Lawrence -- with the help of Oscar-winning makeup effects artist Greg Cannom ("Mrs. Doubtfire") -- has created yet another prosthetic screen wonder.

Frankly, it's dumb, but no dumber than "Transformers."

A film that pays lip service to some interesting ideas, but is far too concerned with pleasing a large crowd to be anything more than another instantly forgettable fright flick.

Not so much a sequel as a reworking of old nonsense, CLASS OF 1999 is a thuddingly dull B movie that borrows its few thrills from other, more satisfying films.

In a world filled with crude movie sitcoms, Berg's bitter, worst-possible-case scenario really does stand alone.

If it weren't for the running flatulence gag, the whole silly business might be mistaken for slight, clean, fast-moving fun.

So outrageously, unregenerately stupid that you might be tempted to think it's smart. But it's not: It's as dumb as Georgia dirt.

Jade's seamy excesses would be conventional in a direct-to-video erotic thriller; in a major studio production, they're embarrassing.

Taken as a whole, the film is dragged down by the same old incoherent plotting and characters, driven by the same old half-baked machismo and mealy-mouthed misogyny that have come to define Cimino the auteur. As a result, and despite the efforts of Rogers and Hopkins, Desperate Hours is more than a title; it's a description of a movie-going experience.

None of it really amounts to anything, even as a nostalgic snapshot of a time and place.

Though beautifully acted by Basinger (everyone else is relegated to a supporting role), there's a strange vagueness to much of this sumptuous, stunningly photographed melodrama.

"Saturday Night Fever" with designer drugs and duds.

A pretty little package whose perfect, fairy-tale ending is just a little too neat, the film's colorful wrapping includes veteran actress Carol Kane's bizarre but enjoyable performance as the school's uptight drama teacher.

Director Dennie Gordon keeps the pace brisk, and between makeovers and pratfalls, the girls deliver an easy-to-swallow dose of girl power.

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 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.

Bill Forsyth's films are always idiosyncratic, but Being Human is so steeped in the director's interior dialogue with himself as to be incomprehensible to anyone who doesn't happen to be Bill Forsyth

On paper it looks like a bad idea for a comedy, but on film it looks even worse.

The cast tries but the laughs simply aren't there, despite the filmmakers' apparent conviction that homages plus penis jokes equals wit.

Without an assured character at its center, the movie quickly collapses in a heap of moldy clichés and contrived (and not especially funny) situations.

The sheer force of imagination that produced the film's unique mix of different styles, musical numbers and hipster doggerel is extraordinary.

The second attempt to bring a dark corner of the Marvel comic-book universe to the screen, this comic-book-based revenge story is undermined by its inconsistent tone.

Louise Fletcher is a walking sight gag as the evil principal, but just about every other gag falls flat and lies there, wheezing.

Despite the participation of Moonstruck screenwriter John Patrick Shanley, a fine cast, and director Pat O'Connor, The January Man is a disappointing movie that plays like something that had languished at the bottom of Shanley's desk drawer since his student days.

Director Tony Scott's stylistic flourishes haven't been put to such creepily seductive use since The Hunger.

It might be best to discreetly misplace your invitation to these strained festivities.

If anyone is to blame for this bomb it's Forte: He wrote the thing, and one would assume he's the one responsible for those uncomfortable silences where jokes are supposed to be.

Braff and Bateman have a good, darkly comic chemistry, but there aren't nearly enough moments like the brutally funny, "Murderball"-style wheelchair basketball game to sustain the entire film.