At the end of this direct-to-video dust collector, the credit scroll reads "To all the family members of cast and crew who endured the earthquake by themselves as the show went on." Touching. They also should have included the audience, who, doubtlessly, endured a far more debilitating experience. Hard Vice is the kind of picture for those who thought that "Vegas" and "21 Jump Street" were mentally challenging, emotionally draining fare.

Sam (Expert Weapon) Jones gets saddled with the unenviable task of carrying the ball — figuratively and literally with a script that makes a gargantuan effort to leave no cliché unturned As ex-pro ballplayer turned vice cop, Jones executes jejune phrases like " let's take him down!" every ten minutes while kneading his old baseball, a prop shown so often that even the dimmest bulb at home will conclude it figures in on the climax.

However before the thrilling conclusion comes screeching to its numbingly precognitive halt, writer/director/sweathog-brother Joey Travolta uproots every excuse to crash a 4 x 4, bounce a topless hooker around one of the hotels rooms, or begin and then drop a sub-plot. For example; tough 'n streetwise Jones woos rookie Shannon Tweed (who's hardly looking like a rookie in any profession these days) just long enough to pop off her cop top, which takes up nearly the first half of the feature. To sit through 45 minutes of coy bullshit without the payoff of a full-fledged sex scene is probably a more heinous crime than the main plot detailing a serial killer-hooker.

Another foray into the pointless concerns a takeover by an out-of-town mobster. After spending 20 minutes shooting up the Vegas strip, Jones and Co. slap the cuffs on him. "You're dead!" he snarls. So is his scene. Vengance may be the Lords' but it sure ain't Mr. Mobster's. By now one realizes that coherence or subtley isn't Travlota's forte. By linking the police chief directly with a dozen shots of the evidence, even the element of surprise is bled from the story like a cinematic leech, leaving a tedious shoot 'em up to resolve ends looser than a fringe jacket from the Woodstock era.

Wait! Now Travolta's genius suddenly explodes as brightly as the gratuitous helicopter eruption in the background. Confronted by the killer on the rooftop, Jones goes not for his automatic — but rather for his autographed Mickey Mantle special, pitching one down the line, right into the chief's noggin, sending him home via a 20 story drop! As the famous sports broadcaster Harry Calas would say: "Outta he-e-e-re!"