Overall, Graham and Perabo have so little to do that it's hard to imagine why Maggie has three daughters instead of one; they just clutter up her screen time. As to Perabo, she seems to exist for the sole purpose of making risque remarks, and the family dog has more memorable moments.

So awash in tired ethnic clichés that the story drowns.

Because of their restricted movements and expressions, we never believe for a moment that the creatures exist, thus making the film an utter failure.

Rich with atmosphere but too similar to films ranging from "Children of Men" to "Doomsday" to carve out its own distinctive niche.

In the long, hit-and-miss career of writer-director Alan Rudolph, this misbegotten comedy falls squarely into the miss bin.

It's often a pleasant diversion, and much more entertaining than LOOK WHO'S TALKING 2, which over-extended the talking baby tricks.

An underdeveloped script, anemic direction and pacing, uninspired production design, and miscasting of the two lead roles undermine some intriguing ideas and characters in Millennium. Despite its many deficiencies, however, this sci-fi brain teaser with love story elements is not entirely without interest.

In the end it's the same old blood pudding.

While not for every taste, this often very funny collegiate gross-out comedy goes a long way toward restoring the luster of the National Lampoon film franchise.

Director Jim Drake keeps things moving so quickly, one barely has time to notice just how stale the jokes here are.

In addition to its lack of originality, MAC AND ME is also blatantly commercial, selling everything from candy to soft drinks to fast-food restaurants--the film includes a "special guest appearance" by Ronald MacDonald.

For all the sex and slicing, the most shocking thing about it is how dreary it is.

Williams isn't really playing Adams: He's once again playing himself, and the act is getting tired.

Somehow, this one's even worse than the first. Called a sequel, it's basically the same movie, except that this time a different cast of teenagers gets killed in the usual, very graphic manner.

Very fast-paced, SPLIT SECOND is an example of the men-versus-monster genre, with a British setting providing a fresh twist.

By turns fascinating and intolerable.

Stylish and twisty, but not clever enough to support its more outrageous plot machinations.

One of the most dismal excuses for family entertainment ever perpetrated by a major studio, this crude, lazy variation on Disney's "Sky High" (2005) revolves around the education of four "special" youngsters at the hands of a washed-up superhero.

Steve and Doug's story just isn't funny, and it would take far better writing than Kattan, Ferrell and Steve Koren can muster to make it less than an ordeal.

Filled with tremendous stunts and well-shot racing sequences, director Steve Boyum's loud, down-and-dirty ride through the world of Supercross motorcycle racing comes to a screeching halt for its many pit stops for Hollywood clichés.

Slight, smart-alecky romantic comedy.

Director Joe Chapelle knows how to stage a spooky scene, and Going and McGowan supply a refreshing alternative to the shrieking bimbos so familiar to horror fans.

A pale imitation of the John Cassavettes original.

Laughable exploitation film results in a complete waste of time and talent.

One youngster -- even a youngster as talented as Rossum -- can't transform a mess of clichés into a little gem.

Very entertaining, if thoroughly silly.

A dismal and woefully inept werewolf picture.

Although director Bob Radler gums up the fight scenes with lots of unnecessary slo-mo, and the film follows its formula mechanically, this is a moderately serviceable action yarn.

Though rooted in broad stereotypes and sassy platitudes, the film's feisty cast and generally sunny outlook make for warm and reassuring comfort viewing, the equivalent of a straight-from-the-box dish of mac and cheese.

The locations and production design are breathtakingly beautiful. But though cast largely with Chinese actors, it was shot in English, which no doubt made business sense but almost certainly accounts for many truly awful performances.

Most significant and contrary to the Mormon Church's ongoing position, the film depicts Young as present when the plot is hatched to slaughter the emigrants. Needless to say, this workmanlike but unflinching film won't be playing in Utah anytime soon.

As for first-time feature director Mark Piznarski, he should be cited for excessive use of slow motion, sun-dappled trees and golden light; one more cliche violation and his license to direct would be forfeit.

Pseudo sci-fi gobbledygook aside, X-Files alumni James Wong and Glen Morgan's script is little more than an excuse for Jet Li to kick his own ass, which he does energetically and often.

So silly it's best taken ironically. But the film, much of it shot digitally, is also astonishingly beautiful.

This formulaic mess of sports-movie cliches and self-esteem claptrap contains a couple of funny bits, but you have to slog through a lot of done-to-death bodily function jokes to get to them.

Spin it however they like, the troubled but talented Lohan isn't what's wrong with this misbegotten mess.

Larry Bishop's painfully self-conscious homage to biker films of yesteryear is a carefully crafted pastiche that doesn't miss a wild-deadly-angels-devils-sadists-revenge cliché and can't hold a candle to the down-and-dirty likes of "The Glory Stompers."

The outtakes that accompany the end credits suggest that making the movie was a blast; it's a shame the same can't be said for watching it.

With cheesy special effects (even the volcano isn't convincing, considering the film cost $20 million) and a hole-ridden script, this film offers precious little to like.

Is there anything so painful as a comedy whose every gag falls flat and then lies there, flopping like a dying flounder?

While movies like "The Long Riders" (1980) and "The Great Northfield, Minnesota Raid" (1972) aim to be serious considerations of the outlaws' lives and legends, this picture just wants to have fun.

Every aspect of this film is reprehensible. Stallone's character is an empty hulk; the few attempts to provide us with little insights into his character are downright laughable.

We're treated to endless scenes of women getting slammed, thrown and clothes lined, while men's genitals are grabbed, groped, stroked and tasered. It's all just as painful as it sounds.

All's well that ends well, and rest assured, the consciousness-raising lessons are cloaked in gross-out gags.

Although this entry is competently directed, the series seems to have lost the zip and flashes of wit that made the first Death Wish so memorably repellent.

It's hard to believe that the same man who wrote and directed one of the best horror films of the 1970s, The Hills Have Eyes, could have pulled the same duty on the sequel and come up with a film as shockingly bad as this.

Screenwriter/director Bloom has produced a bad script and his direction of young actors is even worse. Nothing very explicit survives in the final cut, leaving Andrews' grim ruminations on the horrors of a perverted family life obtuse and undeveloped.

Generally regarded as Bronson's worst picture to date.

Enjoyable in a foolish way as Dickey performs amazing acrobatic feats while slicing up dozens of people with her sword. This film constitutes more slick exploitation from schlockmeisters Golan and Globus.

Nielsen's schtick is getting pretty threadbare by now -- his movies used to wring laughs from assaults on his silver-haired dignity, but after years of screen buffoonery, he has no dignity left to assault.

The film features a complete absence of plot, character, drama, comedy and acting.

Children may delight in some of DROP DEAD FRED's fanciful effects sequences, but they're likely to be bored by Elizabeth's grown-up problems. And adults may identify with its self-help message, but the rest is squirm-inducing.

So consistently awful, it's almost entertaining.

Cross an episode of "Friends" with an issue-of-the-week movie about gay parenthood and you have this glossy vanity project.

The supporting cast's comic abilities smooth over many -- if not all -- of the movie's flaws.

Film Ventures International (FVI) specialized in turning out cheap imitations of big blockbusters. When The Exorcist came out, FVI followed it with Beyond the Door; while Jaws was a number one money-grosser, FVI came out with this film, replacing the shark with a 15-foot bear.

The story is a bit predictable and the characters given to restating the obvious (presumably for the benefit of very young viewers), but overall this third Pokemon sequel is surprisingly entertaining.

Two idiots embark on a life of crime to help a deserving teenager attend Harvard in this lowbrow but generally sweet-natured comedy.

Larter just doesn't have the same bite as the bunny-killing stalkers of years gone by.

The real-life Modigliani did indeed live a short, tragic life, but this factually inaccurate, plodding film makes it feel twice as long.

Shot as "Backwater" and test-screened as "The Reaper," this film contains a couple of bracingly mean sequences, but it cleaves so closely to the slasher-movie formula that it can't muster up any suspense at all.

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.

Despite the futuristic setting, which relies so heavily on GGI effects that it looks like a feature-length production concept painting, this film is painfully predictable.

Though the film springs an okay twist at the very end, there's a good chance you won't be awake to see it.

Though handsomely mounted, this parable of intersecting destinies and implacable tragedy is as lifeless as a wax tableau.

For the most part, anything resembling a genuine plot is pushed back to give a showcase for Shore, a scenery chewer without conviction or noticeable talent, whose deficits as an actor and comedian have evidently remained safely hidden in the zap-happy MTV format until now.

It waffles constantly, and we never know if the creators are for or against gambling.

Call it Death Wish Goes Suburban.

Ritchie wraps this folderol in cinematic razzle-dazzle, including animated sequences, reverse motion, trompe l'oeil production design and tricky lighting. But it's still claptrap.

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

There's so much going on it's hard to keep track, and after a while you may be tempted to give up.

DeMeo is not without talent; he just needs better material.

There's some fun to be had in seeing two of TV's resident sweetie pies, Campbell and ER's Noah Wyle, play unrepentant sons of bitches, but it's not enough.

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.

Weepy, overwrought love story.

The dialog is dumb, the acting is dull, the attempts at physical humor are for the most part predictable.

Just painfully dull.

Lame, derivative comedy.

The film delivers lots of high-pitched hysteria but never manages to make its spoiled protagonists interesting.

Slight, over-long.

The first few films in this series are both amusing and produced with high technical values, but this fourth in the string is a poorly scripted, anemic production.

The profoundly unconvincing CGI work only makes the sorry screenplay and lackluster performances look worse.

The lesson is that money can buy a vanity project, but it can't buy talent, imagination or an audience.

A morose, slow-moving action picture.

Though the action is competently staged, there's little else in this film to hold one's attention.

What really sinks the film, though, is the utter absence of chemistry between Perry and Willis.

Is there anything more irritating than an exploitation filmmaker with self-referentiality on the brain?

Dopey "thriller."

Sex and psychosis mix in this nice looking, Super-8 psychodrama from Patrick McGuinn, the son of former-Byrd Roger McGuinn.

It's all a pretentious bore that feels twice as long as it's two-hour running time.

MAXIMUM OVERDRIVE doesn't work on any level. As a comedy it's obvious and asinine, as a horror film it's simply not scary, and as an action film it's a bore.

Jam-packed with car smash-ups, predictable situations, and a few stock characters, Moving Violations is nothing more than the cinematic equivalent of a connect-the-dots puzzle.

A worthless attempt to cash in on a lot of sniggering innuendo and crude slapstick.

Conner's screen debut is inauspicious--to put it kindly--in the quality of both his acting and the material chosen, and someone else is obviously doing his riding.

Martial arts fans will find plenty of action to hold their interest here, but those in search of plot and character are advised to look elsewhere.

Congo, adapted by John Patrick Shanley and directed by Stephen Spielberg protege Frank Marshall, is not one of the better silly action pictures set in gratuitously fake jungles and featuring nefarious foreigners, threatening natives, and talking gorillas.

Shot in shades of steely gray and streaked with near-constant rain, this gloomy revenge thriller is a sadistic cartoon.

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