The new new new Jason Vorhees, played by Derek Mears in this Michael Bay-produced homage/update of the '80s slasher franchise, is a bit of a fox.

Easily the least passionate romantic comedy I've seen in years.

A forgettable waste of time.

Mostly it's a series of dream-image clues scribbled out by juvenile seer Fanning, followed by super-powered smackdowns between agents and mercenaries with slangy titles like watchers, stitchers and sniffers.

If only Outlander was as fun as the premise makes it sound on paper.

Its combination of maudlin sincerity, cruel slapstick, exotic romanticism and boogie-down dance sequences may befuddle more than it entertains.

For anyone looking for something as real or engaging as Biggie's music -- or a good introduction to it -- will be disappointed by this mediocre celluloid life-after-death.

The only real difference between this and the handful of other Happy Madison flicks is that James (executive producer, co-writer, star) has made this Sandleresque movie family-friendly, with very little swearing, no nudity and all the edginess of a "King of Queens" rerun.

Director Bill Duke may believe the message but he never invests himself in the characters or their story, which becomes an illustrated lesson with reflective interludes and comic relief.

The result is a great-looking movie with an awkward balance of pulp noir and campy self-awareness.

Unfortunately, the life has been sucked out of DiCamillo's story about a brave, unusual little mouse.

Though it's a star vehicle, Carrey seems only marginally interested in rehashing the role of sweet spaz, and so he almost feels miscast.

Director Alfredo De Villa doesn't play it for the kind of knockabout comedy so often seen in these films (like the shrill hit "Four Christmases").

As action movies seem to get more complicated and convoluted with international conspiracies and technological concepts, the "Transporter" franchise is refreshingly simple.

Neither clever nor heartwarming, Four Christmases is the coal in the stocking of holiday movies.

Those who want something to really sink their teeth into should head home on a rainy day, put on some goth anthems and reread the books.

Garity, son of Jane Fonda and Tom Hayden, gives the kind of performance rarely seen in today's movies.

In this brand of comedy, nothing succeeds like excess, and this film is seriously deficient.

Herman's intentions are admirable, but his results are unsettling in the worst ways.

The movie also qualifies as a kind of low-rent, male version of "Dreamgirls," but -- while many of the numbers are pleasant -- it doesn't have the moxie to work as a musical.

Think of it as a buffet of romantic comedy comfort food: the good old American standbys complemented by bland international dishes.

Campbell fans will get a kick out of it. The rest of the world will likely find this spoof a little too insular and indulgent.

The film strains to achieve the comedic gait of "Wag the Dog" or the improvised, overlapping style that so defined Robert Altman's Hollywood movie, "The Player."

You can feel the debt to Sidney Lumet's '70s studies in police corruption and cop brotherhood, but O'Connor never captures the edge of danger, anger and moral stands being ground up in compromise.

No spoilers here, but there are enough hints that the incoming class of happy-go-lucky theater folk will have plenty to do in the already-in-the-works fourth installment.

The first half-hour of this movie is super-worse, with only some sub-"American Pie" gags fleshing out the lame-brain plot, but once it gets on the road, there's pleasure to be had.

It's a fine moral and an admirable statement, but it's the portrait of an icon rather than the story of the person thrust into that position.

It never generates much interest in its story or affection for its characters, and it's simply not half as funny as it needs to be.