Action Jackson is a drinking game of a film, one well over the so-bad-it’s-good line, its main merit being that in a sea of superstar-massaging vehicles, it holds some genuine surprises — and makes sure its hero looks like a jackass.

There’s suspension of disbelief, and there’s Action Jackson—where suspension climbs to the top of Everest, moonwalks and floats into the stratosphere strapped with eardrum-shattering jetpacks. Not usually my cuppa, but perhaps this one time, it is. With a shot of rum.