Donald Faison and Mos Def consider getting new agents.

I’m sure they don’t get paid what they’re worth—hell, you can’t even see their names in the credits—but the unsung heroes of the movie business work in the trailer department. They’re the ones who can rescue some of the production money put into a dog like Next Day Air by finding enough scenes that can be re-arranged into a two-minute commercial that will make you want to spend your ticket money on it. For the same reason they are the curse of us, the viewers, who never seem to learn that a good trailer does not guarantee a good movie. (Remember, after you’ve paid for your ticket Hollywood is done with you.)

Next Day Air concerns the hurlyburly that ensues in a Philadelphia neighborhood when a stoned deliveryman leaves a box containing ten kilos of high-grade cocaine at the wrong apartment. If you’re already asking, “Who would be stupid enough to FedEx that much cocaine?” you are not the market for this movie. You would be even more astonished to see that the drug lord uses not FedEx, or even UPS, but rather a bargain-basement delivery company whose branch in Philadelphia—not a small city, if you’ve never been there—is run by a single woman and her two sons.

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