Freelance is this incredibly goofy jumble of tones, a movie that doesn’t know what it is or what it wants to be, flailing about as it far overstays its welcome.

The comedy waffles between nonsensically heightened and realistically grounded, often alternating between the two modes at random, never landing on a tone.

Despite the best efforts of McCarthy, and a winsome Maya Rudolph as Phil’s 1940s-style secretary, Bubbles, The Happytime Murders is more like the “Boringtime Slog.”

One has to wonder why the film was even made if it had to be so disastrously compromised. Chekhov would be appalled.

A disgrace and a waste of the talents of Oscar winners Keaton, Fonda and Steenburgen and Emmy recipient Bergen. Obviously, the film is intended for an older audience. But is this anemic, feature-length sitcom really the best that Hollywood can do?

Tickets to Pacific Rim Uprising should come with a package of aspirin.

This is the feel-bad film of the year. Recommend it to someone you hate.

For sheer waste of talent, if not money, The Burbs deserves to be ranked with Ishtar. A routine slapstick comedy with no cutting edge, and not nearly enough laughs. [21 Feb 1989, p.6D]

This is Bay’s world, and when faced with the end of the world, there’s only one message to be gleaned from this supposed finale of the “Transformers” franchise: The Mack trucks and the muscle cars will outlive us all.

The film is a criminal waste of an ensemble cast that should have found something better to do than lend their names to such a pointless exercise. Free Fire is a misfire.

Young children will be entertained, but for the rest of the audience, pretty colors just aren’t enough.

Working from a lackluster screenplay by a squad of writers, director Taylor Hackford (“Ray”) delivers a film so low in energy that it’s almost as if it was made to assist airline passengers in falling asleep.

This party is a dud.

The best that can be said for this film is that it’s short.

The Forest is flawed on so many levels. It’s a tiresome bore, and the story is filtered through white characters when an Asian lead could have carried the movie just fine.

In addition to starring, Jolie Pitt wrote and directed By the Sea. She has given herself relatively little dialogue, but stuck her husband with lines like “Stop acting like this!” and “You resist happiness!”

Oyelowo and Mara achieve terrific chemistry. Perhaps they’ll work together again — in a better film.

Long before you’ve gotten a nickel’s worth of entertainment out of this dumb, unfunny flick, you’ll be wishing for the flashing sign that says “Game over.”

With the overlong, limp and lazy Spy, Feig has lost his mojo.

Disney’s gimmick of naming movies for its theme-park attractions crashes and burns in Tomorrowland, a here-and-now caper that will confuse children, bore adults and offend anyone who’s ever taken a science class.

The trailers for the Reese Witherspoon-Sofia Vergara comedy Hot Pursuit hint at a movie that’s unfunny, insufferable and obvious. You can’t say you weren’t warned.

This mess is guilty of being both racist and homophobic. And it’s as shamelessly lazy and crude as its title suggests.

There is such a thing as an infinitely bad movie, and this is it.

Cinderella is so scrubbed of personality, it’s not even worth calling a mess.

If you’re a fan of the “Taken” movies and tend to give action-hero Neeson the benefit of the doubt, our advice here is simple: Run away!

Kingsman is like a high-speed collision between a Jaguar and a jaywalking soccer hooligan. It’s ridiculously out of balance, and when you’re stuck in the middle, it doesn’t seem so funny.

Channing Tatum is a lot of things, but he’s not a stoic Superman like the role he plays here, which is made more laughable by prosthetic pointy ears.

Despite its intriguing premise, the film amounts to little more than tedious, clichéd melodramatics.

Sorry, Keanu, but you stole my time and you murdered my brain cells. By the sacred oath of WHOA, there will be blood, and this time it’s personal.

Directed by Stiles White, whose credits lean more heavily in the special-effect arenas, Ouija is bland, safe horror for those who like their scares nonexistent.

Sparks would be delighted if this movie were compared to his other story about reunited lovers, but compared to “The Notebook,” The Best of Me is the coffee-stained outline of a sales pitch for sleeping pills.

This toothless attempt is just dead on arrival.

Annabelle is so lazily coat-tailing on Roman Polanski, they should have called it “Rosemary’s Barbie.”

So stupid and hateful, it needs to have a stake driven through its heart before it can spawn a franchise.

If cranking out this kind of mediocre, head-scratching blarney is the only option available to Hollywood veterans like Reiner, we have some friendly advice: Open a haberdashery.

McCarthy and first-time director Falcone must have assumed that tossing a drunk and a dunce into a Cadillac would negate the need for a motive or even a script.

The worst thing about this multifaceted failure is the two-time Oscar winner behind the camera. Where there ought to be a director, there’s nothing but an empty chair.

This movie is so tone-deaf it would only make sense in Vincent van Gogh’s missing ear.

In Secret is so stifled, it makes “Les Misérables” look like “Amélie.”

This stinker is only good for endless laughs.

This dead-on-arrival ’toon is some of the worst p.r. for rodents since bubonic plague hit medieval Europe.

In trying to lift this lame schtick, De Niro, Douglas, Freeman and Kline are stand-up guys, but Last Vegas is a case of erectile dysfunction.

When a celebrity chef like Rodriguez is just going through the motions, we can smell that the grindhouse fad is way past its expiration date. It's time to put a fork in it.

It’s preposterous schlock masquerading as art.

That can’t disguise the script’s complete lack of wit or originality, though, or the generally wooden acting.

A soulless, overblown bore.

The overall feel is less of a cohesive documentary and more of a slapdash scrapbook of facts, historical information and name-dropping.

Surprise — this bad dream is for real.

The good news is that Ed Helms doesn’t wake up in a Tijuana brothel with an amputated leg and a donkey in the room. The bad news is that you’ll wish he had.

Comedies about privileged princesses and unsuitable suitors come in all colors, but Peeples is only palatable on a double bill with pink antacid.

It’s nearly tragic to see America’s Greatest Living Actor on the guest list for The Big Wedding, the latest limp comedy about seniors behaving badly.

Suffering through this felonious farce could only inspire a prison riot.

Dare we say it? Even the acting is atrocious, with pop-eyed Pacino chewing the scenery like a geezer gumming his oatmeal.

While the cast includes Luis Guzman (as a buffoonish deputy) and Johnny Knoxville (as a local gun nut), there's no sense that these are real people in a real town, and Schwarzenegger's Sheriff Owens has the weakest backstory of all.

This world is divided between the makers and the takers, and after just a few minutes of Red Dawn, you'll realize there's not much more you can take.

Formulaic serial-killer crapola.

Loud, incoherent and unfunny, Here Comes the Boom is the sound of American culture imploding.

Kids are too smart to fall for it, and any grown-up who thinks that The Odd Life of Timothy Green is funny or heartwarming has a head made out of cabbage.

Where the original play "La Ronde" was a social satire about the transmission of venereal disease, 30 Beats is a sickly stepchild.

With this unfunny fourth installment, the "Ice Age" franchise has skidded so far into kiddie land that adults who tread there risk extinction.

Ted does not only break before it ends. It snaps back so violently that it very well may knock out of your mind any recollection that the movie is fairly entertaining for about 30 minutes.

In matters of personal taste, there is no right or wrong, so if erasing brain cells is your idea of a good time, That's My Boy could be your cup of turpentine.

Anyone old enough to have read Jules Verne or seen the way his work was successfully adapted in the past will suffer worse than the kids in the audience who just came to laugh.

Nothing more than uninspired mushiness.

As in the first "Sherlock Holmes" movie, there are plenty of pratfalls and bare-knuckle brawls but no sleuthing for us to share.

The sanitized setting and sappy script are so littered with cardboard characters and crass product placements that you'll mourn for the muggers and porno theaters that De Niro cursed in "Taxi Driver."

The best thing you could say about Happy Feet Two is that it doesn't have any product placements or potty jokes. Other than that, this charmless Antarctic cartoon is what it looks like when hell freezes over.

The movie inspired theater critic Judith Newmark to write a sonnet in response.

For anyone expecting the second coming of Clouseau, Johnny English Reborn is a karmic catastrophe.

Sitting through A Good Old Fashioned Orgy is like being monopolized by the most irritating person at a really boring party.

The result is more like a long commercial than a cohesive movie, and the omissions are glaring.

The spectacular collapse of Green Lantern is bound to be blamed on Reynolds, but the villainy has its origins in an injustice league of TV-trained screenwriters and tin-hearted studio suits.

On Stranger Tides has the fishy smell of something washed ashore and sold as new. But this shipwreck isn't worth a wooden doubloon.

For the rest of his life, Spencer Susser can brag to the other ditch diggers that he persuaded two of the best young actors in Hollywood to star in one of the worst movies ever made.

It's supposed to be sweet, but Hop is a headache waiting to happen.

Such a sorrowful attempt to resurrect the marketing magic of "Twilight" that it ought to be titled "Career Eclipse."

Like the middle-aged dads in this flaccid fiasco, Hall Pass is a decade behind the curve of what's happening.

The cheap, indifferent, teen-alien thriller I Am Number Four delivers none of the spectacle of a competent sci-fi film, none of the emotion of an effective teen romance and none of the giggles of a kitsch fiasco.

Even by the sloppy, soulless standards of hit man movies, The Mechanic is a mess.

Loosely - very loosely - based on the classic Jonathan Swift story, "Gulliver's Travels" begins promisingly but quickly loses its way.

If instead of story and characters, your movie wish list includes projectile vomiting and erection gags, this lump of coal has your name on it.

An utter shipwreck, a would-be adventure with meager rations of magic and a listless crew.

If The Virginity Hit had been filmed as a straightforward sex comedy, it could've been a riot.

It's more like a shelved episode of "Touched by An Angel." The sappy script is a disservice to the naturally effervescent Efron, whose character is so mopey he makes Robert Pattinson seem like a song-and-dance man.

A toxic potion that will put children to sleep and kill his (M. Night Shyamalan) career.

Nobody escapes unscathed, except, of course, for Sandler, who co-wrote the infantile screenplay.

"Beverly Hills Chihuahua," we owe you an apology. Among talking-dog movies, Marmaduke is the runt of the litter.

A bland family-feud potboiler with no sign of the cook.

The message that needs to be posted at the theater door is "No trespassing."

Whether you're betting on action or laughs, this is a lose-lose scenario.

With movies like this, Lopez might want to start leaving low-end romantic comedies alone and look at her movie career's backup plan.

In the new Clash of the Titans, the effects are computerized, the hero is questionable and, instead of an owl, we get a turkey.

Sadly, The Last Song is badly out of tune with real filmmaking.

Perhaps tracking down the folks responsible for this film should be Milo's next assignment.

Director Rick Famuyiwa did much better when focusing just on African-American culture in films such as "Brown Sugar" and "The Wood." Here, in bringing together two cultures, he does neither any favors.

Here most of the punishment is inflicted on the audience, which gets nailed to a cross of boredom.

Given the creator and the cast, "Morgans" is as drearily predictable as a plague of locusts.

This amateurish action flick is so lacking in personality or punch, it ought to be titled "V for Video Store Discount Bin."