Excellent summary from Defamer of the very weak box office returns for this past weekend. Nobody cared.

It finally happened. After two straight weekends in which it half-heartedly tried to convince us that Mark Wahlberg was the biggest movie star in America, Hollywood gave up. When the ticket-buying public showed up at its door, eager for a new round of cinematic treats that would make them forget all about Marky Mark's football movie, Hollywood stirred slightly in its bed, thrust its head underneath its pillow, and wearily threatened to go get its gun if they didn't get the fuck off his porch because it didn't even want their money anymore, OK? The desperate entertainment consumers were then forced to root around in the trash cans on Hollywood's curb, where they found nothing but an all-anonymous-male version (not even a Neve Campbell-level name on the call sheet!) of The Craft, an Adrian Brody vehicle with vague awards hopes, and a martial arts flick about the special love between a man and his elephant. Shrugging, they crumpled up whatever low-denomination bills they could find in their pockets and deposited them in the trash cans, knowing that they'd have at least a couple of hours of unsatisfying distraction that weekend. They started to shuffle away from Hollywood's house, film reels in hand, only after the ear-shattering report of what was either a window-rattling fart or a suicidal shotgun blast (they really didn't care which) reminded them they couldn't stand at the curb all day. They had pretty-boy witches to watch.