Title: So awful it feels like a Paul W. S. Anderson/Uwe Boll flick.
Review: Most of recent films that were so wretchedly bad as to cause physical pain usually bore one of two warnings: "Directed by Paul W. S. Anderson" or "Directed by Uwe Boll". The excrement named "Son of the Mask" has neither of these warning signs, yet it manages to be worse than any of Anderboll's trash bags. If there were liquid badness, this "film" would have consisted of it: there is literally nothing even mediocre in it. Even Randy Edelman's score appears to have been written on a used handkerchief in five minutes - but can anyone blame him? I'm amazed that he did not demand that the "movie" credited Allan Smithee as the composer...
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