I don't even know where to start with this movie, other than to say this: I will personally fistfight any person that genuinely likes this piece of shit. Since this includes everyone in a fraternity, and most college kids in general, this means I will badly lose a lot of fights. But it's worth it for the principle.

If I didn't know better beforehand, I would have sworn this was a student project from a second-tier film school. But as reported by the documentary "Overnight," the director was a first-time professional who was so pompous and dickish that his crew temporarily quit, and who consequently has been blacklisted by every studio in Hollywood. This alone might suggest that you're wrong about the movie being good.

As for the substance of the thing, my memory is foggy because I refuse to see this train wreck twice. But briefly, this plot follows a couple of Irish brothers (they are either priests or just very religious), who avenge the murder of their friend (I think?) by going on a killing spree with a stash of guns they somehow find, knocking off mafia members and common criminals one by one in the name of God, while becoming local heroes in the process. Without any traning or special expertise, they're able to display Batman/ James Bond level stealth, martial arts, and sharpshooter profeciency. The movie casually assumes that rowdy, heavy-drinking barflies can instantly become unstoppable crime-fighting vigilantes, which probably explains the film's fratboy appeal.

Unlike in "Seven," "Pulp Fiction,"or "Natural Born Killers" -- three films from which "Saints" clearly swipes -- there is a total lack of ambivalence or commentary regarding the protagonists' murders. Kevin Spacey's character in "Seven" also kills in the name of God, but the film ultimately exposes how hypocritical and disgusting his vigilante philosophy is. "Natural Born Killers" only glorifies its killers to make a satirical point about the craven, hysterical, arbitrary nature of celebrity. "Pulp Fiction" makes religious-themed assasinations look cool, but also shows Samuel L. Jackson saving his own life -- spiritually and literally -- by walking away from his job as a hitman. Meanwhile, "Boondock Saints" is dumbly saying, "Look how cool it is when priests shoot automatic weapons at criminals! Now THAT'S justice!" Like in the similarly awful "Saw" series, the director seems to actually buy into the twisted, contradictory philosophy of his protagonist -- the vigilante murders are celebrated, never analyzed. In fact, it's obvious that even the DIRECTOR realized this shallowness, as he crudely tacked on a video sequence over the closing credits, wherein previously unseen local citizens absurdly look straight into the camera and directly state the missing subtext, with quotes (I swear to God) going something like: "Part of me is glad those brothers got so many scumbags off the street, but at what point does the avenging of crime become a crime in itself?" Subtle.

Then there are the "stylistic" touches, which aim for Tarentino or Aronofsky but end up closer to Ed Wood. Everything with Willem Dafoe is a problem. There's his character's offensively-portrayed and totally irrelevant homosexuality. And the fact that in a pivotal scene he infiltrates a high-security mafia compound by cross-dressing, looking every bit as unconvincing as when Bugs Bunny dressed as a woman. But while the Bugs/Elmer Fudd bit was always played for comedy, here the audience is expected to BELIEVE that this cast of mafia goons are helplessly attracted to Dafoe in high heels. Additionally, there's the wildly bizarre scene where Dafoe's detective character explains to the audience how he solved a particular crime by dancing to non-diegetic soundtrack music, directly addressing the camera, and literally walking through his own mental image of the crime scene -- a breaking of the fourth wall that comes from nowhere, doesn't happen again, and adds nothing to the story. When stuff like this happens in movies like "Magnolia" or "Annie Hall," it's charming because those films carefully establish an expectation that such flourishes might happen. But in "Saints," the sequence is a ridiculous break from the rest of the film's straightforward style, spent on a secondary character, in a scene unrelated to the main story. Finally, there's the numbingly excessive use of the word "fuck," which is the most dependable tell of mediocre, insecure screenwriters everywhere. Fuck.

Maybe loving "Boondock Saints" is a rite of passage, in that awkward college phase where the dorm walls are covered with Dave Matthews and Scarface posters. That being the case, nothing says adulthood like realizing that this is one of the worst movies ever made. Also, challenging people to fistfights. Bring it on.