The whole sorry enterprise leaves you feeling, well, shafted.

Amid all the tension, the volcano blows its stack. 'Is anything wrong?' someone asks. 'No, nothing's wrong' says someone else. Something is very wrong.

Agent-turned-director Tony Krantz has a penchant for stylization that quickly slides into a velvet-painting cheesiness, which-along with the script's pseudoprofound Philosophy 101 maxims-renders the atmosphere less noirish than ridiculously cartoonish.

Incestuous desires run rampant in the original novel by VC Andrews, but all the movie has to offer is soft-focus innuendo. As fantasy stripped of all its metaphorical trimmings, the sublimely ridiculous plot is more likely to reduce an audience to laughter than to tears.

Richard Sale's adaptation of his own novel hints at something more intimate. His Hickok is haunted, ageing, and diseased, trapped and uncertain in his own myth. Because of this, the movie occasionally takes an interesting turn, but less often than it should, because J Lee Thompson's direction clings to the increasing number of action set pieces with all the relief of a drowning man clutching a life raft.

This sequel to Enter the Ninja and Revenge of the Ninja rapidly auto-sequels itself, as plot and duels repeat every few minutes. It being a Golan/Globus product, smoke and strobes are as special as the effects get, and helicopters crash inexpensively, behind hills.

This boisterous comedy allows Mayall to be completely naughty, to shock, to offend...and to exasperate beyond belief.

Keep your coin far away from this toxic fountain of crap.

'No way!' twice in the first five lines of dialogue let you know what to expect from this attempt to ape Jaws, so to speak.

Tired byplay between Reynolds’s mystified straight man and Bridges’s supernatural old pro will kill off any fond memories you have of zesty buddy films past and present.

Where, exactly, is Dario Argento? He’s up there in the title, but none of the horror maestro’s former genius (Suspiria) is evident in this silly, Stoker-by-numbers slog, rife with cheesy digital blood spurts but not a single moment of deep-red gorgeousness.

There are plenty of formulaic boo! moments, yet Craven intelligently treats Bug's otherworldly issues like hormonal growing pains that must be tamed.

That Link's make-over proves so painless - so devoid of comic or dramatic situations - suggests that this high-concept movie forgot what it was about.

An old-fashioned and numbingly predicable problem pic of the kind that he used to do rather better (The Blackboard Jungle, for instance).

Twi-Hards shall attend en masse. Adults shall roll their eyes. And on our human comedy shall go.

Watts does her usual commendable job with the flatly written character but ultimately, as the title would suggest, she runs into a wall.

At least Keanu Reeves brings a certain muddled gravitas to the role of an escort-service driver who spends his time idling with off-duty party girls.

The movie’s story is limp, its romances are flightless and — despite the talented cast — its performances are toothless.

McDowell's comically histrionic performance is, in fact, the single redeeming feature in this lamentably simplistic and unpleasant piffle.

As the film totters to its predictable finale, the closing moments set up a sequel, a prospect far more terrifying than anything we've just seen.

All Apollo 18 has to offer is endless radio crackle and visual incoherence. And what's out there, tormenting the astronauts? The answer is dumber than a box of moon rocks.

Surprise! The upper-middle-class family is still rotten to the core. In Vivi Friedman's overstuffed farce, the parents cheat on each other, the daughter dresses like a streetwalker, and the Bible-thumping son starts carrying a Glock.

About as dreary as a summit conference in Belgium.

In this breeding ground for date rape and HPV, there are some trashy kicks in seeing horrible people get theirs, plus housemother Fisher goes all buck wild with a shotgun.

An economic slump is no reason to settle for this junked-up, unintentionally depressing "Office Space" bootleg.

Playing smarter and smoother than the plot, Cisneros uncorks an antimacho performance that deviates from type. His unconventional hero is worthy of a more original treatment.

Through all the fuzzy science, Merola sees a savior; you’ll see a dull editorial masquerading as objective reporting.

Even if you ignore the bad acting, dogmatic dirty-talk dialogue so wooden it'd put a Redwood forest to shame and director Phillippe Diaz's total lack of visual sense, you'd still have to digest a junior-collegiate lecture with less savvy than a horny 14-year-old.