This is an example of product placement at its most errant. I don’t know what SeaWorld hoped to accomplish through their involvement with Jaws 3-D; maybe they thought people would flock to Orlando because they wanted to get trapped in an underwater tunnel while a giant shark rammed its fragile glass tubing. Fun!

It’s so bad that I didn’t really mind the pair of chattering mommies that sat in the row directly behind me. Their otherwise inane complaints about babysitters and grocery stores afforded me a few moments of relief from the painfully simplistic dialogue that plagues M. Night’s most recent film.

Even after our mysterious hero provides multiple “explanations” as to why the world is ending, the illogical nature of the whole thing persists.

Its plot is oozing with potential, but only a small amount of this promise ever comes to fruition. About a third of the way through things take a drastic turn for the worst: the alluring concept of an ethically charged dilemma that would almost certainly fuel a riveting story of self examination and nail-biting decision making is ditched in favor of something so far-fetched and unexpected that you’ll feel as if you’ve been had by a seasoned con-artist.

With Cold Storage, we’re given something akin to a late night round of charades that’s punctuated by badly delivered (and badly written) dialogue. At times, wincingly so.

I was quickly reminded of the elements that comprise “good” movies. You know, things like an engaging narrative and characters that I actually care about.

Prophecy is one of those $2.99 DVDs that you’ll likely see crammed into a bargain bin at Wal-Mart. Trust me when I say that it’s not even worth that much. If you happen to catch it on the Sci-Fi Channel, you might want to watch the final third just for a few giggles, but in all other circumstances stay away from this offensively bad snooze-fest.

So, what’s my final rating of Phil Tucker’s monstrosity? The best way to answer that is to directly quote Ro-man XJ2: “Negative! Negative! Negative!”

There are bad movies, there are terrible movies, and then there’s Plan 9 from Outer Space.

If you want specific low points, I’ve got two for you. The first involves Mrs. Witwicky, who absent-mindedly consumes some sort of marijuana-laced baked good while moving her son into his dormitory. The other involves Sam talking to dead Autobots in heaven. That’s right. This movie features divine intervention of the mechanical kind.