Soderbergh was inspired to make “Haywire” after seeing erstwhile MMA fighter Gina Carano in action, and it’s easy to see why given Carano’s impressive moves and va-va-voom figure. Soderbergh’s smartest move was re-teaming with “The Limey” screenwriter Lem Dobbs to craft a similar stripped-down story of vengeance to build around his star.

Perhaps aware of Carano’s limitations as an actress – although to be fair, I’ve seen far worse performances by “real” actresses than Carano’s somewhat tentative line readings – Soderbergh has surrounded her with a murderer’s row of a supporting cast that includes Michael Fassbender, Ewan McGregor, Channing Tatum, Antonio Banderas and Michael Douglas, making this the classiest action film in years.

As is his wont, Soderbergh has fun playing with time, shifting the story around to reveal the layers of deception on display. Some have complained about the film’s complexity, but instead of spoonfeeding the audience the information, Soderbergh doles it out on a need-to-know basis.

But a basic nuts-and-bolts plot summary has Carano starring as Mallory Kane, a former Marine who now works as a contract agent for the slippery Kenneth (McGregor), her former boyfriend.

Mallory is assigned to extract a dissident journalist out of Barcelona and turn him over to Rodrigo (Antonio Banderas), a simple enough assignment that goes off with only minor bumps. As soon as she gets back home, however, Kenneth convinces her to go on another job, this time dealing with freelancer Paul (Fassbender) as they oversee his contract in Dublin.

It’s there that Mallory discovers she’s been set up to take the fall for the journalist’s murder, and where she begins her mission for revenge by doling out an extremely brutal beatdown to Paul in a scene that had the old lady sitting next to me gasping several times at the sheer physicality of the fight.

Soderbergh may not be a traditional action director, but he does a great job of actually showing us the fights, which many helmers fail to do amid a dizzying string of jump cuts, shaky cam and tricks that defeat the entire purpose of the film. It helps to have a skilled fighter at his disposal in Carano, who shows off the moves that made her a hit in mixed martial arts. She truly is an imposing figure on film.

There’s very little filler in this story – Mallory moves like a tornado through her adversaries, stopping briefly to share a moment with her father (Bill Paxton, in a role that, to my great disappointment, was originally filled by Dennis Quaid) and utilizing Douglas’ government agent just enough to get the information and access she needs to get her men. Helping propel the film along is David Holmes’ jazzy score, which calls to mind Soderbergh’s “Oceans” films, but that works well here.

I’ve been a fan of Carano’s since her fighting and “American Gladiators” days. She’s a stunningly beautiful woman who is more than believable when running, kicking, punching and dominating her foes, unlike the waifs who normally populate action films. I’d love to see her get more work, but you never know about Hollywood.

Soderbergh has been adamant about his upcoming “retirement” from film, which will be a great loss given his versatility and experimental nature. I can’t imagine another director deciding on a whim to create a starring role for a non-actress and then delivering a movie that keeps you on the edge of your seat. It will be a shame to see him go.

I’m sure people in the 1970s were complaining about some of the crap that came out back then as well, but at least they got plenty of good movies to balance the equation.

You’d think that the suits in Tinseltown would realize that we are all more savvy about the system, but still they shovel remakes, sequels, and other half-hearted properties down the pike in the hopes of turning a quick buck.

The sad thing is, they usually get it.

Some bad movies can be fun, but each of the films on this list were painful to watch in their own way. And to think about what I’m leaving off – “Bucky Larson,” “Breaking Dawn,” “Jack and Jill” (which I could not bear to watch), “The Warriors Way” – will make you shed a silent tear for the future of cinema.

For reference, check my worst lists of 2009 and 2010. So without further ado, let’s check out the bottom of the barrel… 

ALVIN AND THE CHIPMUNKS: CHIPWRECKED
No shit, you are likely saying to yourself, but good god was this movie terrible. It makes the first two “Alvin” movies seem like the first two “Alien” movies and this is that weird one that doesn’t make any sense. And there’s no excuse that this movie is for kids – what child is going to find humor out of multiple personality disorder, animated rodents singing Lady Gaga songs or lifting the entire island plot of “Castaway”? I understand Jason Lee and David Cross have to eat, but watching them mug their way through this disaster made me want to send them a check to help prevent a fourth film from happening.

ARTHUR
Russell Brand apparently is an acquired taste, but I think the only person who likes it is Katy Perry. Watching Brand shuffle and stagger through this tepid remake of the Dudley Moore classic is Example No. 1 of the lazy Hollywood approach to filmmaking. Hey, we’ve got this old property that starred a British guy and … hey, isn’t Russell Brand British? Why don’t we remake it? Everything about this film feels forced, from the awful romance between Brand’s Arthur and Greta Gerwig’s character to Jennifer Garner’s pathetic attempts at being a ballbuster. You know a movie is terrible when the great Helen Mirren can’t save it. AND ON TOP OF THAT, THEY RUINED ARTHUR’S THEME!

BIG MOMMA’S HOUSE: LIKE FATHER, LIKE SON
I feel bad for Martin Lawrence. For a while there, the guy was on top of the world, with a hit sitcom, big movie roles and a raucous stand-up career. Then he went a little crazy. Now, as his penance, he has to put on the world’s worst fat suit and clown around in a franchise that should have died a long time ago. Does Martin really deserve this fate? Have we all forgotten that he made us laugh back in the day? Did you know that Brandon T. Jackson, who plays the teenage son in this movie, is actually 27 years old? Were you aware that this movie made $82 million worldwide? Did you know that “Big Momma’s House 4″ is in the works?

COWBOYS AND ALIENS
It seems almost impossible to ruin this kind of popcorn-friendly premise when you factor in the director (genre favorite Jon Favreau), cast (Daniel Craig and Harrison Ford) and behind-the-scenes talent (producer Steven Spielberg), but “C&A” was one of the biggest disappointments of the year because it was … deadly dull. At no point did these ideas come together to make a coherent statement. Sometimes it was a sci-fi flick with the worst-shooting aliens in the universe and at others it was this weird relationship drama with a crusty Ford playing a father figure to an orphaned kid. And, maybe it’s just me, but Daniel Craig doesn’t move the meter at all. The guy is a personality vacuum, which is NOT what you want your heroic figure to be. You could have taken the $200 million or so wasted on this production and funded a small African nation.

DRIVE ANGRY
This had the potential to be the midnight movie of the year; instead, it’s another black mark on the checkered resume of beleaguered star Nicolas Cage, who easily could have had three films on this list. It’s hard to imagine, but this is the most boring film about a killer who escapes from Hell to wreak havoc on a Satanic cult leader. This despite scenes where out man Cage is having sex with a waitress at the same time he’s mowing down bad guys, blowing people away in 3-D and the presence of William Fichtner. There’s a difference between pushing the envelope and just throwing shit at the screen (literally, if you saw this in 3-D) and seeing what sticks. If a bad movie aficionado like myself can’t get into it, what does it say about Joe and Jane Moviegoer?

JUST GO WITH IT
Maybe Adam Sandler is conducting some kind of deranged experiment to discover just how bad movies have to be before a loyal audience finally turns its back on a performer. Sandler’s films and those of his production company, Happy Madison, have been trying our patience for years, but 2011 might be the last straw.  Similar to “Grown Ups,” the sole reason for this film’s existence seems to be for Sandler and his friends to enjoy a Hawaiian vacation and for Sandler to make out with the impossibly bosomy Brooklyn Decker and then also with Jennifer Aniston. The subversive laughs of Sandler’s earlier movies are long gone, replaced with generic concepts designed to promote small chuckles. It seems like the joke is on us.

RED RIDING HOOD
Catherine Hardwicke’s laughable interpretation of the fairy tale is delivered with the same stilted, languid ennui of the “Twilight” films – the very same franchise that Hardwicke began before getting dumped. This movie is stunningly awful. I’m not sure what was hoped to be achieved here, but it doesn’t work from either a romance or horror angle. Amanda Seyfried, an actress that has done some fine work in the past, is not served well here. She appears to have wandered in off the set of the XXX parody, her cherry-red lips constantly agape in the manner of a porn star coming down from a post-coital experience. This film also features the most awkward dance party since “The Matrix Revolutions,” a mind-boggling scene so out of place it almost felt surreal.

THE ROOMMATE
Given its connection to “Single White Female,” you might think this movie would expand on that concept and provide more campy fun given its college setting, hot TV starlets and the knowledge that, well, we all know what to expect from this type of flick. Unfortunately, the film takes itself far too seriously, and when you do that, the myriad inconsistencies, plot holes and lack of common sense become all too apparent. Minka Kelly and Leighton Meester are putrid, movie killer Cam Gigandet shows up to do his lunky boyfriend thing, and the film even relies on the cliche cat scare to try and milk some drama out of this dry teat.

SCREAM 4
I did not have high hopes for this reboot of the franchise, and in many ways, it was worse than I could have imagined. At no point does this feel like anything but a cheap cash grab. There are no new ideas, no exploration of the ways horror has evolved since the last film, no attempts to create a psycho that is more self-aware. Woodsboro seems to be stuck in some strange warp where the Sidney Prescott murders and “Stab” movies have permeated the culture so deeply that copycat killers wouldn’t even bother updating Ghostface for the new decade. If so, why am I even watching this? Wes Craven, once a master of the genre, has lost his touch by delivering a perfunctory, uninteresting coda to one of his greatest achievements. I guess I shouldn’t really be surprised considering that amid all the talk about doing something different, this is the same old shit wrapped in shiny new paper.

SUCKER PUNCH
What, exactly, is director Zack Snyder trying to say with this woefully misbegotten and wildly off-the-mark film? I have no idea. Leaving a film open for interpretation is fine. Making a film that is incomprehensible is not. And thus Snyder’s melange of sexy girls in revealing wardrobes, bad accents, pulp fiction, steampunk zombies, “Inception”-style dreamworks, a craggy Scott Glenn and disturbing rape/power themes splats onto the screen as a barrage of sound and fury signifying nothing. At its simplest, the movie is a geek’s dream – a live-action video game of sorts with the kind of women you don’t find at Comic-Con. At it’s worst, the film is a bogus attempt at portraying powerful women given the heavy underlying tones of rape and abuse our protagonists undergo. At it’s core, though, it’s an ugly, tiresome film that quickly grows repetitive due to its video-game structure.

Yet it’s clear that at a base level, one that Gallagher would never admit, he’s been taken down a notch or two due to the dissolution of Oasis and his fractured relationship with brother Noel. However you felt about Oasis, there’s no denying they had the flair and fervent following to fill large-scale arenas.

Now Liam and the rest of the refugees from Oasis, Beady Eye, are reduced to playing shows at much smaller venues, like Thursday’s concert at 9:30 Club in Washington, D.C., while they build their brand. It’s a savvy (and realistic) move that gives Liam center stage in a rollicking show that proves the old Oasis magic is still there, with a touch of modern sound.

Make no mistake, this was no Oasis show. I would imagine that 99% of the crowd was hoping Gallagher would touch on some of his earlier work, but Liam would never give his brother that satisfaction, so the group stuck solely to its “Different Gear, Still Speeding” album, playing the record in its entirety and throwing a couple of new songs in as well. 

Gallagher started slowly, his voice wobbling through the opening two songs as he did his patented hands-behind-my-back singing move, but by the time “Beatles and Stones” came on, he was off and rolling, delivering his vocals with clarity and sureness.

Beady Eye did a good job of delivering what was likely unfamiliar material to the crowd by mixing up the sequencing of the record, playing the bluesy “Bring the Light” at the midway point of the show to bring the audience to a fever pitch. I think “Bring the Light” is an intriguing path for this band to follow – I’d love to see them make more blues-influenced songs rather than Oasis knockoffs.

That’s not to say the Oasis knockoffs are bad – “The Morning Son” and “Wigwam” would have fit perfectly on any late-period Oasis record, and the crowd certainly ate up the vibe. Andy Bell, Gem Archer and Chris Sharrock are all talented musicians in their own right, and they got to shine on the extended instrumental solos on these songs.

But it was Gallagher the fans came to see, and he played the part, throwing up double middle fingers, pointing out a young woman’s Manchester shirt and telling the fans to get excited, because they came a long way to D.C. (At least that’s what I could understand – trying to decipher Liam’s ultra-British accent has always been a challenge).

But maybe in a nod to getting older and softer, Gallagher, before exiting the stage, wished the crowd a Merry Christmas. That was the last thing I expected from one of the last of a dying breed.

Quite simply, no one wants to hear that shit. Oh, man, it must be so difficult to live your life with money bursting out of your pocket and supermodels begging to have sexual relations with you.

It doesn’t make any sense. That’s like Susan Sarandon showing up at Occupy Wall Street. Bitch, you have enough money to open up a goddamn ping-pong bar - I think you fall into the 1% the unwashed masses are complaining about.

Complaining about the wonderful riches afforded to him, however, appears to be Aubrey “Drake” Graham’s raison d’être for getting on the mic. His sophomore effort “Take Care” is filled with the woeful tales of his multi-million dollar record contract, drunken nights in Toronto and dalliances with exotic strippers, making this sure-to-be blockbuster one of the worst records of the year.

Look, I don’t have any problem with introspection – some of my favorite songs delve deeper than rap’s normal surface subjects – but there’s a fine line between that and navel-gazing, which Drake traffics in throughout the entire record.

After listening to the first seven tracks, I felt like I needed to see a therapist, because Drake hammers us over the head with his “horrible” life and desperate romantic travails. Isn’t music supposed to be escapist? Fun? I don’t hear any joy in a large portion of this record – wallowing in misery is not my thing, especially when most of it is the off-key warblings of a former child TV star who is now teamed up with the top record label in the music biz. 

“Headlines,” the somewhat braggadocious first single, doesn’t do anything for me and neither does the drunk-dial fantasy “Marvin’s Room,” which frankly, is downright embarrassing.

What I will say about “Take Care,” compared to his debut “Thank Me Later,” is that it’s a much more cohesive work. The latter record felt that a scattershot grouping of hot producers, whose disparate styles led to a disjointed album. On “Take Care,” Drake relies on longtime collaborator Noah “40″ Shebib, who delivers an icy, spartan sonic landscape that aligns perfectly with the chilly feel of Drake’s lyrics and subjects.

Still, the production left me cold. Look, I understand what Drake is going for here, but I’m just not the audience for his sensitive-guy, please-fix-me rap. This is an album for the ladies, pure and simple. I can’t fault him for that, but I’m sure as hell not going to listen to it.

It’s hard to imagine that I’m writing this, but the album’s saving grace is … Rick Ross. That’s right, Ricky Rozay actually injects some life into this sap-fest on “Lord Knows,” which contains a staggering Just Blaze beat that proves that yes, something with a beat and some soul does sound good on a hip-hop record (imagine that!).

I feel like I’m swimming upstream with this one – “Take Care” is going to be a smash, but for me, it’s another step in the emo-ization of rap. There is plenty of room in the genre for variety, but when you see more and more artists taking the Drake approach, I wonder if anyone wants to make “real” rap anymore (or maybe I’m just turning into a grumpy old man).

P.S. – I would be remiss if I didn’t like to Big Ghostfase’s review of Take Care, which takes down the record 100 times better than I ever could. I only wish this was the real Ghostface.

If it’s the former, this is flick for you. If it’s the latter, I’m sure “Puss in Boots” is playing somewhere nearby.

Obviously, the “Harold & Kumar” trilogy owes a large debt to the “Cheech & Chong” flicks, and here, they return to the gleeful pot-smoking antics that were missing from the disjointed second flick, “Escape from Guantanamo Bay.”

The plot is merely a perfunctory excuse to get our boys in increasingly ridiculous situations, this time with the added bonus of 3-D presentation.

Three years after their last adventure, Harold (John Cho) has moved on with his wife, trading joints for sconces and a boring Wall Street job. Kumar (Kal Penn), on the other hand, is still living in a weed-addled haze, his friendship with Harold shot thanks to his irresponsibility. 

Harold is stressed because his wife’s family is coming to visit for the holidays, and her grumpy dad (Danny Trejo) is somewhat obsessed with the perfect tree (due to a rather unfortunate incident which we see in flashback), which Kumar conveniently burns down when dropping off a mysterious package that landed on his doorstep.

This kicks off an all-night odyssey that finds the pair on the lam from Russian mobsters, acquiring a Wafflebot, meeting up with old friends at the White Castle, accidentally shooting Santa Claus and, of course, hanging out with sexual deviant Neil Patrick Harris – all filmed in surprisingly effective and charmingly cheesy 3-D.

It’s amazing how NPH subverting his image has become the hallmark of these films, even though you know its coming and even though he does the same thing every week on TV. Yet, watching NPH get a handjob in heaven is still hilarious.

That’s just one example of the very un-PC humor on display in the film, which leaves no stone unturned in its attempts to offend. That kind of gleeful, good-natured pushing of the envelope fits well here, and is frankly refreshing, given that H & K are arguably the two highest profile minorities in today’s cinema.

Cho and Penn know these are their signature roles, and continue to have fun with them even though at some level, they understand they are above such material. There are some winking nods to Penn’s stint as a White House aide and to the boys’ increasing age, but for the most part, the film is comfort food for “H&K” fans.

I’m not sure how much longer the folks behind “Harold & Kumar” can make a one-joke premise last (although they are pitching an animated series) but I do hope Hollywood realizes what Cho and Penn – and to that extent, all minority actors – can bring to the table, instead of pigeonholing them into typical roles.

But Jay and Kanye bucked the trend, and their Watch The Throne tour stop in Washington, D.C. on Thursday was one of the best live shows I’ve ever attended, a perfect showcase for their ferocity, charisma and power, and a testament to the outstanding careers of two of the biggest artists in music.

In their 2 1/2-hour, nonstop performance, Jay and Kanye blazed through their group songs and took individual solo forays through their greatest hits, a strategy that left the packed crowd at the Verizon Center with hardly a moment to breathe before another huge hit came blasting over the speakers. A concert with no downtime? What a concept!

Of course, the show didn’t start on time, but was anyone expecting that? Right around 9 p.m., Jay and Kanye took their place on giant cubes on the floor of the arena and the bombastic beat of “H.A.M.” kicked in to the screams of the crowd. These cubes then elevated over the crowd and projected images on each side, a stylistic touch that signified this was not just a rap show, but an event.

“Welcome To The Jungle,” a complete nonstarter off “Throne,” was transformed into a menacing delight as images of tigers and cheetahs loomed over the crowd. Lasers sliced through the black during “Jesus Walks” and fire puffed from the stage during “Otis.” For once, it appeared as if some thought had been put into creating a real show.

Jay and Kanye pinballed between stages and their hits, each taking a mini-break while the other went solo. Clad in a kilt and a series of colorful dashiki-type shirts, Kanye worked the crowd into a frenzy with classics like ”Touch The Sky,” “Can’t Tell Me Nothing” and “Flashing Lights.”

Jay, ever the icon, paraded around in his trademark Yankees cap, delivering hits like “Izzo,” “Hard Knock Life,” and “Jigga What, Jigga Who?” with metronomic precision. He even got the pro-D.C. crowd to luxuriate in his New York anthem, “Empire State of Mind.”

You could see the yin-and-yang of these two very different personas during the show. Kanye made one foray into left-field with an auto-tuned set that included an indulgent performance of “Runaway,” while Jay simply stuck to the script and plowed through hit after hit.

Yet for all the concerns that these two large egos could not co-exist together, it was during the group performances that you truly got the feeling that these men are friends and they respect each other’s talent. In the end, their goal was to deliver a great album (which didn’t quite happen) and a powerful show (which certainly did). As they sat on stage, performing the introspective “New Day,” Jay told the crowd, “Thank you for listening.”

If there’s anything close to a hit on “Watch The Throne,” it’s the herky-jerky “Niggas in Paris,” for which the crowd went bananas, chanting “That shit cray!” in unison. Jay and Kanye apparently like the song as well, which may explain why they closed the show by playing it three times. Overkill? Yes. But what else would you expect from The Throne?

Welcome to The sh*t list, a recurring column in which we will discuss the actors and actresses that we hate for no apparent reason other than they annoy the crap out of us. Today’s victim: Zooey Deschanel of TV’s “New Girl.”

I’ve got no problem with people being quirky. It’s a character trait, which in moderation, can be quite interesting. However, quirkiness should not define one’s life. Apparently someone forgot to tell that to the spectacularly annoying Zooey Deschanel, who has made an entire career out of the conceit of the manic pixie dream girl writ real, much to my chagrin.

Think about this. Have you ever seen Ms. Deschanel when she is not doing something twee or “adorkable,” to quote the Fox marketing execs shamelessly shilling her awful show “New Girl”? Has she ever just been real and not some hipster masturbation fantasy?

Oh look, let’s build an entire show around how darn cute and odd Zooey is! She can be this free spirit who lives with a bunch of dudes! Isn’t that hilarious? It is, because she wears glasses! And is all flibbertigibbety!

I can’t think of a movie that Ms. Deschanel was in where I wasn’t distracted by how goddamn annoying and cloying she was. She got on my nerves in “Your Highness.” I wanted her to get hit by a bus in “(500) Days of Summer.” I never even saw “Tin Man,” but the idea of her as Dorothy made me want to spit up in my mouth a little bit.

And just to further point out how Ms. Deschanel is catnip for the Williamsburg/Silver Lake crowd (and trust me, the folks making these shows and movies know this), I present “Flakes,” a truly terrible movie about … a cereal bar, where Deschanel plays, “Miss Pussy Katz, the stylish creator of radically themed art clothing.” What the fuck does that mean? And look at the DVD – I’ve never wanted to punch a box so badly before.

Let’s talk about arguably her most famous role, Will Ferrell’s love interest in “Elf.” Her character’s name in the movie is JOVIE, which is unbelievably stupid and oh-so-hipster that it almost seems fitting. And then there’s her big scene, where she unleashes her devastating vocal chops to the world…

Yes, Ms. Deschanel fancies herself quite the chanteuse, as she is part of a group, “She & Him,” that only people who wear painted on jeans and ironic glasses could love. I have never heard one song of theirs, quite simply because I don’t want blood to spill from my ears. I have, however, heard Ms. Deschanel’s lovely irritating ode to the finest of fabrics.

LOOK HO, I WEAR COTTON TOO – YOU AIN’T SPECIAL!

Whatever it is that Ms. Deschanel has done to capture the hearts and minds of the 20-something bearded set – and those who market their products toward them – I seem to have missed the memo. I am rooting for “New Girl” to be one of the season’s first casualties, and I have an ally in Washington Post TV critic Hank Steuver, who eviscerated the show in his season preview, giving it an F. Yes, that means the show about fairy tales come to life is better than “New Girl.”

Whenever I write one of these, there’s a flurry of emails from fans of the subject angry that I had the nerve to take down their crush/idol/hero. I have a feeling that if any of Ms. Deschanel’s fans can shake their ennui enough to read this, firing off a rebuttal will be difficult to accomplish on their ironic manual typewriters.

After three moderately successful installments, the franchise took a big step back with the shoddy “The Final Destination,” which was originally planned for a straight-to-DVD release before a last-minute change of heart by Warner Bros. The lackluster quality showed, but that didn’t stop audiences from making it the most financially successful of the series.

So, it’s no surprise that “FD5″ got rushed into production. What is a surprise is that the movie reverses the trend of the prior installment and provides 90 minutes of solid entertainment.

Oh, make no mistake, “FD5″ is not a good movie in the traditional sense of the word. But horror movie buffs will get a kick out of it thanks to the always inventive death traps and plentiful gore on display.

While on a bus ride to a corporate retreat, wannabe chef Sam (Nicholas D’Agosto) has a vision of a horrific bridge collapse that will kill hundreds of people. When he convinces seven other people to get off the bus seconds before the bridge does go down, he sets into motion the inevitable call of death and its quirky sense of karmic justice.

(As an aside, I’d like to note that filmmakers seem to have stopped trying to hide Vancouver. Either they don’t care or they assume no one has ever left the United States. The Lions Gate Bridge is such a huge landmark and obvious nod to Vancouver, I just assumed the film was set in Canada until they showed New York license plates later on.)

The best parts of these films are trying to figure out which ominous looking ordinary object will be turned into an implement of death, and here, they do a good job of providing some misdirection prior to the over-the-top fatality (Let’s just say you’ll never look at a Buddha the same way).

Tony Todd shows up once again as the ominous town coroner, imparting creepy advice in his chest-rattling baritone. By now you’d have to think the man really loves his job or is working in concert with death given all that he’s seen over the years.

As with any movie these days, “FD5″ is in 3-D, and of course, it doesn’t add much to the proceedings, which is disappointing considering that director Steven Quale got the job thanks to his experience working on “Avatar.” The opening credits are quite silly, but the rest involves CGI blood splattering toward the screen. I still argue that “My Bloody Valentine 3-D” remains the best use of the technology thus far in horror films.

The characters here are your stock-in-trade caricatures – except this time they aren’t all teens – but man, Miles Fisher stands out not for his acting ability, but his dead ringer match to Tom Cruise. It’s downright creepy to watch him sometimes – it feels as if young Tom has decided to slum it in a horror flick.

It takes a lot to trick me, so I have to give “Final Destination 5″ credit for pulling off quite a clever capper that helps place the franchise in an entirely different light – I left a little more jazzed than I had any right to be after the fifth installment of a low-budget film, and hell, that’s more than I can ask for.

I mean, c’mon! Every time I make a movie, I either get killed or die of old age. It’s not fair! Yes, I realize that I may be on the old side, but look at my robust mane! My full, strong beard! Check my posture – ramrod straight!

What have I done to you, the moviegoing public and Hollywood producers, to perpetuate this sick cycle of my death? Do you realize how much it sucks to wake up and go to work knowing that I am to be killed? I am a two-time Golden Globe Best Supporting Actor winner! I was in M*A*S*H for crying out loud – no, not the TV show, the movie!

I am only 76 – you know, people live longer and longer each year, but you wouldn’t know it from my recent cinematic output. Perhaps you saw me, in a wheelchair, no less, get murdered in “The Mechanic.” I didn’t even get the dignity of an on-screen death in “Horrible Bosses.” Nobody has Starz, so you didn’t see me bite the dust in “The Pillars of the Earth.”

“The Italian Job”? Dead. Some movie I did called “Beerfest” – dead. “Cold Mountain”? Yeah, I keeled over in that one. I got killed by my own daughter in “An American Haunting” because I was sexually abusing her. Great.

Do you know what my dreams are like? I get killed in them all the time. I know the ins and outs of the funeral process. It’s downright depressing. My family doesn’t even like to hang around with me, because I’m always obsessing about how I’m going to buy it in my next movie.

Please help me. I’m counting on you to make a difference. Help suggest a nice romantic comedy for me – I’m quite virile. How about a warm and fuzzy animated film – I can play a funny bear! Anything but death. Anything. /Begins sobbing.

It was a rare up-front moment in the notoriously shady world of rap concerts, and gave me hope that we would see a top-notch show.

And so the eager crowd packed into the State and waited… and waited… and waited. As a rap-show veteran, I’m well aware that NO rap concert is starting at the stated time on the ticket, but the Wu left the crowd standing around until midnight before coming on stage and immediately falling victim to one of the things that absolutely (and routinely) send rap shows spiraling into oblivion.

Here are, in no order, the five biggest rap concert killers (and I’ve unfortunately seen them all).

1. The “YO, SOUNDMAN!” Syndrome

Hey, I understand that being an engineer is a difficult job. I couldn’t do it. But if you’re working the soundboard and you know that the Wu-Tang Clan is coming through, and you need eight or more hot microphones, wouldn’t you do your damndest to make sure that each and every mic works?

Alas the Wu fell victim to “Yo, Soundman” right away. Instead of getting the crowd hyped during “Bring Da Ruckus,” the energy immediately fizzled as only three microphones worked properly, earning the quick and decisive wrath of Raekwon, who went on a classic “Yo, Soundman” tirade, berating the poor bastards at the soundboard and telling the crowd to turn their ire toward them as well.

I can’t tell you how many shows I’ve been to where a disgruntled rapper spends time telling the guy in the booth to “Turn my shit up,” or “Hit my mic!” It completely ruins the rap concert experience – I don’t imagine that Celine Dion has to tell her soundman to turn her shit up during her performances.

2. THE LACKLUSTER CROWD

Way back in my college years, I gave up the one day undergrads actually had fun at my school (Dillo Day) to attend what I thought would be an amazing concert: Wu-Tang, Geto Boys, OutKast and others.

Man, was I hyped. The only problems? The show was located at some shady venue on the Southside of Chicago and was put on by the local radio station – two things that should have raised red flags, but which I willfully ignored. So, myself, Sarah Huss and Phu Huynh waded through a few local, nondescript acts before the Geto Boys. Only the Geto Boys weren’t there. Just Willie D, who performed his verses from their iconic songs.

But that was fine, because OutKast was next. But this was early OutKast, when they were still building buzz off their first CD. Which meant the denizens of Chi-town were not quite up on the next big thing in rap.

I’ll never forget what happened next. Big Boi and Andre 3000 came out guns ablazin’, delivering their rhymes to a crowd that could hardly be bothered to act interested. So midway through the second song, in the middle of a verse, Big Boi says, “Yo, this crowd is wack, we’re out,” drops the mic and leaves. Twenty-one year old Elliott is stunned. And Wu-Tang never shows up.

3. “HERE’S SOME NEW SHIT”

This one could apply for any concert – no one really wants to hear an established artists do a bunch of songs that we’ve hardly heard before – but rap fans are extremely fickle, and when you have to brave the other things we’re talking about here to see a show, you want to hear the good stuff.

When I go to a show to see Ice Cube, elbow my way up to the front and spend my hard-earned cash on overpriced beer, the last thing I want to hear is “I Got My Locs On.” How in the holy hell am I supposed to be excited about a substandard song I’ve never heard? I’m sure Cube gets tired of plowing through his hits, but why else would anyone go see Ice Cube in 2011? The guy hasn’t made a good album in years.

The proper ratio for any rap show should be 90% classics to 10% new stuff. I once saw Ghostface perform one song off the new album he was promoting – that’s good stuff.

4. OPENING ACT-APALOOZA

Sure, almost every artist at one time started as the opening act, but that doesn’t mean I have to see them when they are raw and unfocused, do I?

When I lived in Seattle, this was a crisis of epic proportions. You see, big-name artists would roll through and every crew with a microphone and an amp would attach themselves to the show in hopes of … what? Selling a few CDs? Hoping Nas would fall in love and sign them immediately? Shock the crowd with their intricate lyrics and powerful stage presence?

None of those things ever happened at any show at which I ever attended. Instead, we were usually greeted with a bunch of indistinguishable rappers shouting wildly before an indifferent crowd. In order to get a little buzz, they’d throw out the fake “Who’s ready for Talib Kweli?!” before launching into another interminable set of songs.

It got so bad that I wouldn’t bother showing up to shows until damn near 11 p.m., sometimes missing the start of the headliner’s performance. But it was worth it to avoid hearing another performance by the Get Bizzy Crew.

5. DISTRACTION TECHNIQUES

When I go to a show, I want to hear the music. That’s it. But some rappers just can’t resist adding time-worn distraction techniques geared to either pulling your attention away from a lackluster performance or honing their naked greed.

You know what I’m talking about. How many shows have you been to where the artist wants to know “Who has the weed?,” which then leads to a five-minute delay as people throw blunts on the stage, hoping to be the lucky recipient of a Snoop Dogg smoke ring? Or how about the time-honored, bring-the-girls-up-on-the-stage trick, even though 97% of rap shows are populated by pasty dudes? This means we get to see the cream of the crop bottom of the barrel of a city’s talent. This might work in Miami, but it goes over like lead in Boise.

And then you have the hawkers. We all know that most artists make money from merchandise and CD sales, but do they have to be so pushy about it. I’ve actually been to a show where the performers stopped in the middle of their set and demanded people go back to the merchandise table and buy shit before they got started again.

Sure, concerts are fun, but when you’re headed to a rap show, you’ve got to know what you’re getting into if you want to leave with your sanity.