See, the movie has the word "cock" in the title. That's what makes it funny.

And I hope you get a whole lot of laughs from that hilarious moniker, because it's funnier than anything found in this witless, worthless waste of ... anything. Time, money, effort, you name it. I've seen documentaries about hair cancer that offer more laughs than this movie. (Well, not really, but I'm trying to make a point. My apologies to anyone who has ever suffered from cancer of the hair.) Not to pat myself on the back, but that parenthetical comment I just made? Also funnier than anything found in Mr. Woodcock. And the comment wasn't really all that funny.

Forgive me for spinning my wheels in the early part of the review, but asking me to review Mr. Woodcock is like asking an experienced food critic to review warm water. There's just nothing here, folks. OK, stop me when this sounds like it'd be worth your nine dollars: A self-help author returns to his cozy hometown only to discover that his mother is sleeping with a despised gym teacher. (Are we at $9.00 yet? No? Only about 64 cents? Fine, but I think you're being generous.)