Writer-director Matthew Chapman's risible drama pits a hot-tempered skeptic (Hunnam) against a creepy born-again Christian (Wilson) for the soul---or at the very least, the curvy body---of the sad-eyed ex-junkie (Tyler) who lives across the hall. Armed with an American accent that never loses its underlying wobble, Hunnam narrates the story from the precipice of a building where he's required to go splat at noon, lest someone end up dead. Meanwhile, a cuckolded cop (Howard) patiently listens to this woebegone tale---at least when he's not bickering on the phone with his wife.
The dopey setup might fly in a film with more panache, but Chapman seems to think he's making a gritty indie with ideas on its mind. (That this was made by a veteran screenwriter, and not a bong-hitting 14-year-old, is the film's one true surprise.) Hunnam and Wilson spar over issues of faith with the earnest shallowness of dorm-room philosophers; later, our hero and his object of desire discuss the stars and the vastness of space. (Then they swap notes and doodle on each other's Trapper Keepers.) All three male leads seem to be competing in a race for Most Impassive and Career-Killing Performance Ever, affecting various iterations of stoicism and intestinal distress, but ultimately, it's the dead-fish flop of the didactic dialogue ("Take homosexuality, for example!") that does them in once and for all.
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