While this flight should have been permanently delayed due to extraordinarily offensive conditions, there are no signs instructing you to remain seated should you decide to discreetly exit before your tour of the unfriendly skies is over.

The only serendipitous touch is the casting of New York's "quality of life" watchdog, Rudolph Giuliani, as himself.

First-time feature director Andrew Douglas, whose advertising background is evident in every frame, brings lashings of style but no sense of real horror to the recycled script.

Hogan returns with what feels like a feature-length vanity project.

But by the time the big not-so-surprise ending rolls around -- no, nothing that happened was exactly as it seemed -- most viewers will have long since stopped caring.

Queen Latifah is a natural-born charmer, but there's only so much she can do when paired with a costar so irritating it's hard not to squirm when he's on the screen, which is most of the time.

This Canadian production -- while somewhat impressive for its low-budget roots and loose but inspired plot twists -- is a tedious exercise in shoddy horror that's just as forgettable as 99 percent of its straight-to-DVD kin.

What really undoes writer-director John Keitel's admirable intentions is the general lack of artistry on virtually every level.

A romantic comedy whose sour take on romance never manages to be comic.

No one expects much from movie adaptations of TV shows but complete incoherence and boredom is a bit too much to bear.

Though there's some trashy fun to be had in the film's first half, this cynical sequel -- devolves into space junk even faster than the unfortunate Ross.

It's not the bomb on the plane that scuttles this film: It's the mugging, ham-fisted direction and total absence of comic timing.

Depending on your taste, either much hilarity or a tedious barrage of tasteless, juvenile pranking ensues. Trust your instincts.

None of this is any more fun as it sounds -- the cancer ward scenes are truly disturbing -- but to be fair, writer/director Lone Scherfeg (the first woman to make a Dogme 95 film) manages some black-humored laughs.

The movie is simultaneously soft and icky; the gross-out effects are grafted onto a sub-"Tales from the Crypt" ghost story that never scares up any serious chills.

Basic knowledge of the original series is mandatory, but the more familiar you are, the more glaring this movie's considerable deficiencies will seem.

Sleek, pointless action picture.

Most of the scenes fall flatter than a lead soufflé, and the film's sight gags -- Andy dumping campers' bodies by the roadside, Gene humping the refrigerator -- are outrageous without actually being funny.

Curtis' considerable and diverse talents don't go entirely unused.

Coarse, cliched and clunky.

A crudely executed affair that doesn't play well to Western sensibilities.

It's more silly than scary and relies excessively on surprisingly low-rent CGI effects and crude wirework to drum up interest in the slight story.

There's never a dull moment and seldom one that isn't sublimely ridiculous.

Despite the overplotting, there's scarcely any of the characterization that might have made some of it interesting.

Entirely too convoluted for kids and implausible even by the standards set by the original concept.

No better than the first.

Dumb premises have driven some wonderful romantic comedies, but for all its vaguely mystical trappings, Prywes's film lacks the magic that makes them work.

This tepid ghost story fails to focus on either its story or its target audience.

This oddly flat serial-killer picture shows none of the baroque flair that characterizes the best of Italian horror filmmaker Dario Argento's work.

Formulaic and deeply unfunny.

This loud and thoroughly obnoxious comedy about a pair of squabbling working-class spouses is a deeply unpleasant experience.

Ask New York-based filmmaker Amos Poe, who badly botches this profile of the artist with a sloppy structure, careless editing and amateurish optical effects that detract from what's actually good about the film: Earle's music.

Collapsed into the black hole of its own mythology.

Even the teens at whom this plodding and predictable romantic comedy is clearly aimed are unlikely to be swept away by its contrivances.

Seriously undermined by its sour tone and an unusually charmless performance by star Chris O'Donnell.

A misfire of spectacular proportions.

Maybe gross-out romantic comedy is a shallow well, and it was simply Rogers's misfortune to find himself with a bucket full of sludge.

This amateurish picture was built around surfing footage that Mikelson shot for a Compaq computer ad and developed with an eye for accommodating a series of lush tropical locations: It's no wonder the plot and characters feel like afterthoughts.

This mean-spirited revenge story would once have starred Cole Hauser's father, veteran B-movie psycho Wings Hauser, and played grindhouses and drive-ins. And it would have been a far more entertaining picture.

The sweet nostalgia of Travolta and Thurman's reprise of their "Pulp FIiction" dance-floor flirtation cuts through a lot of rubbish, including the Black Eyed Peas' smutty "Sexy."

Compared to this brash, lunkheaded vehicle for "Baywatch" star Pamela Anderson Lee, the Barb Wire graphic novels are masterpieces of subtlety and narrative restraint.

So bewildering it's almost entertaining, this comedy of fiftysomethings and their extramarital affairs is one of those films you can actually see flailing for life.

It's not easy to make a thriller that's both incredibly convoluted and intensely boring, but director E. Elias Merhige scores on both counts with this lame excuse for a spooky crime story.

Writer-director Richard Ledes' dreadfully misconceived, pitch-black, film-noir comedy seeks to find the humor in the post-WWII mental hygiene boom, and the result is way off target.

The relentlessly self-congratulatory tone is oppressive.

Chase is a veritable black-hole of mirthlessness who sucks every ounce of fun out what might otherwise be a fairly diverting comedy.

Dash and screenwriter Adam "Blue" Moreno abandon the stone-faced seriousness of the first film for a more playful approach, goofing on gangsta' poses and colorful hood-speak.

If it's all supposed to be in fun, why does it feel so much like an insult?

Criticism seems irrelevant at best.

Tries to leave the impression of Escobar as a positive force whose dirty money actually saved Colombia's economy while those of neighboring Latin American countries collapsed.

The series went from self-parody back to normal with this dull entry.

To say that the film is unenjoyable would be an overstatement; a good time can be had counting the number of reassuringly stock characters it offers up.

The fact that this is somebody's real-life story up on there the screen doesn't necessarily guarantee it's an especially fresh story.

Were the film's tone not so hysterical it might be provocative; as it is, insights and insults are inextricably intertwined.

Like so much dope humor, Soling's logic is fuzzy, and you'd have to be pretty high to find any of it funny.

This soft, formulaic comedy/drama has a far better cast than it deserves, and they work their hearts out trying to bring life to a cliched script.

This limp, forgettable fluff is as preachy and heavy-handed as the "Goofus and Gallant" cartoons that a generation of children far less media-savvy than today's recognized as ham-fisted lessons in good behavior masquerading as funny strips.

A harmless, if ultimately inane, fantasy-comedy vehicle for youngsta-rapper Lil' Bow Wow, a 15-year-old who's already an alarmingly accomplished scene stealer.

This whimsical weeper gets off to an awkward start and never finds its footing.

Nudity and foul language make this off limits to children. Downright stupidity makes it off limits to adults.

All the money in the world couldn't have saved actress-turned-filmmaker Troy Beyer's lewd, obnoxious, product placement-laden remake of the sweet and simple romantic comedy "Can't Buy Me Love."

A romantic comedy whose no-holds-barred gross-out elements sour an already graceless mix of crude pratfalls and heartache.

After an onslaught of prerelease hype promising the erotic experience of a lifetime, Showgirls reveals itself as a 131-minute dose of cinematic saltpeter.

A riot of artfully grungy hotel rooms, sleazy costumes and sordid behavior, Allan Mindel's directing debut gives off the smug air of hipsters at play, making it hard to care what happens to any of its lost souls and inept opportunists.

Tedious...To call the picture formulaic is to miss the point: It's so openly contemptuous of its audience that it doesn't even bother to run the formula.

Dull and unimaginative.

Without Bullock, the film's frantic antics would be painful to watch; with her, they're just trivial.

Inconsistency of tone and internal logic plagues the film throughout.

So consistently awful, it's almost entertaining.

The movie takes a desperately wrong turn about 45 minutes in, and you can almost hear the great sucking sound as the whole thing churns down the drain in a swirl of narrative contradictions.

The script is a jumbled bag of war-movie cliches, and hack director J. Lee Thompson--who surpassed himself precisely once, with Cape Fear--is on auto-pilot throughout.

It's a classic fantasy scenario, overflowing with creative possibilities, but Carrey's Nolan isn't charmingly misguided or comically loathsome enough to deserve the lesson; he's just a big, inconsequential crybaby.

A totally unnecessary and extremely poor sequel to the original "Halloween". Although Dean Cundey's photography goes a long way toward recapturing the look of the first film, director Rick Rosenthal is no Carpenter, and the emphasis here is on graphic blood and gore rather than the skillful manipulation of the audience.

Harlin's brisk pacing leaves little time for reflection, but the whole house of blood-spattered cards dissolves upon even cursory reflection.

If not precisely charismatic, Statham brings authentic athleticism and a certain cheeky presence to his lightly written role.

The lame and apparently tacked-on ending (which seems to crib footage from 2000's "Gladiator"), suggests the rather terrifying prospect of a Roman-era sequel. Five words: Be afraid, be very afraid.

A self-consciously arty ensemble piece that's alternately exploitative, implausible and cliche ridden.

Whereas the badly miscast Stallone never gets a handle on the material (albeit there isn't much to get a hold of), Parton manages to rise above the script and is appealing. The multiple costume changes that she and Stallone make, however, are no substitute for laughs.

These lessons are driven home via silly dialogue ("Her name was Marion and she loved volcanoes...") and painfully predictable plot complications, repeated often enough that there's no need to take notes, except for the benefit of friends who fall asleep.

The film's only sparks are generated by Tom's last-ditch attempt to win back Sarah's affections, but they come too late to redeem the picture from its surfeit of over-the-top physical comedy and low-brow jokes.

The only memorable moments in the entire film come courtesy of three supporting characters, dopey skateboarders (Evan Peters, Shane Hunter, Hunter Parrish) who blindly follow Julie around.

The dullest movie ever made about child abuse, conspiracy and murder.

With its porno plot, Undressed production values and ersatz "Will & Grace" banter that manages to be crude without being the least bit funny, Q. Allan Brocka's debut is a tasteless comedy that nevertheless leaves a nasty flavor on the tongue.

The heart of the problem may be that real life youth-sports insanity has far exceeded the bounds of family-friendly comedy.

Along the way, director Brian Robbins indulges Reeves in too many laughable inspirational speeches. He also wastes the terrific Diane Lane in the thankless role of the kids' dedicated teacher.

Anemic chronicle of money grubbing New Yorkers and their serial loveless hook ups.

This picture is just shapeless and shrill. It's disposable, forgettable and aimed at an audience that doesn't care.

The film's subtexts are profoundly reactionary. Women are foolish and untrustworthy.

Lynch's fatal flaw is in her handling of the leads. Sands is made to play his single-minded romantic as a spineless, groveling wimp, while Helena is a one-note ice queen for more than half the movie, never reacting realistically to her predicament. The characters are so lacking in dimension and unsympathetic that it's hard to care about them or their story.

There are worse movies, but that's no excuse. Rarely has so much money delivered so little entertainment.

A convoluted exercise in shifting perspectives and fractured storytelling.

The few good lines go to Kristofferson and the ever-amusing Kier, but Snipes's considerable energy is buried under an affectless, Terminator-style demeanor.

A turkey with all the trimmings.

The dramatic scenes are frequently unintentionally funny, and the action sequences -- clearly the main event -- are surprisingly uninvolving, especially given that director Christian Duguay is an extreme skiing buff who habitually shoots dangerous stunts himself.

Self-indulgent wallow in privileged malaise.

Since BLACK SHEEP was directed by talented Penelope Spheeris (WAYNE'S WORLD), we had some hope that we'd find it marginally less distasteful than TOMMY BOY. We were disappointed.

This is a terrible movie in its own right, tasteless and condescending -- if Sandler's character is an Everyman, than the Everyman of today is a boorish jackass

Boyar's best efforts -- which are quite good -- can't begin to compensate for Guttenberg's grotesque excesses or make the weirdly warm relationship that develops between them convincing, let alone appealing.