In a perfect world, Grand Theft Parsons would screen throughout the South, in the mid-'70s, in drive-in theaters, to undiscriminating rednecks drunk or stoned enough to embrace its rambling pace and lack of action. But now that drive-in theaters have mostly gone the way of the dinosaur, this laconic slacker comedy has been given an unceremonious burial. Based on the too-dull-for-fiction story of what happened to the remains of the late Gram Parsons, the film stars a typecast Johnny Knoxville as Parsons' loyal road manager, a hard-drinking, working-class shit-kicker who can't forgive himself for not being around to prevent his client's overdose. Determined to fulfill a pact he made with Parsons, Knoxville steals the singer's corpse so he can burn it in the desert. A one-note Christina Applegate plays Parsons' crazy ex-girlfriend, a domineering ball-buster with a questionable claim on Parson' estate, while a wasted Robert Forster lends his trademark quiet dignity to the underwritten role of Parsons' straight-arrow father. Parsons possesses the odd moment of unforced, goofy charm, mostly due to Michael Shannon's bone-dry performance as a spiritual hippie, but like most forgettable road movies, it ultimately rambles aimlessly without getting anywhere, clumsily combining slapstick with icky, unconvincing sentimentality. It's a weird wisp of a movie, a sleepy little would-be cult sleeper sans the cult.