There’s a theory aimed at breaking through writer’s block with great ferocity that focuses on just churning out words, no matter what they are. “Keep your hand moving,” Natalie Goldberg advises, pointing to boxes of drivel-filled journals but also, her several published books. Chris Baty, of National Novel Writing Month, tells participants never to read over what they wrote the day before, “internal editor” be damned — you can always go back and edit later.

The techniques suit the jittery, multitasking, too much high-fructose corn syrup and open chat windows age of the short attention span. It’s a good way to prime the pump — but unlikely to produce a final product better than monkeys at typewriters.

Case in point: “The Rocker,” which not only focuses on a moody, yet well scrubbed band called A.D.D., but seems also not to have held anyone’s attention long enough for a second draft. Perspiration-sluiced Fish (Rainn Wilson) loses his chance at stardom with turquoise-cheetah-stretch-pantsed band Vesuvius in 1986 and watches them ascend to levels of fame that involve equal parts mic-stand scarves, cocaine, nubile groupie thighs and Rolling Stone covers. After the requisite scene wherein he loses his crummy job, his crummy girlfriend and his crummy sanity, he ends up at his crummy sister’s house, trying to redeem himself by pinch-hitting as drummer for his nephew’s band, A.D.D.

One hour in, Fish is drumming naked, unknowingly being web-cammed, the footage goes on YouTube and a talent scout is throwing a “Simple Life” quality tour bus, a Midwest tour and a straight-out-of-media-studies music video director at them.

“Over a million hits and counting!” he drools, seemingly unaware that 5-year-old basketball prodigies get twice that without MySpace throwing them parties. If this is half baked, frozen steak qualifies as “medium rare.”

This mess is fine for most of the cast, who have less dimension and depth than a drawing of a Polly Pocket swimming pool and would be out of their comfort zone in Burger King ads.

But Wilson? The writers of “The Office” have managed to flesh out that ensemble’s stories over 81 episodes and four years. But in the hands of husband and wife Wally Wolodarsky (even with his “Simpsons” writing chops) and Maya Forbes, the spectacularly shameless Wilson is nothing more than a pallid pontoon. He’s no match for an Airbus of a movie downed by a flock of problems. There’s just not enough Ritalin in the world to save this thing.

Ashley O’Dell reviews movies that aren’t in the theater anymore.