While that prediction about everyone becoming famous for 15 minutes still hasn't come true, it seems as if a future looms in which everyone gets to make at least one movie. So why, given the diversity of humanity, do they keep making this one? In The Liars Club, four broadly defined characters, old college friends a few years out of school, get together to drink, talk about women, and shoot hoops, all the while behaving like young men who have seen Swingers a few too many times. The most colorful of the bunch, Bob Marley, wears Boston Celtics paraphernalia in virtually every scene, drinks constantly, and refers to women as "chickens." His friends include a struggling comic (John A. McDermott), a smooth-talking playboy (Jason Shaw), and a shy virgin (Johnny Clark) whose attempts to find true love serve as the film's focus. Clark is the most sensitive of the bunch, a fact established by a moment in which he spots a man using a cell phone during a date and observes, "He's not even paying her any attention. Girls love that shit." One girl apparently doesn't love that shit enough, however. In the film's opening sequence, Clark meets with a harsh rebuffing when he attempts to steer a longstanding friendship with Felicity's Amy Jo Johnson into romantic waters. Heartbroken, he spends the summer learning to flirt, indulge in casual sex, and treat pubic lice. Stolen Kisses it's not, and director/co-writer/co-producer Bruce Cacho-Negrete's plant-the-camera-and-let-the-film-run approach doesn't help offset the cartoonish characterizations and sub-professional acting. Little bits of weirdness do break up the tedium, like a scene in which the guys attend a screening of the not-too-frequently revived film To Gillian On Her 37th Birthday. (Did it play with Doctor Detroit, The Bad News Bears In Breaking Training, and Teenage Mutant Ninjas II: The Secret Of The Ooze as part of a Michael Pressman retrospective?) Or the fact that pubic lice seems to be the gravest consequence in their drink-before-noon, nail-anything-that-moves version of Chicago. But most every other element—the Tarantino/Kevin Smith-inspired pop-culture references, the industrial-grade film stock, the endless stretches of charmless dialogue, the female characters that behave like aliens, the many scenes that look like they were shot in friends' apartments—seems appropriately familiar. They'll seem familiar the next time someone makes this movie, too.