The acting is bad -- bad Irish accents, worse Southern ones, lesser characters plainly played by people related to or friends of the director. Even the shoot-outs seem 10 or 12 rehearsals shy of a Wild Bunch.

The lighting is awful -- Kevin Smith ugly -- scenes illuminated by what seem like industrial flourescents.

The staging, sloppy.

The script? A hodgepodge of feeble (and obvious) attempts at tough-guy action movie catch phrases, movie references, with characters who are violent comic cartoons.

But at least with Troy Duffy's movies, he and his audience are in on the joke together.

Maybe they haven't seen "Overnight," the documentary about his efforts to self-destruct his Hollywood career before it got started, ego-tripping his way in and out of deals that would have made his original hit-men with Catholic trademarks "Boondock" film a major motion picture. But they get it.

He's over-the-top, making a B movie because really, that's all Hollywood will let him make -- one bad movie that becomes a cult hit on DVD per decade. They're laughing at every eye-rolling moment, every silly flourish of a pistol, every pair of sunglasses, every bad performance. And Duffy seems to be laughing with them, or at least inviting the mockery.

"All Saints Day," his "Boondock" sequel, brings the murderous "Saints" hit-men Connor (Sean Patrick Flanery) and Murphy (Norman Reedus) back from Ireland, where they're living with Dad, Il Duce (Billy Connolly, not the least bit embarrassed) to Boston for a wee bit of revenge. Somebody has assassinated a priest, Saints style, plopping two Lincoln pennies over the eyeballs. And they want to know who.

First, however, they have to shed the worst "stage beards" since Gettysburg, hitch a ride on a cargo ship where they hook up with mad-eyed Mexican, Romeo (Clifton Collins Jr., so far over the top he can't even see the top) and arm themselves to the teeth by every Lucky Charms-accented goon this side of Bunker Hill.

Every crime scene is reconstructed by a whiz-bang Fed in stiletto heels, played by Julie Benz in the worst-ever imitation of Kyra Sedgwick's "The Closer." She must have watched "Are You Smarter than A Fifth Grader" to learn her drawl.

The plot is an afterthought, the performances given with a wink and a clip-emptying flourish. But it's fun to see Collins, sans any restraint, eyes bugging out of his narrow skull, complain to a hostage that he can't begin a shootout without having a ready "tag line" for the scene -- "You know, like 'We're gonna need a bigger boat' or 'Hasta la vista, baby!'"

Duffy is a B-grade horror director working in the gangland genre, with his "Bible banging psychos" blazing away, a pistol in each hand in imitation of early '80s John Woo, struggling to come up with another Eastwood-Bronson-Schwarzenegger-Stallone punch line to every bloody, bullet-riddled scene.

It's not pretty, something of a drag to sit through (pacing is another thing his movies lack), but at least, watching it with Duffy's audience, you get it. It's supposed to be dumb.