Hell wants him. Heaven won’t take him. Hollywood’s got him.

The devil can try all he wants, and God can change his mind, but no one’s prying open the studio vice grip on – holy of holies! – Keanu Reeves. Without him, the lousy occult thriller “Constantine” might not be the weekend’s global-release mega-moneymaker. Lacking all competition, it surely will be, no matter how lacking in entertainment. The year in superstar special-effects extravaganzas starts here – not very special, less than extravagant, with a rather dim star.

Mr. Reeves plays John Constantine, a man so hardboiled he can chain-smoke in a Los Angeles hospital and no one says a word. He knows something we do not: God and the devil have made a wager for the souls of mankind. The two make no direct contact, but influence our lives through the agency of “half breeds,” impure angels or demons apt to look either like Tilda Swinton (Gabriel) or the lead singer of hack 1990s rock band Bush (Gavin Rossdale as Balthazar).

Cursed with the ability to see these creatures, Constantine makes a living as a freelance exorcist – and a fairly good one, to judge by his enormous downtown loft, which seems to have been decorated by the dumpster-fiend from “Mulholland Drive.” But he also has an ulterior motive: Diagnosed with terminal lung cancer, Constantine, a former attempted suicide, is fated for hell. He hopes his demon-busting will earn brownie points with the Man upstairs.

Meanwhile, down in Mexico, a swarthy civilian has unearthed the Spear of Destiny, aka the very same weapon that killed Christ on the cross. Instantly endowed with super powers and a strange urge to release the son of Satan from his eternal slumber, he heads towards Los Angeles to rouse the multicultural demonic menace. Rounding out this quasi-racist background, Djimon Hounsou co-stars as voodoo pimp Papa Midnite, an amoral club owner who guards an inter-dimensional portal in the form of a discarded Sing-Sing electric chair.

Constantine can feel the dark mojo rising – as can the conspicuously named Angela Dodson, an LAPD detective with psychic tendencies. Her twin sister has recently flung herself off the roof of a hospital psych ward in an apparent suicide, but Angela suspects demonic intervention. She reluctantly teams up with Constantine in his war against mediocre CGI.

All of which is passably diverting until it becomes evident that “Constantine” is little more than a dull, lazy, pastiche of better movies like “Seven,” “Blade,” “The Exorcist,” “The Matrix,” and “Pitch Black.” You’d think that with the soul of mankind at stake there’d be some urgency, but “Constantine” treats the apocalypse as no more than an outbreak of bad vibes, to be dealt with via an assortment of Christian gadgets.

In a characteristic scene, Constantine and Angela are strolling downtown when the street lights suddenly go out. Rushing into the electric glow of a conveniently located religious kitsch boutique, they brace themselves for the demon swarm. How will they escape? Constantine wraps a towel around his fist, mumbles some Latin, and unleashes a holy roman candle into the night, evaporating the winged nasties.

Personally, I find it difficult to get involved in any movie that resolves an action sequence through the ad hoc appearance of a magic dishrag. Constantine will later strap on the Brass Knuckles of Christ (engraved with crosses and very effective for bashing evil skulls), and unload holy-water ammo from a solid-gold shotgun mounted with a crucifix sight. I suppose they’re saving the communion-wafer ninja stars for the sequel.

Proving that the devil does indeed wear Prada, Peter Stormare plays Satan as a fey, Euro-trash dandy who’s last reel mincing nearly tips “Constantine” into the Ninth Circle of Camp.

***

“Harry and Max” are brothers, members of different boy bands, and incestuous. Whoa. From an outrageous, borderline soft-core scenario, writer-director Christopher Munch has made a serious, sincere, audacious movie that is also corny, ridiculous, and slightly embarrassing. Sensitive adults won’t object to the subject matter but to its fumbled execution. There’s a brave movie behind this bad acting, a risky theme under the risque mannerism.

Harry (Bryce Johnson), 23, is past his boy-band prime. His solo record was a flop, he’s taken to the flask, and his teeny-bopper abs are not what they used to be. His 16-year-old brother Max (Cole Williams), however, is on his way up. It becomes apparent there are more tensions between them than mere rivalry when they take a break from their touring schedules and set off on a long planned camping trip.

Intimate conversation turns to physical intimacy, and in one of several startlingly frank scenes the boys engage in some awkward hanky-panky. Back in Los Angeles, Max hangs out with Nikki (Rain Phoenix), Harry’s ex-girlfriend. Intimate guitar-strumming turns to physical intimacy. The bizarre love rectangle is completed by 40-year-old Josiah (Tom Gilroy), Max’s former teacher and lover. Harry pays him an intimate visit.

Mr. Munch is interested in exploring the implicit but taboo eroticism of the boy-band phenomenon. He also wants to muck around the confusion and reckless innocence of budding gay sexuality. “Harry and Max” attempts to imagine a meeting ground for these two volatile regions, but fails to convincingly map the landscape.

Physically, Messrs Johnson and Williams are perfectly cast jailbait types. Their line deliveries are less ideal. This has a lot to do with the lines themselves. Mr. Munch asks us to swallow his raw material, but the dialogue is an improbable, lumpy mouthful. Conversations ring false, confessions seem forced. “Harry and Max” ventures where few movies would dare, but stumbles over its feet every misstep of the way.

What To See This Week

Masculine Feminine (Film Forum) Jean-Luc Godard’s mid-1960s masterpiece is back in a print so vivid you can smell the Gitanes. Pick up the “Masculine Feminine Combo,” available for a limited time at the concession stand: one large Coke and a copy of “Marx For Beginners” for only $11.

Garlands (Metro Pictures) T.J. Wilcox’s installation of 16 mm films ends this weekend, so see it before it closes. Six projectors, arranged throughout the gallery, loop a suite of trim micro narratives made up of original footage, archival photographs, clumsy animations, and terse, poetic subtitles. Intimate, tactile, and refreshingly small-scale, “Garlands” pulls off the exceptionally rare feat of being both good gallery art and good cinema.

The SpongeBob SquarePants Movie (Museum of the Moving Image) The gay agenda has never looked, uh, spongier than in this infectiously zany odyssey through the life aquatic.