Who is it that keeps making Nia Vardalos movies? Or is it a sign of impending apocalypse that two such terrible ones have been released in one month? Really, isn’t it cheaper just to keep them on the shelf?

It seemed unlikely that Vardalos could star in a movie flatter or more desultory than “My Life in Ruins.” But she’s outdone herself with “I Hate Valentine’s Day,” which she not only wrote but directed, in addition to starring.

For good luck, apparently, she cast John Corbett – her love interest in “My Big Fat Greek Wedding” – as the male lead. But she could have cast anyone from Brad Pitt to a fencepost and it wouldn’t have made a difference. The writing is that flavorless, the directing that inept.

The story: Vardalos plays Genevieve, a florist in Brooklyn who has a rule about men – no more relationships. It’s a daddy thing, related to her father deserting her mother – which would make sense if it had happened when she was 12. As it turns out, Dad fled when Genevieve was 25 (which raises a whole other set of issues, but I’m making way more out of this ill-considered plot point than I should).

Anyway, her no-relationships rule includes a limit of five dates with any man – then it’s on to the next one. In her mind, this equates to a perpetual state of romance, minus the messy feelings that accompany actual connection. Plus the whole five-dates thing is the kind of hook that can be excerpted easily  for a commercial, to make the movie seem more interesting than it is.

Then she meets Greg (Corbett), a former attorney who has decided to open a tapas bar down the block from Genevieve’s flower shop. They start dating and sparks fly by the fourth date. Now what?

Well, what do you think? Because whatever you imagine is probably more interesting than what actually happens. They hit that fourth date with 45 minutes to go and spend the whole second half of the movie trying to figure out what to do next (a span that actually covers months in the film’s time scheme – and feels like months while you’re watching).

As a writer, Vardalos doesn’t write dialogue; she writes shtick. Riffs on why she hates antiques, riffs on why relationships suck, riffs on – well, really, the whole thing is one long riff, with few laughs and an inevitable destination.

As a director, Vardalos is too in love with her own genius. There isn’t a scene that isn’t overlong, mostly because she inserts pauses between each line of dialogue so lengthy you could park a car. If you snipped three-to-five seconds from every shot in the film (and, believe me, you could), the movie would barely reach feature length.

And what a blessing that would be. Better yet, snip away everything after the opening credits and save everyone a lot of time and expense.

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