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The Benny Goodman Story and The Glenn Miller Story. (And just about every damn last biopic of any jazz or pop players up until then, for that matter.) The actual stories of both men were bowdlerised beyond belief in these films. (It only begins with Benny Goodman's eventual wife not being anywhere near single when they met---she was en route a divorce when she met Goodman for the first time.) About the only accurate thing in either of them was Steve Allen's physical resemblance to Benny Goodman. (Clearly, they weren't casting James Stewart as Glenn Miller according to physical resemblance.) And the manner in which the Miller film's makers treated his death---the scene in which you see June Allyson as his wife crying quietly by the radio while Miller's Army Air Force band plays what's touted as something worked up brand new, never before played, and now being played by his original request, a version of "Little Brown Jug" which is touted throughout the film as a song she loves and he can't stand---should have gotten the director drummed right out of the business. There was nothing either new or never before played about it at the time Miller died---it was one of Miller's final hits before he went into the service in the first place. A very good film could be made about either swing era star, particularly about Miller, who was at once a little more and a little less than his image suggested. These films weren't it.

The Pride of the Yankees---If only because of they way they rewrote Gehrig's famous off-the-cuff farewell speech at Yankee Stadium (sorry, folks, but history has its claims), this film should have gotten one and all involved tried by jury for post facto manslaughter. There was absolutely no excuse. That speech was swiftly transcribed and well enough available even that soon around the time of Gehrig's death that there was no excuse not to put the actual words into Gary Cooper's mouth. Or, not to put the single microphone before him that Gehrig actually did have at the Stadium, and not the small bank of mikes in front of Cooper. That's only the most blaring offence.

Mildred Pierce---Joan Crawford was an overactress. Case closed.

Every film Elvis Presley made except Jailhouse Rock, although King Creole had a few redeeming moments.

The Rocky films.

The Crying Game---An absolute bore that wasted some pretty effective cinematography. Also notable for garnering the only Academy Award for Best Supporting Actor ever given to the exposed schlong of (and I use the term very loosely) an actor who made a better-looking woman than the actual women in the film.

Oceans Anything Past Eleven. Remaking Oceans 11 was a good idea and it was a good film. Anything after that was feeding a dead slot machine. (Though I'd love to see George Clooney have a crack at remaking Robin and the 7 Hoods, if he's going to remake Frank Sinatra chestnuts.)

Xanadu. Want to know how Olivia Newton-John and the Electric Light Orchestra got their careers killed? Begin here.

The Love Machine. It looks and feels even now as though someone had thought you could make a viable film with wooden acting and stunted dialogue from the Cliff Notes of a trashy novel.

Heaven's Gate. Also known as: How to Sink The House That Chaplin, Fairbanks, and Pickford Built in Forty Million Easy Lessons.

. . . just to name a few . . .