Light, sprightly surf music and dark, down-and-dirty porn are only slightly more compatible than the proverbial water and oil. But that's only one of the problems with Brown Eyed Blondes, director Jim Holliday's latest girl-gaggle extravaganza.

In telling the extremely thin tale of the Viking Surf Slits, and all-female surf rock band, Holliday clearly tries to infuse his script with a wacky, zany brand of humor. Unfortunately, what may be entertaining to the director comes across to viewers as indulgent, insipid (one could drive a truck through certain stretches of dialogue) and frequently disposable. The sex, meanwhile, is an improvement over the story-telling, but that's not really saying much. The vast majority of the 11 scenes are pro forma and decidedly uninspired, featuring some of the most rote anal "action" to come across the AVN threshold in many a moon. And clearly not helping to set the proper tone is that constant bouncy surf guitar on the soundtrack. House music, yes. Pipeline-inspired ditties, we don't think so.

Sure, there are a couple of hot spots, such as a spirited four-girl-tongue-a-thon highlighted by P.J. Sparxx's dirty discourse, and a loud, sweaty Felecia/Jill Kelly hardware hum. But they, uh, pop up all-too-infrequently. At one shy of a dozen scenes, Brown Eyed Blondes plainly demonstrates that more isn't necessarily better. The only thing that saves it from a lower rating is its huge A-list cas and sharp production values.