A perfect example of form without content.

By the time the film plummets to its rock bottom, we find ourselves in a flag-waving no-brainer of the first order, and one of the most thoroughly confused morality tales in recent memory.

An incomprehensible mess -- so boring and numbingly unworkable that it's hard to imagine what he could have been thinking.

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

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

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

Mostly unfabulous.

In its best moments, resembles a bad high school production of "Grease," without benefit of song.

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.

First-time director Steve Beck hurls a dozen ghosts and probably a million dollars' worth of prosthetic makeup at us for a full 90 minutes, but it's old hat and not a bit scary.

A perfectly dreadful affair that makes no sense, has almost no good laughs and finally just sinks like a rock in a Beverly Hills swimming pool.

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.

The roll call of perversions and adolescent sex gags are more creepy than kooky and the sudden shift to triumphant romantic sincerity at the climax rings as false as this film's sappy (sorry, happy) ending.

Call this one "Die Hard" on Alcatraz, and this time the "cuckoo crazy" maverick has got the homeboys on his side.

Has all the telltale signs of desperate re-editing: mismatched shots, clumsy transitions and a devastating car wreck that occurred either on a dry sunlit day or in the midst of a nighttime downpour, depending on the flashback.

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

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.

Insipid, overcooked and dull.

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 film was produced by Jerry Bruckheimer and directed by Joel Schumacher, and reflects the worst of their shallow styles: wildly overproduced, inadequately motivated every step of the way and demographically targeted to please every one (and no one).

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.

What it doesn't have is a script that has anything original, cohesive, or, gasp -- funny -- to say.

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

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

I'd be tempted to call the whole thing cartoonish, but that would be insulting to the real thing.

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

An airless, mannered mess.

As stiff and slogging as animated films come.