`Bushwhacked' Relies On Moronic Humor, Bad Taste

----------------------------------------------------------------- Movie review

X "Bushwhacked," with Daniel Stern, Brad Sullivan, John Polito, and Ann Dowd. Directed by Greg Beeman, from a screenplay by John Jordan, Danny Byers, Tommy Swerdlow and Michael Goldberg. Aurora, Everett 9, Factoria, Grand Cinemas Alderwood, Issaquah 9, Kent, Lewis & Clark, Metro, Mountlake 9, Newmark, SeaTac North, Valley drive-in. "PG" - Parental guidance suggested (brain-rotting humor). -----------------------------------------------------------------

Considering the fact that the average major-studio production costs $25-$35 million, movies like "Bushwhacked" present something of a moral dilemma for anyone with a social conscience.

Movies like this - tasteless non-comedies, devoid of inspiration and seemingly determined to sap the intelligence of anyone exposed to their vapidity - are quite simply a waste of time, money, and humanity.

I'll admit that's a pretty heavy ax to swing upon the skulls of everyone involved. But just think of what could have been done with the millions that were squandered on this so-called entertainment. . .

Accuse me of elitism, call me a cinema snob, I don't care. On any rational scale of judgment, "Bushwhacked" is worthless, catering to the lowest instincts of humor and failing to succeed even on that dubious level. As star and executive producer, Daniel Stern - whose once-enjoyable screen persona has deteriorated following his burgling in "Home Alone" - should be ashamed.

It's the kind of movie that opens with its moronic hero, Max Grabelski (Stern) strutting to the Bee Gees hit "Stayin' Alive," not because it fits into any comedic concept, but because someone thought a throwaway reference to "Saturday Night Fever" might earn an easy laugh. It's zero-effort comedy.

Max is a big-city delivery guy who dresses like a throwback to "Starsky and Hutch," with black leather and vintage disco collars wide enough to park a car on. He'd look at home in the Little Italy of "Mean Streets," but he wouldn't last a minute in Scorsese-land. That's why he flees when he happens upon the aftermath of a murder; the feds think he did it, so goofy Max goes on the lam and finds himself playing an allegedly expert troop leader to a bunch of second-rate Ranger Scouts who are only slightly less idiotic than he is.

The idea, of course, is that Max will learn outdoorsmanship, responsibility and courage, and bring his kids through the travails of the trails.

Honestly, what can you say about a movie in which the so-called adult hero recites toilet-humor poetry while his charges urinate from a cliff top? About an FBI agent (John Polito) who mistakes the aformentioned urine shower for a refreshing mountain waterfall? About a kid who thinks Max's Italian loafers are state-of-the art hiking boots?

We don't laugh with these people. We laugh at them, when we laugh at all, and they deserve our derision.