There's something unnerving about seeing a film like One Night At McCool's in theaters, kind of like spotting a giraffe walking down a city street. They both naturally belong somewhere else: in the giraffe's case, the plains of Africa, and in Night's, filling out a double feature with 8 Heads In A Duffel Bag and interrupted periodically by commercials for BattleBots and Win Ben Stein's Money. Enough investigation would probably even unveil a mathematical formula at work: The fewer laughs a comedy provides, the longer it seems doomed to wander the purgatory of cable television. Expect One Night At McCool's to linger for a long, long time. Deep down, there's the germ of a good idea. In more effective hands, the film—told, Rashomon-like, by three separate protagonists—might have better developed its central notion that sexual attraction can be powerful enough to bend ordinarily clear-thinking folks' notions of reality. One of Norwegian director Harald Zwart's most inspired notions involves shooting Liv Tyler, Night's femme fatale, in focus so soft that it barely qualifies as focus at all. She's less a woman than the idea of a woman. But that's about as good as it gets in a film that, digging deep into memories of pre-adolescent sexual discomfort, attempts to wring laughs out of the uncanny resemblance between a penis and a hot dog. As a character sexy enough to cloud men's minds, Tyler has the looks but not the attitude to pull off the trick, and the film suffers for it. A small-time grifter, she takes over the life of a thick-skulled bartender (Matt Dillon) after convincing him to take the rap for shooting her musclebound partner (Andrew Dice Clay, in yet another unwelcome comeback attempt). When Dillon exhausts his potential to help her schemes, Tyler moves on to his lawyer cousin (Paul Reiser) and a Catholic cop (John Goodman) still mourning the death of his wife. Night starts poorly and gets worse, right up to a blood-soaked finale set to The Village People's "YMCA" in the most unappealing marriage of music and imagery since 3000 Miles To Graceland's "Such A Night" casino-massacre setpiece. Almost as compensation, however paltry, producer Michael Douglas wears a memorably funny hairpiece in a small role as a low-rent hitman.