plot, unintentionally funny dialogue and such absurdities as having Catherine stay up late one night and whip out an entire novel.

For the most part, the film is a chaotic blur of disconnected movement that re-creates the feeling of an unforgettably bad concert experience.

The movie is just this side of terrible. It misses all the charm and fun of the original. Allen's mugging is incorrigibly unfunny.

Writer/director Wayne Kramer's approach to storytelling is to withhold any information that might give away the plot.

Despite its title, the movie could hardly be less erotic. Indeed, promiscuity has never looked more totally unappealing, and its final scenes of Wilmot's advanced venereal disease are enough to make you take a vow of celibacy. A great date movie, this is not.

A disaster on all levels.

It has the low-budget look and feel of an indie dating comedy -- and not a very good one at that.

Makes no effort to learn about the culture. It idolizes the idea of spiritual purity without offering any insight into what it really means.

Staggeringly awful.

The inconsistencies and continuity errors are staggering.

The utter lack of tension or suspense is as dumbfounding as Hunt's blender approach to editing, which purees action scenes into incoherent mashes of image confetti.

Undiscovered promotes one of the stupidest visions of the entertainment industry since "American Idol" opened the celebrity gateway to the dregs of the karaoke generation.

Pierson is a high-powered egotist with appalling tastes and a great-white-father complex, and his whiny family is about as much fun as fingernails on a blackboard.

Not that there are any actual jokes to be had. The film simply jumps to the punch lines, a non-stop barrage of crude dialogue and vulgar sight gags that passes as humor among adolescent boys. Who exactly is the audience for this R-rated film? The terminally immature?

The disingenuous attempt to give the tawdry story some kind of social import only makes the tinny caricatures more insincere, while his erotic display of 15-year-old girls isn't a satire of a sexualized culture, it's just dirty.

It may be emblematic of new-millennium Hollywood that this movie has turned out to be one more emotionless, brainless, overproduced action film.

The script and direction by Irish filmmaker Mary McGuckian is just deadly.

The psychobabble silliness passed off as investigative insight here is laughable at best.

It's incorrigibly unfunny.

Overlong, unscary, poorly paced and banally written.

Had Araki chosen to illuminate, rather than exploit, the traumatic aftermath of child molestation, his wallow in the horrors of Mysterious Skin might have had a purpose. As it stands, his film is just another trashy look at America as the land of imbecilic perverts.

Has to be one of the most absurd of all big-budget action movies, and that's saying something. It's just a blink away from over-the-top self-parody, and I'm pretty sure it's not trying to be.

As far as these things go, the film's violence is not outrageously excessive.

As a director, Duchovny is in big trouble every frame of the way. His characters ring false, his scenes seem improperly motivated in a glaring way, and his distasteful obsession with imagery of unflushed cigarette butts bobbing in a toilet is beyond inexplicable.

The attainment it achieves is in the depths of pointless, mean-spirited exploitation.

Ultimately this soppy Pacifier sucks.

Director Uwe Boll ("House of the Dead") has made a cottage industry out of this kind of junk. Maybe it's time for him to close up shop.

Sour slapstick assault with a tin heart and counterfeit sentimentality.

Many regular moviegoers will be appalled by its gleeful crudity and saddened by the spectacle of three icon stars mugging through a farce that's not that many notches above "Jackass: The Movie."

It's a botched job...the new "Phoenix" lacks the very things that made the old one special.

Dracula, who, as played by Dominic Purcell, has all the dark charisma and burning threat of a baked potato.

Absurdly over the top and not especially funny.

Less offensive than embarrassing, at least for the chagrined performers.

The whole enterprise is a colossal waste of everyone's time.

Yet another raunchy, gross-out farce, this one about smart-alecky city boys who have wacky adventures while exposing themselves in -- I mean to -- the great outdoors.

What is this movie about? Is it a morality tale? Is it about the complexity of romantic love? Parenthood? Accepting the often-blurred lines of our sexual orientation? Is it about the role of race in white-collar crime? What?

A cinematic cat-astrophe.

Perhaps worst of all, this film seems to assume its teen viewers are a bunch of drooling half-wits, going to great pains to explain everything in so much after-school-special detail.

It's been turned into a stupid kung fu movie.

This isn't a movie, it's a marketing ploy. Would you like a plush Garfield toy with that popcorn?

Stiller and Black have the chemistry of fingernails-on-blackboard and the movie is disastrously unfunny.

Favors giggly juvenile humor over inspired satire and ends up not with a moral, but a moral vacuum.

An excruciating rehash that has virtually none of the wit and charm of the original.

Tired and glib, it tries to milk humor from the sniping, sass and simple disrespect of its unpleasant traveling companions.

Not only have they (Coen Brothers) stripped it of all its wit and charm, they've loaded it down with the kind of race-baiting and bathroom humor they've always avoided in the past.

But as an artist, von Trier's contempt for humanity is becoming harder to hide with stylistic flourish. He doesn't even try here, and his arrogance is topped only by his misanthropy.