Wild Hogs

ISN'T there some federal regulation about not driving or operating heavy machinery while under sedation? If so, the authorities may like to take a glance at this largely useless comedy concerning a gang of middle-aged men driving their motorbikes from the midwest to California. The four actors involved show such lack of enthusiasm for their sparsely imagined roles that one might easily believe they had all breakfasted on Mogodon omelettes.

And the torpor is catching - 90 minutes of this drearily inoffensive pap should be enough to send even the most hyperactive speed freak into a big, warm snooze.

Night, night, everybody.

What we have here is a wholly unnecessary retread of the already only passably amusing City Slickers. This time round the middle-class, middle-aged, middle-browed, middle Americans are played by John Travolta (broke), Martin Lawrence (henpecked), Tim Allen (disillusioned) and William H Macy (geeky). After each simultaneously encounters one intimation of mortality too many, they get aboard their hogs and - not wishing to move too far from cliche - set their handlebars for the west coast.

Along the way they encounter a gay police officer who misunderstands the nature of their bond and a gang of superannuated Hell's Angels (led by Ray Liotta) with a limited amount of patience for Sunday riders. Macy falls for Marisa Tomei. They all learn important lessons.

Though the homophobic gags are a tad discomforting, there is nothing here that will alarm, surprise or unnerve anybody who has seen a film before. Wild Hogs, a massive success on its US release, looks as if it were made from a packet of dehydrated entertainment labelled: "Generic Low-Grade Spring Comedy". The only significant diversion comes from trying to work out which cast member of Easy Rider will turn up at the end to grant a queasy imprimatur to the bumbling heroes.

Having guessed wrongly, I turned over and went back to sleep.