Early on in this flick a priest says "Whose fucking fault was that?" but for some reason they went back and did a hilarious, bungling job of recording the word "filthy" over the word "fucking", as if a priest cussing really matters when every other priest in the story is boozing it up, molesting little boys, or murdering gay hookers. It's completely pointless and ridiculous, which come to think of it describes this entire movie. Seriously, check out this series of unfortunately moronic events: there's a serial killer, and one of his victims turns out to be the brother of this priest who's also an art expert. The priest's uncle just happens to be the detective on the case (being related to one of the victims, you'd think they would take him off this particular case, but whatever), and he brings the priest with him to one of the crime scenes, where the priest says that the blood splatters on the wall are super artistic, which means that the murderer is probably a painter and he would definitely recognize one of his paintings if he saw it. So, naturally, the priest goes undercover, scoping out the art world (and the occasional disco) to find the killer.

I think just writing that all out makes me officially retarded.