The main guy in this movie is a two-fisted art critic who suddenly goes jackass crazy, kicks his way through the front door of the museum where he works, and then passes out. "Better make him a key for that front door," says the cop who appears on the scene. Everyone's a fucking comedian. When our main guy comes to he insists that it's all a misunderstanding that somehow started when he got an emergency phone call and then caught a train that was subsequently t-boned by another train! Of all the stupid alibis you could come up with (I was at the movies alone; I was jerking off in a tree) that has got to be one of the worst, and he's called out almost immediately when the detective who shows up tells him that there wasn't any train wreck, or phone call either, unless it was "an invitation to tap a keg of rum". Everyone else assumes he was drunk too, or crazy, so he decides to retrace his steps in an attempt to figure out just what happened. At first it's all pretty mysterious and even a little creepy, but this is one of those flicks you can't really enjoy because you know that the solution couldn't possibly live up to the setup and the answer will ultimately be totally lame and/or utterly retarded. So what's going on? Since you'll probably never waste your time watching this movie (if I hadn't already, I know I wouldn't) I'll tell you: he was drugged by some rich guy who's out to steal a bunch of art. I know what you're thinking: if he's so rich, why doesn't he just buy his art, instead of risking getting into all sorts of trouble? Because it's beyond fucking cool to be able to say that you're an art thief, that's why. There's different degrees of theft, you know. It's entirely different from that time you got busted shoplifting porno mags from the Lawson's.

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