The movie's gossamer-thin plot, padded with dream sequences and flashbacks to scenes you saw less than an hour earlier, exists only as an excuse for obvious homages to better films, stunt casting...and what pass for clever remarks in circles unfamiliar with real wit.

Unceasingly vulgar and sporadically funny, this revenge comedy rests heavily on the shoulders of former SNL wiseacre Norm Macdonald.

The result is yet another tired, ultimately incoherent horror movie that undoes the promise of its pretty good premise and potentially interesting story structure with dull scares, sloppy ending and a pair of unconvincing, leaden lead performances.

Quite possibly the final word on a much-maligned genre.

Comic Tommy Davidson, in particular, is hilarious as gangsta rapper Puff Smokey Smoke, who falls for Juwanna and then, in a twist lifted directly from the queen of all drag farces, 1959's "Some Like It Hot," decides he still loves her after she's exposed as Jamal. After all, nobody's perfect.

This package of three short films originally produced for German television is sex-themed without being especially sexy.

Plenty of bone-crunching brawn, but not a brain cell in sight.

The acting is lame and the rehashed script is silly. The film drags on and on until its obvious and none-too-thrilling conclusion. This is a film to punish the kids with if their behavior grows intolerable.

The politics get pretty short shrift, but cigarettes and liquor are everywhere.

Fart, feces and gonad gags notwithstanding, this knockabout comedy is no more vulgar than most contemporary children's films, and more good-natured than many.

It's probably just passable for children, but adolescents won't sit still for this bland mixture of mediocre jokes and soft-core action.

Scripted by the extraordinarily prolific John Hughes, directed by Howard Deutch, and starring John Candy and Dan Aykroyd, this disappointing comedy should have been much funnier given the talent of those involved.

Nathanson's script has a disheartening let's get on with it air, and the film feels like marathon training...

Ill-conceived, pathetically realized follow-up to "Saturday Night Fever."

Horror buffs looking for a novel twist on genre formulas should look elsewhere, but this body-count potboiler about a sinister video game and the poor dopes who make the mistake of playing it is the movie equivalent of junk food: It's not good, but it's predictable and even satisfying, in a low-expectations way.

This mean-spirited invisible man movie tries to hide its poverty of fresh ideas behind a load of state-of-the-art special effects.

Despite its provocative premise, this throwback to deliberately paced, low-tech chillers of the pre-CGI era is a dreary slog through haunted-child movie cliches -- portentous dreams, glassy-eyed stares, cryptic pronouncements.

HER ALIBI veers with little purpose from bland drama to heavy-handed slapstick, with rhythm, characterization, and plotting better suited to television than the movies.

Adam Sandler can breathe a sigh of relief: Thanks to this crude, bafflingly unfunny comedy from fellow SNL alum Mike Myers, Sandler can rest assured that his "You Don't Mess With The Zohan" won't go down as the worst movie of 2008.

Another dull slasher movie (this one less gory than most).

The performances, surprisingly, are not bad at all. Kristen Minter does well with what she has, as does Vanilla himself. However, it's impossible to take anything seriously--the film's dramatic premise is utterly insupportable and David Kellogg's direction renders the choices flat.

The runaways' actions provide anything but responsible models for the children who make up the film's target audience, and the likable cast flails against the rampant idiocy and gross commercialism.

The original English scripts certainly were peppered with sly, topical asides aimed squarely at adults. Paul Bassett Davies' updated screenplay attempts to follow suit, but what passes for topical these days is pretty much limited to industry inside jokes and constant allusions other movies. Thankfully, the animation itself is thoroughly inspired.

For some reason, producer Wisberg decided to revive the long dead Hercules craze, and luckily it didn't take.

It's only too bad nobody lectured the producers about creative cowardice. If someone had, Another 48 Hrs. might have been another good movie instead of just another damned sequel.

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 bare-bones plot is merely an excuse to string together a series of gross-out jokes involving bodily fluids, private parts, food and genetic deformities.

The result is sometimes strained, but often fresh and funny. And the sequence in which the entire cast sings "Avenues and Alleyways," bombastic '70s crooner Tony Christie's lush ode to thug life, is worth the price of admission in itself.

With friends like these, the poor guy took what he probably thought was the easy way out.

A straight-faced throwback to the glory days of mutant wildlife on the rampage.

Although the story is as predictable as can be -- "surprise" twist ending included -- the performances are better than those in most super-low budget horror pictures, and Jessica Gallant's super-16mm cinematography is surprisingly handsome.

The story is treacly sweet, told in a simplistic animation style that has lamentably become an industry standard. Kids will enjoy the events, however, and parents might be mildly amused by the cast of famous voices. But at close to an hour and a half, MY LITTLE PONY pushes the limits of a younger child's attention span.

An extremely loud and simpleminded cross between TV's "WWF Smackdown!" and "Dumb and Dumber."

Its misogyny, homophobia and overall grossness undermine the tired gags, and its relentless portrayal of African-American women as money-grubbing hootchie mamas (the sole exception is, of course, Dre's mom) would be wholly unacceptable if a white filmmaker had been at the helm.

As to the dream sequence featuring Lonnie's and Brandy's trash-talking babies, it's just creepy.

A ridiculous and totally insipid film.

Cocky, vulgar and very noisy picture.

Steve Austin is conspicuously inarticulate and uncharismatic. Former soccer lout Vinnie Jones, whom no one will ever mistake for Laurence Olivier, acts rings around him.

Sally Field has actually made a likeable movie.

Its real problem is that Matilda Dixon, apparently conceived as a cross between the Blair Witch and Freddy Krueger, is an oddly characterless bogeyman, perhaps because she's 100 percent special effects technology with no actor underneath.

An offbeat, sometimes gross and surprisingly appealing animated film about the true meaning of the holidays.

Sleek, pointless action picture.

Director Arthur, who struggled for eight years to get this film funded, claimed that her right to final cut was revoked by the producers and that they trashed her version and released what she describes as a more exploitative cut.

Has a sour undertone that strangles its cheap laughs.

The old talking-animal routine gets a bit of an update in that this time the animal is vulgar and profane in a way Mr. Ed or Francis the Talking Mule would never have been. But that's about the extent of the inventiveness in this unfunny comedy.

Directed and co-written by country singer Dwight Yoakam, this film just screams "vanity project."

Bodrov's staging and cutting does a perfectly good job conveying their anthropomorphized feelings and motives; the spoken drivel is just a distraction. The film's human characters are largely inconsequential.

The film is a harmless extension of the skit, aimed at fans and best viewed as a showcase for Meadows's considerable talents.

Has the dubious appeal of a preachy "Afterschool Special."

Witless comedy.

The whole thing is soggy cardboard.

Landis' direction is indulgent, to say the least, with big landscapes, big crashes, big hardware, and big gags filling the screen. What he forgets is character development, that all-important factor that must exist for comedy to work well.

Allowing for the fact that any Pokemon movie is essentially a feature-length commercial designed to make little kids want Pokémon stuff, this one has its moments.

The film makes a noble attempt to present history in a realistic, nonheroic light, but Hudson is done in by a dull script and some ludicrous (curiously unrealistic) casting (Pacino as a Scot, Sutherland as a Brit, and Kinski as an American).

The film is an encouraging effort from McCrudden -- he manages to avoid the staginess of the recurring two-characters-in-a-hotel-room set-up -- and features a standout performance from Williams.

Morgan borrows Christmas-specific nastiness from a wide range of fright flicks, but the result is less than the sum of its parts.

Another broad-brush, unfunny feature from one-time stunt director Needham.

Postal's touches of wit are lost in the flying body parts, gross-out gags, and the full frontal spectacle of Foley's no-longer-private parts.

Even the snowboarding scenes that might have been the visceral heart of this thing are cut in such a way that we never get more than a few seconds of full-frame athletic skill; despite the real-life snowboarders doing the stunt work (including Rob "Sluggo" Boyce, Tara Dakides and Javas Lehn), it all looks like editing-room cheats.

Benigni's artfully composed images are as empty as his political convictions.

Blame It On Rio turns into a most uncomfortable film, leeringly depicting an affair with decidely icky undertones of incest and pedophilia. Between gratuitous (if titillating) nude scenes and a succession of lame soundtrack songs, there are plenty of travelogue shots to pad out the thin narrative line. Caine looks embarrassed through the entire film, as well he might.

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

If Reeves weren't onboard this picture would have gone straight to video.

Driver and Renner deliver haunting performances in this story of crime and punishment.

This picture's b-movie values probably play better on video than in theaters.

The film leaves the viewer feeling violated and ashamed. Avoid.

There is nothing original or especially interesting about this film, though in-jokes abound.

The premise is pretty simple, and at two hours the murky sound, muddy low-light images and frequently dreadful acting are a little tough to take.

For all its sensitivity, the film abounds with movie cliches about the developmentally challenged.

Fans of unashamedly low-brow comedies may well be amused by the eccentricities of Cabin Boy, but more conventional viewers should probably beware.

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.

Good score, OK crash sequences, and lots of unintentional laughs are the only reasons to sit through this movie.

Gets off to a pretty intriguing start before degenerating into a series of routine action sequences.

The bad news is that, though professionally produced on a micro-budget, Azita Zendel's ambitious writing-directing debut is undermined by an awkward script and some very amateurish acting.

The real-life Hayata plays himself with little conviction, while the rest of the Spanish-speaking cast give the impression that they don't have the slightest idea what their English-language dialogue means.

Folks watching any movie that opens with a shot of a butt crack (with the possible exception of "Lost in Translation") can't claim they weren't warned.

A lifeless and sophomoric attempt at romantic comedy that draws on the fantasy films of old Hollywood but fails miserably.

Walks a thin line between refreshing irreverence and shameless exploitation of offensive gay stereotypes.

The difference between this movie and the original is Bill Murray, whose charm gave the first film its best moments and raised the mediocre plot into something mindless but sweet. Here the characters are stereotypes. Perhaps the only reason to see the picture is for Paul Reubens, who has a relatively minor part.

The less you demand of this bloody, by-the-numbers sequel, the more you'll enjoy it.

The laughs are low, the breasts are high, and the film is instantly forgettable.

The superficially cheery “Boogie Nights” is infinitely scarier.

A hick-town, screwball comedy version of "Dog Day Afternoon," and surprisingly palatable despite its sitcom soul and star.

Cunningham tackles a complicated subject, rejecting the stridency favored by filmmakers of the Spike Lee persuasion in favor of a more even-handed tone.

It's all terribly schematic, thematically obvious and not in the least bit funny.

Ledger swirls his cassock glamorously, while Weller is clearly concealing cloven hoofs beneath his; Addy plays the fool and the one-note Sossamon is thoroughly annoying, as fey as Meg Tilly but without Tilly's redeeming faraway air.

A lifelong baseball enthusiast, director and co-producer Mike Tollin -- persuaded many real-life baseball figures to make cameo appearances.

Thanks to the smart casting of Jon Voight as the school’s principal and Lainie Kazan as Yasmin’s beloved Bubbie, the two-hour run time won't be a complete bore for adults.

Ambitious though it may be, this fourth entry in the HELLRAISER saga is easily the least of the film series.

The film features a great cast and is adapted from a funny and moving book by Joseph Wambaugh, but the result is an abysmal, disjointed mess.

This coarse, nearly incoherent action picture apparently aspires to a 'Pulp Fiction"-like mixture of brutality and self-referential insouciance.

If this is even a reasonably accurate account of someone's real life, then we as a culture may be in worse shape than we imagine.

This convoluted, time and continent-tripping tale is heavy on the adolescent angst and swoony romanticism.

The script too often sounds like an encrypted communique itself, and it's tiring trying to keep all the nonsensical space-jargon straight. The effort is more demanding than hanging onto a joystick, and not entirely worth the effort.

The acting is laughable, the story as believable as honesty in government.

So, in essence, The Informers fails precisely because we never believe these lost souls were ever human enough to have had a soul to lose in the first place.

Hardman is a grating, mannered onscreen presence, which is especially unfortunate in light of the fine work done by most of the rest of her cast.

It's cheap, sloppy, and too jumbled up to know what it should be.