Roger Ebert's Scathing Review: The 10 Most Abysmal Films Ever

Before Rotten Tomatoes rode into the sunset as the ultimate arbiter of cinematic worthiness, we had the incomparable Roger Ebert. Ah, Ebert—who, alongside his partner in critique, Gene Siskel, ruled the roost of film analysis until the universe took Siskel from us in 1999, leaving Ebert to carry the torch of movie wisdom almost single-handedly through the roaring '90s. Ebert was a charming wordsmith who talked about movies as if they were his best friends—his thumbs up or down could either ignite a film's career or send it crashing into the abyss faster than a bad pun at a Shakespearean play.

With a passionate flair, Ebert was nothing if not opinionated. His relationship with films mirrored that of a wise old friend advising you on love: he loved some with a fiery ardor and gleefully savaged others with the precision of a sushi chef wielding a knife. Take “Deuce Bigalow: European Gigolo,” where the titular character expands his rather dubious trade internationally. The first outing generated a surprisingly devoted fanbase, prompting a sequel that Ebert butchered, offering it a resounding zero stars and an exasperated thumbs down. He famously remarked that watching this film was akin to enduring a medieval torture device; the fleeting joy of laughter was drowned in a sea of sheer suffering.

Then there was “Sour Grapes,” a comedy that ought to have produced laughter but turned out to be more sour than a week-old lemon. Written and directed by Larry David, it chronicles two cousins wrestling over gambling winnings. Ebert, in a moment of brutal honesty, declared it a serious contender for his most disliked film—though he ultimately preserved that honor for “North,” a cinematic atrocity that made him question humanity. Ebert’s critique cut deeper than a well-placed character arc; he suggested David’s brilliance was best matched with collaborators, rather than stranded in solo endeavors.

And who could forget the infamous Alan Smithee? The pseudonym that directors resort to when unhappy with their work turned out to be Ebert’s weapon of choice when discussing “An Alan Smithee Film: Burn Hollywood Burn.” The absurdity of a director stealing their own film back inspired Ebert to lament that it desperately needed a mercy cut of over 86 minutes. If only Hollywood had invested as much thought into the content as the credits, perhaps they would have avoided such a debacle.

“Caligula,” a controversial visual feast of indulgent Roman debauchery led by the magnetic Malcolm McDowell, wasn't spared either. Ebert likened it to artistic filth, a film so grotesque that it transcended bad cinema—becoming a lingering embarrassment to its very existence. Conversely, “Last Rites,” featuring a convoluted narrative about mob ties and unfortunate love interests, had Ebert proclaim that the screenplay itself was where the story should’ve concluded—an astute reminder that not all scripts should see the light of day.

Amidst a star-studded cast, “Mad Dog Time” managed to baffle him completely. With a plot as muddled as a teenage diary, he likened watching it to waiting for a bus in a city where you have no idea if public transport even exists. Quite the analogy, don’t you think? What’s worse than being lost in transit? Being lost while watching a film that feels equally directionless.

Shifting from inept plotlines to the distinctly peculiar family dynamics of “She’s Out of Control,” Ebert found himself pondering paternal obsession over relational warmth, suggesting that Danza’s character may have taken “overprotective dad” to a whole new level of weird.

Then we arrive at “B.A.P.S.” featuring Halle Berry and Natalie Desselle-Reid, two engaged characters who nevertheless fell flat for Ebert, who claimed the narrative danced dangerously close to uninspired cliche—leaving audiences bored and perpetuating unfortunate stereotypes. I can almost hear Ebert sighing at missed opportunities.

Finally, there was the notorious “Freddy Got Fingered,” where Tom Green’s absurdity was met with resounding eye rolls from Ebert. The film, a collage of “shock” comedy, was less a masterpiece and more a haphazard dissection of human decency. Ebert posited it was an exercise in pushing the boundaries without ever finding a coherent point.

Amidst both praise and thorns, Ebert didn’t just scribble his way through the cinematic landscape from 1967 to 2011. He left behind a legacy of over 10,000 reviews—yes, you read that right. But, for every vitriolic thumbs down, there was a genuine love for film that shimmered through, making his critiques resonate beyond the pages. His website continues to live on, a testament to the profound, beautiful chaos that is cinema, where every film—good, bad, or outright bizarre—has a story worth telling. Thank you, Roger Ebert, for your unwavering candor and wit. You were, and still are, a treasure in the world of film criticism.