The film's last 20 minutes devolve into a tedious slog through the kind of pointless, predictable running and screaming that give horror movies a bad name.

The verdict: More thoughtful than Harlin's version, but hardly the invigorating mix of shocks and metaphysical horror needed to revitalize the Exorcist franchise.

This strictly paint-by-numbers effort is further sabotaged by the grating, so-called punk rock performances--actually heavy metal--that pad out the running time.

Just like many real-life holiday get-togethers with the family, this comedy starts out pleasantly enough but degenerates into awkwardness and furtive watch-checking to see how much longer you have to suffer before you can leave.

This forced comedy feels too long, although John Candy's unique manner sometimes overcomes Carl Reiner's flat direction.

Good-natured but overstuffed sequel.

Too bad the film isn't nearly as elastic as the miraculous green goo: It can barely contain all the flubber-induced chaos and still make sense, but the filmmakers don't quit till they've run out of funny things for flubber to do.

The result isn't very funny: There are clever bits, sure, but they're embedded in long, painfully obvious sequences built around one-shot gags.

Plagued by cliched characters, ridiculous situations, and a bombastic John williams score, SPACECAMP is just not a very good movie. All the stock shuttle footage or good looking special effects proffered can't disguise its tired treatment of well-worn ideas. SPACECAMP is just a conglomeration of overworked notions, coupled with a wholly unmemorable ensemble.

Dave Collard's preposterous script relies heavily on fortuitous coincidence... and thoroughly stupid behavior.

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.

The first-act crash is admittedly spectacular and the ending adequately suspenseful, but what comes between is disappointingly routine and completely lacks the kind character complexity that made the original a thrill every step of the way.

Bloodsport is strictly for martial arts buffs; little is offered here in the way of plot, dialog, or acting.

The big surprise is so obvious that it makes the deliberate pacing seem painfully slow, and Kidman's prissy accent and tight-lipped performance are more than a little grating.

Directed by John Glen (For Your Eyes Only), this movie has all the standard Bond components--beautiful women, picturesque locales, thrilling chases--but the time-tested formula is more than a little threadbare here. Moreover, Walken doesn't have the lines, the strength, the presence, or the dastardliness required to be a top-notch Bond adversary.

Largely vapid, borderline homophobic, and surprisingly treacly.

Goofy and surprisingly slow-moving.

The story and pacing of this offbeat comedy wear thin after the first 20 minutes.

There's nothing blatantly wrong with it (except perhaps the red-assed baboon ex machina), but it's 100% shock-free and coasts to a formulaic conclusion.

John Cleese supplies the voice of George's brainy and terrifically tolerant sidekick, a very unconvincing animatronic gorilla named Ape, but even he can't raise the level of humor above the harmlessly goofy.

Director James Bridges fails to instill much life into a narrative peopled with vapid characters.

Some good lines notwithstanding, this is a real disappointment.

The real problem with the new film, however, is a certain lack of chemistry between the leads; Wilson is game, as always, but his part is seriously underwritten, and while Murphy raises trash talking to the level of a fine art, he seems to be operating in another movie altogether.

This could have been a sweet, charming little romantic comedy, but it is ruined by excessive vulgarity and gratuitous nudity.

Ostensibly an "adult comedy" about serious things, screenwriter Richard LaGravenese's disjointed directing debut rings profoundly false, a story about class distinctions and suffering conceived and executed in privilege.

Frantically busy, largely laugh-free.

The last of seven "Road to" pictures and an awkward attempt at re-creating the fun of the previous films, this one has a few funny moments, but it's so filled with inside jokes that a lot of it will be lost on anyone who hasn't seen the other six movies in the series.

As with many Hollywood films before it, TRUE COLORS is a film with no discernable reason for existence, apart from the sheer joy of the filmmaking process itself. Far from being its own reward, however, the film is a dull, unreasonable cypher.