I’m not sure if an actual basement exists when it comes to the quality of Tyler Perry content, but “Divorce in the Black” has to be close.

With Perry’s first-ever 0 percent Rotten Tomatoes score and what might be the most ridiculous opening eight minutes of a film involving a Mo’Nique clone and a former Beyoncé in-law you’ve ever seen, “Black” will likely cause you to turn the shit off before it even gets going – as I did.

Yet, this being the 50-somethingth Perry film (and the second this year), we all knew what we were getting into with “Black:” His films are a watch-to-see-how-bad-they-are exercise in tolerance in which many of us only engage so we can talk trash on social media.

And so goes the Tyler Perry conflict that has gestated since Madea pulled her first glock: On one hand, perhaps no director or producer in Hollywood has employed so many Black actors, even if his contributions to his studio town of Atlanta are questionable. Award-winning A-list actors like Viola Davis and Idris Elba will admit in hushed tones that Perry cut them the check they needed early in their careers (good luck getting either to do a Perry movie in 2024).

Perry has also gotten love from “Black” stars Meagan Good and Cory Hardrict, who say they made more money with him than anyone else in an industry that’s thrilled to underpay Black people. There’s no denying Perry’s import in this manner, nor is there denying the brilliance of skating to success via the previously untapped Black Christian woman demographic.

On the other hand, his films are a now-ultra-predictable smorgasbord of Black stereotypes and tropes, many of which were already offensive when he started perpetuating them 20-plus years ago. Take a down-on-her-luck sista whose made every bad decision a human can make, pair her with a comically toxic Black man (hi, Steve Harris!), mix in a saintly Black man to swoop in with his cape to save her, sprinkle in a lil’ church and voila — facsimile ad nauseam and hope your audience doesn’t notice.

Oh, and f*** a writers room…who needs one of those when he can write every movie by himself and stack dough?

Perry has spent years rebuffing these complaints, recently dubbing those of us who insist on a modicum of cinematic quality “Highbrow Negroes,” as he did on KeKe Palmer’s podcast “Baby, This is Keke Palmer.”

Now, Perry didn’t make it to billionaire status by being a rank idiot. He’s worked in enough material by other auteurs (he was in a David Fincher film, for chrissakes) to know that staying siloed into his own brand of divisive filmmaking will invite critics at his doorstep with pitchforks.

His staunch refusal to get a writer’s room is likely less a function of him not knowing any better and more about keeping as much of the almighty dollar as he can for himself (and maybe some hubris to boot). Perry defenders will suggest that he doesn’t need listen to critics since he has more money than all of our comparatively broke asses — and maybe they aren’t wrong.

However, regardless of if he wants the gig, Perry matters to Black Hollywood. He’s “Mr. Perry” to a number of entertainers we enjoy. But something has to give at some point — he can’t keep making films with some epigone of evil, light-eyed Michael Ealy terrorizing a beautiful real estate executive who wouldn’t even be in this shit if she only turned her life to the Lord and expect us to continue watching them.

Essentially, Tyler Perry needs to stop playing in our faces. The near-universal condemnation of “Divorce in the Black” proves there’s a clock to his bullshit, and it’s ticking.