The quality control folks in the Hollywood schlock factory are a meticulous bunch: They know their craft, they execute it with pragmatism, and for all that they lack in ambition, they make up in consistency. Every now and again, though, the schlock factory's well-oiled mechanisms pump out the occasional defect—a film that, though decked out in the same sentimental blister pack as the rest of the celluloid bathos, is actually an ill-conceived, morally rudderless wolf in sheep's clothing. A film that, in all of its architecture, purports to be an innocuous collection of sentimental tropes and platitudes, but whose content is so wrongheaded that it verges on the uncanny. Delivery Man is such an aberration. by Zac Pennington