Blogma.

Caught Kevin Smith's 1999 "cult hit" Dogma last night on Film4. And I say caught in the most terminal sense, because sitting through that movie is akin to contracting leprosy. My love affair with the tubby New Jersey shopkeeper started, like many, when Clerks hit video in 1995. I was skiving school for whatever reason, and a kindly parent (in the shape of my mum, who - if you hadn't already garnered - is awesome) was good enough to rent it from the local Blockbuster for me that afternoon. Such liberal profanities made 15 year-old Neth giddy with glee, and it - along with Mallrats, caught a year or so later on Sky - became firm re-watch favourites. Chasing Amy, less so - although now it's plain to see it's actually Smith's best film by a country mile.

Anyway, I digress. Watching Dogma last night (and I've seen it plenty times before), something occurred to me: every single performance in that film is awful. If this were a no-budget lo-fi entry then that would be understandable, but these are proper actors (and Chris Rock). Alan Rickman? Dreadful. Linda Fiorentino, so fucking ace in The Last Seduction? Dreadful. Salma Hayek? Dreadful. Damon and Affleck? Dreadful - aside from that one boardroom judgment scene, where they're actually given something interesting to do. Don't even get me started on Jason Mewes and Smith himself - a performance more muggy than a mug party at the mug store, and one he's been duplicating on screen in that role ever since.

So what gives? The script, that's what. There's a common criticism that the movie spends roughly 80% of its time having characters explain the plot to each other, and it's true. Smith attempts to condense centuries of religious ideology into 130 minutes, and in the process simplify it down for an audience whose prime objective is to see Mewes make another fart joke. As such, every word arrives stilted and unnatural. It simply throttles the comedy, and makes the film cringe-inducing. Having Salma Hayek cast as a muse is one thing; getting her to explain the potted history of Golgotha whilst under attack from a monster made of shit is just asking too much.

There are some interesting ideas floating around Dogma, but none are ever applied with much conviction. It's a shame that Smith seemed so keen to make this for his fanbase rather than a wider audience, because without the laboured references to Home Alone, or the bumbling non-schtick of Jay & Silent Bob, or the "what the fuck am I doing here?" expression on Fiorentino's face, or the fart noises, this might have actually been a worthwhile exercise. Unfortunately - and like all his following offerings - it seems so desperate to please the stoner crowd that it simply gives up trying anything new. In that respect, Smith's unflagging army of die-hards have become his own worst enemies as a film-maker.