Twelve

Joel Schumacher has had one of the most staggered careers in recent Hollywood. He started strong (St. Elmo's Fire, The Lost Boys), made one of the most widely mocked films of all time (Batman Forever) then made a sequel to it (Batman & Robin).  He's made a few great dramatic films (Falling Down, A Time to Kill, Tigerland) and now just keeps under the radar with mediocre flicks.

Schumacher has always had in interest in examining nice people doing not so nice things, such as in Twelve where the lead character, White Mike (awful name) is a sober drug dealer trying to hustle a living after his mother's death.

White Mike, as played by Gossip Girl pretty boy Chance Crawford, walks around New York City in his designer pajamas, dealing weed to trustfund babies on spring break, none of which speak like they actually attend Harvard or Yale, as is evident by their inability to form a coherent sentence, ending every thought with the words "you know" and/or "like."

Crawford plays White Mike, or  Schumacher directs him, as a guy full of moral fiber. He's so much better than the people he deals to; he has like, you know, morals.

Whatever. White Mike's thugged-out hookup (50 Cent, really stretching here) wants Mike to start dealing Twelve, a new sort of smack that comes on like cocaine but fades into an ecstasy high. But Mike wants no part of it. He's, like, you know, too good for that... stuff.

The film barely strings together a slew of characters, none of which you'll care about. And when the movie (finally) ends, you won't even care that it was due to a cliched, laughably predictable blowout.

You probably didn't get a chance to see this in theatres; it didn't last too long. And trust me, don't seek it out on DVD. Because, like, you know, it... sucks. D-