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Look no further than Bad Company for evidence that Anthony Hopkins just likes to work -- or, less charitably, just likes to collect a paycheck. It wasn't even the oddball pairing with Chris Rock, per se, that inspired so many giggles of disbelief when the earliest trailers hit the theaters (which was eons before its release), but rather, the very idea of the Merchant-Ivory thespian appearing in a buddy action-comedy. After that reaction faded, the next might have been that it was just crazy enough to work. But the titular adjective applies to every element of Bad Company, a new low in soulless swill for both producer Jerry Bruckheimer and director Joel Schumacher. Rock, not Hopkins, is the driving force behind whatever success this movie might muster, and the talented comedian does have moments of grace, barely even choking on the script's numerous jokes that rely on insulting, ethnic-specific name-dropping, like "He's the Tiger Woods of murder!" But that same accursed script thrusts him through so much other formulaic stereotypical nonsense -- does the black sidekick always have to be a motormouth coward during gun battles? -- that it's impossible to ignore or forgive. Furthermore, everything audiences have come to hate about Schumacher collides in one film, from the superficial sleekness of his car-commercial hues to his distracting fetishes for helicopters and mobilized SWAT teams -- all of it exacerbated by Bruckheimer's typical agenda. And Hopkins? He puts a stamp on it and mails it in. He's spent much of his career in good company, so the title alone -- as meaningless and forgettable as anything else in the movie -- should have told him to take his tea elsewhere.