A cinematic cat-astrophe.

Low octane comedy running on fumes.

The results are shapeless, excessively lurid and often unpleasant, with Argento shamelessly vamping the white-trash junkie mother and truck-stop hooker. She apparently forgot whose story she was telling.

A rather likable and very sweet-spirited story.

Feels the scratches of too much time and tinkling and is as disjointed as a dislocated shoulder.

Has the distinction of being the very worst of all the many film versions of Alexandre Dumas' classic novel, "The Three Musketeers." Nothing else in Musketeer movie history comes even remotely close to its staggering wretchedness.

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

Upbeat but generic songs (one performed by Little Richard) and jazz lines add a little energy but the film feels less like a feature than an expensive ad for the upcoming video.

There are more laughs to be wrought out of Myers' militant flight-attendant training school, and they're just not there.

The movie is a resounding dud: immaculately composed and shot (very much in the Kaufman tradition), but riddled with crime-movie cliches, wincingly obvious in its plot twists and rather badly acted.

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.

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."

In a summer of cardboard figures in splashy spectacles, that makes for a refreshing change, an intriguing, entertaining and altogether sweetly mystifying misfire. In other words, another quintessentially Alan Rudolph picture.

The gags on which it rests its laughs have been lifted from every other raucous comedy, campus-oriented or not.

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.

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

The lapses in logic make a weak subplot about a serial killer on the loose just plain silly instead of provocative.

The cruel simplicity of the atrocity is made needlessly chaotic by artless camerawork that swishes rapidly back and forth across the action, to the accompaniment of a syrupy soundtrack.

It's more thrill ride than movie and Wong plays it that way: no sentiment, no complications and no pesky story to get in the way of an arsenal of flashy special effects.

In the acting contest that ensues, each star comes off reasonably well, though, surprisingly, Lohan (who had well-publicized emotional problems on the set) wins out over Huffman's comic drunk and Fonda's leathery evocation of her father, Henry, in "On Golden Pond."

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

Bland and boring.

Scores high on nastiness, but it has as many surprisingly funny moments as offensive ones.

A pretty dreadful affair -- ludicrous as history and a veritable gallery of visual cliches.

Somebody in Hollywood thought taking "Some Like It Hot" and "Animal House," sticking them in a blender and serving in Dixie cups was a good idea. That somebody should be fired.

Has good intentions and the element of surprise -- it's never quite clear where it's going at any given point.

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.

Rarely has paper-casting worked as dismally as it does for Jason Lee and Tom Green.