Rock Star
dir. Stephen Herek
Now playing at various theaters.

It should come as no surprise to hear that Rock Star is vapid and artless, but what's frustrating about the film is that it's not even fun. Mark Wahlberg is not a real actor, and no amount of close-up shots of his nipples, stage pyrotechnics, and cameos by real-life "rock stars" can justify a script this trite. I was hoping for the cheap thrill of a low-grade farce, but all I got was a bloodless morality tale. Say, did you know that fame comes with a price?

Wahlberg plays Chris Cole, the young, muscular frontman for a letter-perfect Steel Dragon tribute band. When Steel Dragon fires its actual singer, Cole is flown to Los Angeles to replace him. The plot is loosely based on the story of Tim "Ripper" Owens, former frontman for the Judas Priest cover band British Steel, who eventually went on to replace Rob Halford in real life. Jennifer Aniston plays Cole's girlfriend/manager, who accompanies him on his rock and roll misadventures.

Apparently, director Stephen Herek (whose credits include The Mighty Ducks) is a descendant of the National Lampoon school of motorcycle-in-the-hall party montage. The world of decadence he creates is fourth-rate. Where the rock and roll fun should be funny, it is not. Where Herek intimates tension (as when Wahlberg and Aniston's characters are simultaneously tugged at by insidious outsiders), the film is forced and cliché.

Aniston seems miscast in Rock Star. She's too intelligent for this film (I'm as surprised as you are). Eventually her character leaves Cole and moves to Seattle, to start... you guessed it... a coffee shop. Wahlberg's character grows increasingly listless until he finally realizes that fame isn't worth the loss of his individuality, or his lady. He moves to Seattle and starts an "alternative rock" band that's about as compelling as Third Eye Blind (whose frontman, Stephan Jenkins, is in the film), and the band plays a crappy show that Aniston fortuitously stumbles upon.

Oops. I gave away the ending right there, didn't I? Oh, who cares. I just want my Saturday afternoon back.