If you have the stomach for it—or the liver—you should start a drinking game based on New Year’s Eve. The rules would be simple: Every time a new celebrity pops up, take a drink! Not only does the game keep going literally until the final credits (Oh, look, Amare Stoudemire!), but you’d end up so drunk you likely wouldn’t remember the movie you sat through. That’s a positive. There’s a real possibility that Katherine Fugate played that very game while writing this mountain of mediocrity. Devoid of a real story or character development, New Year’s Eve is somehow less of an achievement than Valentine’s Day, last year’s lazy Garry Marshall-directed all-call. Make no mistake, though: This parade through the big ball drop in Times Square is loaded with stars, just like the disaster movies of the 1970s. The operative word there is “disaster.”