Scott Speedman (Felicity) plays the “quiet, introspective” Dexter, while Wes Bentley (American Beauty) is the joyously Fu Manchu-ed “ideas man,” Royce. Long-time friends and fellow fun-loving smack addicts, they have the typical drug-film bad day, including hallucinations, lost stashes, attempts at quitting, run-ins with mobsters, overdoses, and relapse; most are dispensed with within the first act. The aforementioned O/D inspires a trip to an abandoned drive-in theatre to bury Royce’s newly deceased girlfriend - "I don't know how I feel about her in a hockey bag" - where a Satan-sponsored resurrection naturally leads to mayhem, a mall jaunt, a smoke-filled heist, and a Mexican standoff. Though comprised of familiar ingredients, the fusion of parts often makes for comical viewing.

Proverbially reliant on the sum of its parts, Weirdsville frays when it delves into its comedic-occult and medieval-midget subplots, which both play like low-rent Joss Whedon. The tie-clad Satanists – why do occultists always look like Tories/Republicans? – include a broadly-drawn trio, composed pf a hollow, eye-liner-wearing ring leader, latent-Lesbian she-devil in a blazer, and a moronic tall guy. Despite their forced uniqueness, they are TV-ready stock characters and watching them stumble through pratfalls and over-the-top confessionals proves painfully unfunny and distracting. Also, in a post-Station Agent-era, lesser-stature actors can do better than mini (sorry)-armies of Tim Horton’s-loving knights.

Conversely, the underrated Speedman (see My Life Without Me) and underused Bentley ooze affability and inject one-note stoners with charisma. Though the former has a diamond-in-the-rough erudition and the latter is a charmingly amoral moron, the leads’ natural performances elevate them above that inherent triteness. These two carry the film through shudder-worthy passages, expanding beyond their generic moulds.