Movie 43 can best be neatly summed up from the sequence in which the film receives its title; the two young leads scramble to accumulate a name for a fictional on-line video of “the most banned” movie ever. It’s a joint effort of desperation and cloying to try and make something cohesive together, coming up short by some way in the process.

   Over the course of this star-studded endeavour, a feature which is made up of a series of vignettes all tied together with the flimsiest of premises (and directed by a series of big names), I begin to wonder whether the general critical consensus that Movie 43 is the "worst film ever made" might be a touch on the optimistic; it's barely recoginsable as cinema at all bearing more in common, I suspect, with  some of the more unsavory punishments inflicted upon detainees at Guantanamo Bay.

   The film sees a trio of protagonists surfing the web throughout the feature trying to find the titular Movie 43 and, instead, coming across a variety of short skits. The sketches, pushing the “gross-out” comedy formula the Farrelly’s helped invent with a couple of the more memorable sequences in their smash hit There’s Something About Mary, are seemingly an investigation into how crude a piece of cinema can be rather than trying to achieve anything as lofty as inspiring laughter from the audience. The most shocking thing, however, does not regard how graphic the film is but, rather, how unfunny the whole thing is.

   The feature’s vignettes are toilet obsessed, ranging from the scatological obsessed lovers who are preparing to defecate on each other, through to a sequence in which Hugh Jackman has a pair of testicles hanging from his throat. To summarise, the humour ranges from people releasing bodily fluids in places most in civilised society would find untoward, through to genitalia being found in unexpected places. It does not get any more sophisticated than that.

   It’s a sub-Rob Schneider-esque film in which 90% of the movie’s running time seems to be obsessed with things going in and out of people’s anuses; it would hardly take a devout Freudian to figure out which stage of development this juvenile feature is stuck in. On a movie level, it would have been much better to have been stuck, eternally, in development hell so we, the audience, never had to experience it.

   The only saving grace for the whole feature is knowing most of the talented actors in this film’s ensemble will never reach such nadirs ever again – Emma Stone, for example, can only go upwards from here.