Despite all its flaws, it achieves its goal of making the audience laugh, even against their better judgment.

We assure you, it's not worth taking a trip to down to the House at the End of the Street. Something horrible might have happened there, but it can't be worse than this movie.

The entire thing feels forced and hollow, less an authentic expression of the human experience and more a gee-whiz exercise in cleverness, slathered in a healthy coat of multiplex-friendly weirdness.

Get A Job is such a baffling endeavor the callow movie could conceivably come with its own milk carton campaign asking: “Where is Dylan Kidd and what have you done with him?”

There’s a lot wrong with Josie, but the thing that sinks it beyond the possibility of recommendation in any circumstance is its aforementioned third-act twist and ending.

A film that features a few fantastic comedic highlights unfortunately weighed down by a misfired performance from its lead actress. The result is an occasionally funny, inventive, but inconsequential, feature.

The entire movie feels belabored, lumbering from one awful, over-dressed set piece to another. It's wrongheaded, it's horrendous, it's filled with lines of dialogue that are utter howlers, and yet, it's the type of movie that feels so confident that it really is something. It is, in fact, not.

At the very least, Fantastic Fear of Everything has a fantastic central performance. And sometimes that's enough.

Nothing in Seventh Son is compelling, interesting or noteworthy, though you can feel the strain of the filmmakers attempting to set up a potential franchise.

Alex Cross is more boring than your average weeknight procedural, except much longer, dumber and more violent.

If Playing It Cool is meant to be an ironic interpretation of what happens to these characters, the film isn't sharp, smart or insightful enough about how actual humans interact to pull it off.

Director Randall Miller (“Bottle Shock”) could do worse than render the early-'70s punk scene as breezy broad comedy. He adopts that tactic and still falters though, deflating any energy or humor possible with his limp direction, sitcom consistency, and unfocused tone.

Leto, with his whispery dialogue and complete lack of emotional range, fails to register on any level. While the film itself feels straight out of a Robert McKee seminar, as each twist and turn is telegraphed so blatantly, that it’s hard to see what Leto, who can be a good actor when he’s not too busy going all “method,” saw in it.

Overall, Chandrasekhar's first tentative venture towards something slightly more sincere is undermined by, quite frankly, his irresistible urge to take the piss out of every sequence that might have been played even remotely seriously.

It would be unfair and an exaggeration to say 'Part III' ends with a whimper, as there are a few moments to savor, but there's hardly a climatic bang and, sadly, absolutely nothing epic and explosive about this rather tepid and forgettable trilogy closer.

If it were funnier, perhaps the trite action and insipid characters could be excused, but it isn’t nearly funny enough for that.

The entire movie feels like a warning for women of any age: if you act on your desires, you will be punished. And there seems to be no greater punishment than having to watch The Boy Next Door.

The Longs’ debut film may be Frankensteined together from disparate genres. Still, it also is an occasionally delightful, sometimes funny, but also just often dull comedy that, ultimately, wastes a game cast on underdeveloped material.

The Electric State really aims to be an epic, spectacularly shaped, crowd-pleasing blockbuster, but missing the mark so often, it just veers more and more off course, to be a loud, blustery, hectic extravaganza that’s all noisy dressing and no depth or humanity. It says nothing and offers little other than a folding laundry distraction.

Bloodless, far too genteel, and perfectly content to continually tell where a little showing would be nice; Night Train to Lisbon ends up a deeply unadventurous adventure story.

Every single one of Emmerich’s moves can be seen coming from several miles away, and yet, not because they adhere to any semblance of historical fact. Somehow, Emmerich makes a severely underserved narrative feel groaningly familiar.

This movie is a corpse in desperate need of reanimation.

Mildly diverting from time to time due to its beautiful production design, The School for Good and Evil is mostly an unmitigated slog, filled with underdeveloped characters, absolutely terrible dialogue, and a world that feels both completely ripped off from better things and unnecessarily complex.

No matter how one tries to unpack the curious contents of “Big Gold Brick,” they’ll likely be unable to find much of anything outside of an unintelligible failure.

It’s a movie-length cliché about the type of love that explains why drugstores are stocked with cheap, forgettable Valentine’s Day gifts bought by teenagers and the immature at heart.

Much of the credit must go towards the makeup crew. It's a Fangoria funhouse up in here: Cabin Fever: Patient Zero has some of the most disturbing, disgusting gore effects of all-time. This is a movie made by people who have studied some of the worst injuries known to man.

Nature Calls demonstrates yet again that the real question for any bad script is not "Who wrote this garbage?" but, rather, "Who read this garbage and thought it would make a viable way to spend time?"

Let's Be Cops is a fine example of what happens when filmmakers rely too heavily on the potential chemistry of the cast, rather than giving actors something decent on the page to work with.

A vacuous and generally indifferent effort that lacks even the watered down spark and inspiration of its ho-hum 2015 original...this seasonal comedy sequel is a fruitless, frustrating nothingburger of tired dysfunctional family tropes and conservative-minded family values.

This is advertisement masquerading as a story, pretending to be a movie, but at the very least, it’s for a good cause.

Maybe someday, Jennifer Garner will be given a project that proves her talents once again. For now, though, we’re left with Peppermint: a wretched action misfire that leaves a bad taste in your mouth.

The horror genre also comes with a short list of demands that must be followed: Build a tense mood, a terrifying atmosphere, and tumultuous characters. “The Boy 2” rejects all of these. Instead, director William Brent Bell settles for a basement full of cliches.

Possibly led by nobler intentions, the Israeli writer-director ends up cashing in on the mettle of those involved in a bold rescue mission, tweaking a terrifying reality until it resembles little more than a banal thriller.

Corddry’s Lou was an enjoyable, over-the-top asshole in the first film, providing most of its humor, even while surrounded by an equally strong cast. However, here, he’s just a truly disgusting human being. Worse still, he’s not that funny.

It's just a bore, barely registering as a movie (visually, it looks more like an USA cable series), which is a shame, because with the oddball cast and somewhat notable director, it could have been fun and trashy. Instead, it's just forgettable.

Rarely has a mainstream comedy boasting this much talent been so structurally amateurish, to the point that the film’s lack of humor seems a secondary problem to its more pressing storytelling incoherence.

Bright tries to create a unique and dynamic world with the juxtaposition of harsh police life, crime and modern life contrasted with this imaginary magical realm, but it’s contrived, unconvincing and most of all calamitously preposterous.

The Best of Me features actors who are playing well above their material, but Monaghan and Marsden aren’t enough to save this film.

Characters make a lot of absurdly dumb decisions in this movie.

It’s the first feature film for director Aleksander Bach, and he shares the blame with the pair of screenwriters. His creation is a muddled mess that is briefly lifted by some fun set pieces, but never is more impressive than a 108-minute Audi commercial.

The premium placed on upmarket, glossy, muscular cars is so conspicuous that Fuqua scored buyback product placement cash. Elon Musk would surely be enamored. It’s essentially that kind of movie, “The Matrix” and Nolan-lite for dudes who check their bitcoin futures during the movie on their smartphones. Sick, bro.

Unfortunately, the peripheral factors worth championing are not enough to save the film from being a routine slasher, with an unremarkable mystery at the center, that puts its prescient anti-bullying message first and genre second, making Thriller feel a bit like a chore.

A Good Day To Die Hard isn’t dead on arrival because that would suggest it has a pulse.

Every time Dolan generates a head of steam, he’s betrayed by his script, by the self-conscious formality of the dialogue, or the clunkiness of the structure.

Brash, brutal, and simplistic in equal measure, it’s a retrograde work that, for better and worse, delivers its old-school mayhem with punishing precision and unrepentant glee.

Maybe one day folks will come around to “Mother Schmuckers” as something so sincerely and unintentionally terrible that’s it’s worth watching if only as a joke, yet even that is a longshot.

It only ever connects in the small moments that fall through the cracks of the supposed formal and thematic experimentation—when the fine actors are allowed to walk and talk like real human beings, rather than a collection of tropes.

It starts out less not-good than it ends up, to be fair, and for the majority of its running time, it’s engaging enough. Its chief issue in these parts seems to be that the director isn’t super sure if he’s making an action thriller with apocalyptic overtones, a family drama, or a character portrait/performance showcase, so the tone is all over the place.

The Bag Man is, in final analysis, truly disheartening.

A film of surface pleasures, even joys, but those joys seem to be longing for a central idea around which to coalesce.

Tired, lazy, incongruous, shocking and hilarious in all the wrong places, Rage is destined for the graveyard television slot, squeezed between infomercials for mops.

The filmmaker should perhaps thank his actors for putting in more effort than this movie is worth.

It fails to convince, and succeeds only in frustrating.

It’s all too passive, and lacking in incisiveness cleverness for its own good, barely served by Day’s nostalgia for better films and voluminous silent stars.

Beyond stiff and halfhearted performances, tired and infantile comic material and a needlessly complicated plot, the real, truly piercing shortcoming of the movie is that it lacks a compelling reason to exist.

All around, the performances are fine, but they can’t move past the script from first-time director Jessie McCormack. She’s created a group of people that you’d avoid at a party, and being stuck with them for an hour and a half makes you feel like you’re being punished for doing something really awful.

The Last Knight is like a Red Bull-charged Bay yelling “I regret nothing!” as he jumps out of a plane backwards with no chute, detonating a megaton nuclear explosive while firing Uzis at his skydiving pals above him because hell, dude, that sounds like a wicked fond farewell. [

It’s a twisty tale of secrets, cliches, and Lifetime characters that could only come out this month–it’s impossible to imagine this coming out in December, that’s for sure.

It’s beautiful, if not brilliant, and (aside from a final act that drags on way too long) fun to watch. In the alternate universe where I don’t care about misogyny and I decided to watch this movie on mute, it’s probably one of the best things I’ve seen all year.

If it came out in the ’90s, I.T. would have been a silly distraction. In this day and age, it’s a colossal waste of time, a 14K dial-up in the time of fiber optic.

In turning his back on the familiar tropes of blockbuster comic book movies, Trank doesn't have a clear new identity for Fantastic Four to distinguish itself with, and the result is a movie rich with possibilities, but trapped in the basic structure of a superhero movie, with no idea of how to wholly circumvent traditional expectations.

It’s a dull, plodding retread with new souped-up VFX that’s deeply uninvolving.

A bland and utterly predictable melodrama desperate to hide itself as a deft character study.

Not only is Madame Web a mess of a movie it doesn’t even qualify as a “it’s so bad it’s good” moment of escapist entertainment. It suffers from a much worse fate: it’s utterly forgettable.

Somehow, No Good Deed finds a way to be exploitative and creepy wherever it can.

The whole thing is a wildly uneven, extremely repetitive mess that could have used a few rewrites, as well as another look at the genial, genre-bending source material.

It’s all very first draft, with a layer of supernatural permeating the events that suggests added attempts to connect three wildly disparate storylines.

Almost coming off like an academic blueprint of what a serial killer movie should look like, rather than anything with a distinct voice or authorial hand, "No One Lives" shocks by virtue of being completely uninteresting.

Sadly, the sequel isn't even so bad as to be memorable. Instead, it's vaporous, not even possessing the qualities indicating that anyone involved cared about any detail of the film.

If you’re in the mood for an action flick without imagination, then The Misfits is the film for you. Recycling genre tropes, characters, and camerawork, The Misfits feels like you’re watching a montage of better movies.

Director Mark Steven Johnson can’t seem to balance a tone here, which is a pity because for the most part he stands back and lets the two stars go at each other.

This expensive misfire runs a little less than ninety minutes, which means that there’s likely a 105-110 minute long version that the producers hacked up in order to get the maximum amount of 3D showtimes to not embarrass the studio on opening weekend. Judging by the released product, that version is likely even worse, if such a thing were possible.

This is the sort of movie that should be playing in the background on an episode of “Tim And Eric,” and yet instead it’s being released by IFC Films. Bring alcohol.

Americons is a shady sub-prime loan you should not waste your time and energy on.

It's worth saying that the final moments of Smiley are a grade above the by-the-numbers film that unfolded prior, but it's too little too late.

Strange Magic is messy and uneven and occasionally annoying, but it also dares to be different.

The film is curiously schizophrenic. Brill’s screenplay mixes traditional rom-com generics with sporadically funny R-rated vulgarity and ludicrously dumb gags.

Savannah does attempt to tell the story of the friendship of those two accomplished men, but does so in a manner that is so astonishingly tone deaf, confused and narrowly focused that it leaves you almost amazed at the lack of vision behind the entire enterprise.

It’s a spectacular mess that’s shameless in its desire to entertain through sheer, misbegotten excess.

What’s obnoxious is that it’s never in doubt where Assault On Wall Street is headed, and it seems to believe there’s a certain poetry to taking its time turning Baxford into a non-verbal Travis Bickle.

Chloe And Theo should have been a film about Theo: a complex man taking on an unfamiliar world he is not particularly fond of, with little more than conviction and principle to help him along. Instead, we get another film where a hapless foreigner teaches white people how to better themselves.

It's a found footage movie that feels instantly dated, even with its supposed political undertones. It's creaky, laborious, and not, in the least bit, scary.

Holmes and Watson will probably make you smile, and occasionally, it earns that goodwill. But it’s nowhere near where it should be with the company present. Forgive the pun, but it’s elementary to find what’s off with this movie. It’s being solved by detectives missing a key clue.

Return to Sender proves to be nothing but dead air, an entirely too predictable, slow-paced, and misguided genre effort.

Manipulative and over-engineered, starring high-profile actors doing all they can elicit deep compassion, Collateral Beauty fails to make an impression, and contains not nearly enough authentic beauty to make it worthwhile.

This movie is literally and figuratively saying music can save your life, but the execution is all treacle and dust—overly sweet and utterly empty.

With some films, you can tell where one or two things went wrong — perhaps a decision in script, or a performance that’s off base — but The Snowman is the rare movie where for every choice, there was a better way to go.

It’s unclear if Steffen & Flip believe in a hell for their characters. But their 85-minute torture device disguised as a movie proves they believe in one for their viewers. Not even cheese ‘n’ rice can save this dismal enterprise from doom.

The film’s dismal action staging and over-complex story can’t seem to overcome Mr. Fairbrass’s lo-fi presence.

From the cloying, ever-present score to the complete lack of narrative momentum, it all adds up to a film that's easily Van Sant's worst, and is a sad black mark on McConaughey's mostly excellent recent run. Ultimately, Sea Of Trees feels like an entirely appropriate title: it makes you feel like you're drowning, and it's full of sap.

The highest compliment that can be made of the movie is that it is harmless: never laughably bad, never painful, just pure mediocrity, from start to finish.

While the idea is original, it's also ridiculous, and the story is not close to clever enough to put it into any kind of context that is compelling, interesting or believable.

Kevin Smith's Yoga Hosers is a flabby, goofy, comically inert cartoon.

Not only is not even a single character more than one-dimensional, but every line falls flatter than a witch dispatched with a Gatling gun.

Despite the valiant efforts from the two leads, the only thing of value that gets robbed in American Heist is our time.

It’s just as predictably mind-numbing and tedious as any other comedy Sandler has attached his name to post-“Funny People.”

Given how good the cast often are elsewhere, it doesn’t seem unfair to put this at Armstrong’s door, and the film has a very first-time-director feel to it.

If a filmmaker can’t be bothered to try, then audiences shouldn’t be asked to care.