Pot smokers tend to be easily amused by stoner comedy, for a couple of reasons: 1) The act of buying and consuming illegal drugs automatically admits users into a clandestine society, and any reference to the codes and behavior of that society is likely to coax a knowing giggle from those who are similarly involved; and 2) They're so high that they'll laugh at anything. Director Richard Sears capitalizes on the forgiving nature of toked-up audiences in his adaptation of Michael Hornburg's 1996 novel Bongwater, assembling a cast of distinctive indie-film personalities and letting them drift into their own individually amusing but collectively calamitous comic styles. When star Luke Wilson drawls and mumbles as a marijuana dealer in love with flighty art-babe Alicia Witt, the dichotomy between low-key expression and deep romantic feeling recalls Wilson's turn in Bottle Rocket; when Andy Dick acts prissy and petty as a self-centered gay party animal, the disruptive dialogue rhythms come straight from a Ben Stiller sketch; and when Jack Black pops up as a charismatic pot farmer, his wild-eyed energy and constant singing serve as variations on his Tenacious D persona. Even though the movie was shot in 1997, before their types had become so familiar, Wilson, Dick, and Black already coast on manner. The rest of Bongwater's cast—including Brittany Murphy, Amy Locane, Jamie Kennedy, and Jeremy Sisto—have less-defined shtick, so they either overact to compete with their more forceful co-stars or fade into the background. Bongwater has a shaggy plot that involves Witt burning down Wilson's house and then flying off to New York to hang out with a rock star while Wilson mopes around Portland, but the picture is mainly a series of smoky, elliptical character sketches that range in quality from zippily funny to inert. The effect is like being at a dope-fueled party, where the guests use their impaired condition as an excuse to adopt poses—intensely interesting space case, best friend for a night, studied eccentric, honest-to-a-fault jerk, and so on—that have little to do with their real identities. Those parties can be fun to pop by for a few laughs, but after an hour or so, the posturing and phoniness is exhausting, and leaves an empty feeling.