What is it about Black History Month that brings out the worst in some African American actors? Watching the once estimable Martin Lawrence's latest flick, Welcome Home, Roscoe Jenkins, it's clear that the dumbed-down lessons of last year's orgy of stereotypes, Norbit (and, to a lesser degree, 2004's Barbershop 2: More Barbershop), have been duly noted—highlighted, even. Forget the mental and play up the physical; if a gag worked in another movie, it'll work again; cheap laughs and sassy one-liners bring audiences. When all else fails, cut to animals having sex. Cut to those fornicating fauna until they just can't be cut to anymore!

Really, these are the same guidelines followed throughout any Dane Cook stand-up routine or adolescent-baiting slapstick comedy that tests a viewer's intelligence. Not that plot really matters in this genre. Welcome Home, Roscoe Jenkins opens with the Dr. Phil-like talk-show host RJ Stevens (Lawrence) unwillingly leaving his L.A. home to bring his Survivor-winning fiancée, Bianca (Joy Bryant), and his eight-year-old son to see his estranged family for his parents' 50th anniversary party in backwoods Georgia. Hilarity does not ensue.

Stevens, you see, is here to unload some emotional baggage he's carried since childhood. And somehow, the only way to relieve himself of these toxic feelings—of being unloved by his parents, of being endlessly picked-on by his siblings, of playing the role of a TV therapist and not knowing how to help himself—is to win a race through an obstacle course unseen outside American Gladiators. This will (do you care if this is a spoiler? Trust us, you don't) allow him to dump the crazy bitch who his entire family hates, ask out the girl of his wet dreams, and forget about everything that's tortured him since birth.

It's really saying something that the funniest joke running throughout the film is that the inimitable Mo'nique's character can't pronounce Bianca's name correctly (Binaca? Blanca?). And that's with all the dog-sex popping up every few minutes to poach pity-giggles wherever possible. It punctuates precisely how little imagination exists in this masterpiece-of-crap.