Mr. and Mrs. Smith wasn’t the first romantic comedy Alfred Hitchcock directed. He did some early in his career, 1928’s Champagne being one of the best. But by 1941, he was much better-known for mystery-thrillers like The Man Who Knew Too Much, The Lady Vanishes and Foreign Correspondent.

Mr. and Mrs. Smith’s star, Carole Lombard, was the one with the rom-com pedigree, but after losing the role of Scarlett O’Hara to Vivien Leigh, she had been proving her versatility with serious dramas. Mr. and Mrs. Smith was her return to comedy, and she wanted it to be special, so she lobbied to have Hitchcock direct, thinking that he’d bring a fresh perspective to the genre.

He didn’t. Mr. and Mrs. Smith is a standard screwball comedy with the requisite farce being that the title characters learn they were never legally married. When Ann Smith (Lombard) decides that that’s all for the best and that she doesn’t want to get remarried, David (Robert Montgomery) has to woo her all over again. The problem is in courting someone who already knows all his faults.

Unfortunately, the movie isn’t very funny and — since Ann is far more unlikable than her husband (he’s not flawless, but Montgomery’s charm goes a long way) — I never actually wanted him to win her over. Hitchcock and pals do get some dramatic mileage from the situation — anyone who’s had a long, intense relationship end without warning will relate to David’s wanting to win her back in spite of her failings — but even that’s resolved too quickly and randomly to be satisfying. —Michael May

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How bad is Monster High? This bad:
1) Even if I hate you, I hope you never have to see it.
2) It should bear the credit “written and directed by Jason Friedberg and Aaron Seltzer.”
3) I’d rather not watch anything for 84 minutes than sit through it again.

The list could go on and on, but let’s get down to business: Two aliens named Dume and Glume — ha, get it? — steal a wooden box containing a doomsday device. After it lands on Earth on the grounds of Montgomery Sterling High School, whereupon it kills a dog, the box is then stolen by one Mr. Armageddon.

Then lots of weird things appear in the school halls: head-smothering condoms, neck-strangling plants,a preppy zombie, a horny gargoyle, a mummy, a creature in red sneakers. It ends with the students squaring off against Mr. Armageddon at a climactic basketball match. Apparently, this plot is so complex that every scene requires narration.

The jokes — I apologize to the word “jokes” — are so insipid, that I also should apologize to the word “insipid.” An example: Dume and Glume rap! About penises and vaginas! Sample lyric: “You got your fimbriae / And your scrotum sac / And if your hymen is gone / It ain’t coming back.” Yes, Monster High has all the subtlety of a Three Stooges short. (Sorry, Moe, Larry and Curly.)

Apparently, all of the brainpower went into crafting names for the characters: Norm Median, Candice Caine, Mel Anoma, Miss Anne Thrope, Coach Otto Parts. The movie has exactly one thing going for it: boobs. Lots of large, naked breasts appear, and they’re from the era where they were real, rather than purchased on layaway. However, all the nude women are unseen from the neck up, as if they didn’t want anyone to know their identity. Smart move, ladies. —Rod Lott

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Last year, Four Lions received praise as a daring, cutting edge satire of the terrorist boogeymen we’ve been trained to fear over the course of the past decade. The praise is more than deserved, but I couldn’t help but wonder how it would have been received if had been made and released in 2002, instead of 2010. Would the critics still have been able to find the humor in it, while the wounds of 9/11 were still so fresh?

Given the reception Ernst Lubitsch’s masterpiece, To Be or Not to Be, received upon its release, the answer is, “Probably not.” A satiric farce set in Nazi-occupied Poland, the film was made while WWII raged on and the public was still only becoming aware of the unimaginable horrors perpetuated by Hitler’s evil regime. The film was met with outrage, as critics and audiences were unprepared and unwilling to see the terrifying enemy they were fighting overseas portrayed as blithering buffoons in silly uniforms. Twenty-three years later, Hogan’s Heroes would start a six-season run on network television. Time heals everything.

The film pairs TV legend Jack Benny (in what would be his defining film role) with the gorgeous Carole Lombard (who tragically died in a plane crash three months before its release) as Joseph and Maria Tura, Warsaw’s most beloved theatrical couple, whose company is forced to shut down following the Nazi invasion. Maria’s pre-invasion flirtation with a handsome Polish airman (Robert Stack) leads to their troupe using their acting skills to prevent a Nazi double agent from revealing the locations of the families of Poland’s exiled air force to the S.S.

Viewed today, To Be or Not to Be is less transgressively outrageous as it is outrageously funny. Made by a master in his prime, it is required viewing for anyone who considers themselves a student of film comedy, and remains as fresh and relevant as anything you can expect to see in a theater today. —Allan Mott

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Why doesn’t this turd have the words National Lampoon in its title? What sort of incriminating photos did the producers have of Cuba Gooding Jr.? Can the Academy for Motion Picture Arts and Sciences rescind the awarding of Oscars? And most importantly, why did I have to see if this really as bad as everyone says it is? Because it’s worse.

Any movie in which a character lip-synchs and dances to James Brown’s “I Feel Good” should be thrown in cinematic jail for life, but Boat Trip keeps piling on offenses, like doing a Chariots of Fire parody (those ceased being funny in 1983), giving Saturday Night Live’s Horatio Sanz a starring role, having Cuba dry-hump a porthole until he jizzes on a guy’s face, and having Roger Moore suggestively lick weenies, among other things.

The story (with apologies to the word “story”) has Gooding brokenhearted after his girlfriend (Vivica A. Fox) dumps him when he barfs on her cleavage and proposes marriage. To cheer him up, his ultra-horny janitor pal Sanz convinces him to accompany him on a cruise to engage in lots of promiscuous sex with loose women. But unbeknownst to them, a vengeful travel agent (Will Ferrell, whose cameo is the film’s only saving grace, outside of Victoria Silvstedt’s purple panties) books them on an all-male, all-gay ship. Let the homophobia ensue!

The initially disgusted Sanz thinks the trip might be okay after all when he accidentally shoots down a Swedish bikini team’s helicopter with a flare gun and they must board, enabling them to suntan and do jumping jacks topless. Gooding, meanwhile, falls for the ship’s dance instructor, Rush Hour 2 hottie Roselyn Sanchez — who does things to a banana here that presumably killed her career — but he can’t reveal to her that he’s not a homosexual.

Despite all the cheap shots, the film actually does carry a “being gay is just fine” message, but I doubt very many could make it that far. Its humor is absolutely infantile, and the look suggests a cheap, made-for-cable comedy that wouldn’t get watched without gratuitous nudity. —Rod Lott

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Video Wars is so obscure that, 27 years after its release — in a rented room at the Holiday Inn, I’m guessing — it didn’t even exist, according to its absence from the Internet Movie Database. Trust me: It was for the best.

The globe is being brainwashed by one Prince Radolpho … Rapemonger? Rightmonger? (The audio is horrible, so I can’t tell what the fat villain’s last name is.) Anyway, his aim is to control the destiny of anyone anywhere in the world, and requires a trillion-dollar annual allowance from America. To combat this scourge, the U.S. government has a plan that’s “too secret, too sensitive, too everything … we’ll have to field a special team.”

That’s comprised mostly of one guy (George Diamond) who looks like Joe Mantegna’s second cousin. He’s trained in “subversive activities” and must find Prince Radolpho’s computer terminal. To do this, he’s given some gadgets that look assembled from various cast-off parts in Radio Shack’s bargain bin. This film’s Q rattles them off: “a rotational axis with combined sensor … and last but not least, your acid pen.” Replies our hero, “I hope it doesn’t leak in my pocket!”

This leads to a gaggle of Russian female agents, many of whom are real hatchet-faces; multiple aerobics sequences; a snowman with spy-camera eyes; a chase on snowmobiles; and the can’t-miss pick-up line “You like chicken, baby? Well grab a wing.” Take none of this as a recommendation. This no-budget spy comedy is worse than an eye stab.

The whole video game element is pure gimmick, having very little to do with the actual movie. Early on, there’s a scene in which a room full of businessmen are playing a game, and they’re taking to the joysticks as if they’re masturbating. And toward the end, there’s an arcade contest where, judging by the screens shown, the object is to look at 8-bit patterns of random-size squares. That’s about it. Do not insert coin to continue. —Rod Lott