Critics are already dismissing this one as unwatchable, a film without any redeeming value- but, c'mon, nobody's mistaking it for "The Motorcycle Diaries." From the trailers you know you're not about to witness Oscar performances and- with a cast including John Travolta, Tim Allen and Martin Lawrence- not much is about to be taken seriously.

I'm far more perturbed by stupid films pretending to be smart than by stupid films knowing they're stupid, winking at the audience and then just having fun.

Okay, so "Wild Hogs" is a little like "Snakes on a Plane," without the snakes or the plane- just four middle-aged guys from Cincinnati, tired with their mundane lives, dashed expectations and high cholesterol.

So these casual bikers decide to take off on a sojourn (with or without the permission of their wives) to the California coast. One last hurrah, as it were, as if middle age had a steel spring door attached and suddenly the hinges had started to squeak.

Not that I'm qualifying this slapstick farce a monumental comedy or even a halfway noble one- and should I start listing its less admirable traits I might end up agreeing with fellow critics. So I shall remain blissfully superficial.

I am convinced that certain scripts seem to defy rationale and that sometimes actors see a bad script and a good paycheck and just muck it, giving a performance the depth it deserves.

Travolta, Allen and Lawrence all play down to the script; one even has a sense that second takes were few and far between. Nor, perhaps, were any expected.

And yet, here and there, "Wild Hogs" manages to be funny.

I can't help believe that if the principles had been replaced by, say, Owen Wilson, Vince Vaughn and Will Ferrell, who were given the same script, the film would have been hailed as high nouveau art. Is suburban middle age suddenly out of vogue in Hollywood?

The first half of "Wild Hogs" is better than the second. Scrape away some of the gay pal and emasculated husband barbs and it might have been even better. (First time was cute, second time was okay, by counts seven and eight you're running out of chuckles. And, sorry, but if there's a small enclave of Hollywood screenwriters who think that four friends bathing naked in the wilderness is all that riotous- dudes, you gotta get out more. (Or stop renting "Brokeback.")

The film's second half suffers from the obligatory "something's got to happen" mentality. Frankly, nothing had to happen (at least not this contrived) in "Wild Hogs."

Why? It's a road trip movie! Again, I point to "The Motorcycle Diaries." Sometimes, even in film, the journey can be its own reward. Sooner or later somebody's going to have the guts to throw out Hollywood's fading parchment rule book, chuck the formulaic pap, and films like "Wild Hogs" might well improve.

My last word is about William H. Macy. Without him in this film (as Dudley, the novice biker) there would have been less- far less- redeeming value. Sorry, but even when I watch him melt into that patented, sad-dog William H. Macy frown, I can't help but smile. It worked for him in "Fargo" and in "Pleasantville" and in "The Cooler"- and it works for him here.

Even if he's not taking himself seriously, it seems like he's taking himself seriously. Like he's actually trying his damnedest to play a guy who's not trying to act too hard. And when a performance ties you up like that, that's pretty remarkable acting.