Worst Best Picture Nominees (1980-2009)

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Can you name the Worst-reviewed Best Picture Nominees (1980-2009), by bad review?

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ReviewMovie
The ease with which the group falls back into their old patterns...after an awkwardly long period of separation is narratively convenient, but not really probable.
The film's Karen Blixen is part Scarlett O'Hara fighting to save Tara, part insensitive tourist marveling at the quaint customs of the local folk.
Hamstrung by...the disastrous casting of Robert De Niro and...strain of shooting in the Colombian jungle, director Roland Joffe has come up with an indigestible lump of sanctimony.
To call this the weakest of the three movies is like calling Fredo the weakest of the three brothers. Duh.
Once Dunbar...starts strutting around with a feather stuck in his hair, the movie teeters on the edge of Boy's Life literature, that is, on the brink of earnest silliness.
Lowenstein isn't so much a character as a chance for Streisand to showboat, to play a godlike healer and a pampered love object at the same time.
Reduces the tumult of the last few decades to a virtual-reality theme park: a baby-boomer version of Disney's America.
At times the film seems an obsessive ode to Mel Gibson machismo.
The actors are all dreadfully earnest, none more so than [Tobey] Maguire, who seems to be channeling Forrest Gump.
Coffey is a holy fool, and by emphasizing the man's shambling, menacing, big-buck hulkiness, Darabont comes uncomfortably close to racial stereotyping.
ReviewMovie
Like binging on a bottomless box of truffles: Tastes good and sweet at first, but after a while, you start feeling a little green.
Add the beefy, brooding Crowe for a hint of contemporary angst and stir in some World Wrestling Federation-level mayhem. Serve tepid.
Like being stuck inside a kaleidoscope for two hours while a madman plays a calliope next to your ear.
The 1860s New York sets…are amazing. Too bad the dull characters keep blocking our view of them.
In trying to preserve all the components of Hillenbrand's book, Ross veers fatally off course. The end result is as flatulent as an old nag, and stinks almost as bad.
By attempting to say everything about race, Haggis ultimately says nothing.
Alejandro González Iñárritu’s latest sprawling, dispersed art-film blockbuster prompts a question: Does he just not know how to tell a story?
Works in a...debate about 'the question of German guilt,' [but what it's] really interested in is the question of German sex. So think of it as 'Schindler's Lust.'
Who knew that F. Scott Fitzgerald's short story would end up on the screen as a three-hour Botox ad?
In every scene, Oher is instructed, lectured, comforted, or petted like a big puppy; he is merely a cipher.

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