As bad as the title, and much longer.

The first fruit of wunderkinder Alicia Silverstone's First Kiss Productions, this muddled thriller-cum-romantic comedy of errors suggests that she might want to lay off the producing for a few years.

Attack of the Killer Tomatoes employs calculatedly bad acting, ridiculous special effects, and inane dialog. Though it succeeded to some degree in achieving its goal, it's a thoroughly dull, unfunny effort.

Farley -- one of the few comedians who could ever be justly accused of debasing the pratfall -- has made a film that's tantamount to watching an overweight man slip on a banana peel for nearly 90 minutes.

An $18 million, star-studded disaster film, which in itself is a major disaster.

It's still trash.

Lame, derivative comedy.

During all of this tediously staged action, the virginal female heroine, Rennie Wickham (Jensen Daggett), suffers hallucinations about the young Jason. Not surprisingly, these scenes — which feel as if they belong in another movie — are among the most effective in the film, a welcome distraction from the mundane mechanics of the rest of this predictable effort.

Even the most ardent Cheech and Chong fans will have a hard time finding much to enjoy in this pathetic showing from the drug-oriented comedy duo.

A dreadful remake of the French farce LE JOUET (1976), THE TOY is poorly written, over-directed, and filled with sophomoric attempts at humor. Only Richard Pryor's personal energy manages to save it from being complete rubbish.

There isn't one laugh in this so-called comedy...The resulting situations are so moronic that the movie is unwatchable.

Although the premise of getting or not getting a first driver's license is a solid-enough base for 90 minutes of teenage comedy, License to Drive misses the point on all counts.

Utterly amateurish.

While doing nothing to dispel the stereotype that skateboarding is the sport of brainless jackasses, Casey La Scala's directing debut does feature some nifty boarding action.

Though it is silly, sleazy, and graphically violent, The Toxic Avenger does hold a bit of warped charm for fans of this sort of thing.

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.

Blake Edwards's obssessive concern with cross-dressing and sexual role switching has hopefully been purged in SWITCH, an obvious, dim-witted rehash of GOODBYE CHARLIE, saved from total failure by Ellen Barkin's bright, energetic slapstick performance.

This could have been trashy fun, if it had moved along briskly a la CLASS OF 1984. But it's self-important and dreary, marred by murky cinematography and painfully unconvincing pauses for character development.

Daisy Miller as a book is a good read, but the film by Bogdanovich is truly a dud in spite of handsome sets and an intelligent writing job.

The truth of the matter is that, given the thoroughly manipulative, red-herring plot twists that get her to the happy ending, most audience members will have ceased to care about whether she lives or dies long before the matter is settled onscreen.

Unfortunately, Petrie's idea of dramatic tension is to expose more boyish flesh as the movie progresses. And as more and more lumpy young pectorals are flashed, more and more people and objects are exploded. All this is accompanied by a persistently obnoxious soundtrack that features patriotic fanfares. And as the four different plots bump into each other like blinded laboratory animals, we begin to feel empathy if not pity for everyone involved.

Pokey, blood-spattered, cheap-scare-larded prequel.

Another worthless sex comedy.

While Lynch ladles on the random weirdness around the edges, it is Lee who keeps the film centered, with a harrowing but poignantly sympathetic portrait of a woman's descent into horror and madness.

Think "The Lion King" redone for horses, with fewer deliberate laughs, more inadvertent ones and stunningly trite songs by Bryan Adams.

Crass, trashy and none-too-funny comedy.

In the hands of a more gleefully provocative filmmaker, this variation on the standard erotic-thriller stew of sleaze, tease and murder, this ludicrous farrago might have been tawdry fun.

The spectacle of the near-naked Ricki (Lopez) striking sexually provocative yoga poses while floridly extolling the virtues of female genitalia is particularly mortifying, but it's only one of many horribly miscalculated scenes.