Safely taking the generic path of least resistance, it comes as no surprise that YGIH rises to its own level of mediocrity. Stale scenarios (the cable guy; ad nauseum) are mumbled out by a near-comatose cast whose interest does not rise appreciably when the dialogue inevitably gives way to burying the blue-veined bone.

Videotaped sans verve in the corners of tiny rooms, each scene quickly achieves (and maintains) the temperature of old bathwater. The saving grace lies in the female cast. While not particularly anxious for hot marrow pudding, each has her own natural physical charms.