All this word-of-mouth publicity (or word-of-web) portends an unpredictable and irresistibly thought-provoking movie, the kind of inventive thriller over which the audiences drool. Such a movie, I disappointedly found out, The Minus Man is not.

Based on the 1990 cult crime novel by Lew McCreary, The Minus Man tells the story of mild and childlike Vann Siegert (Bottle Rocket's Owen Wilson), an ostensibly kind, offenseless man. He's so nauseatingly likable and law-abiding (even when driving onto a deserted highway he makes a point of using a signal and looking both ways), you'd never suspect him of having any violent tendencies. He's perfect. Eerily perfect. All right, you guessed it--he's a serial killer; a bona fide psycho (how could someone who uses their blinker on a deserted highway not be?). The disarming smile that's perpetually pasted on his face, however, could fool anyone.

Happening upon a quiet town, Vann quickly befriends masochistic Doug (Brian Cox) and his wife, Jane (Mercedes Ruehl), who allow him to rent the room of their missing daughter. It doesn't take long for the tender-faced psychotic to become like a son to the unhappy couple or for him to get a job or a girlfriend (Janeane Garofalo). There are a few touching or darkly humorous scenes in Vann's quest to be the quintessential son, employee and sweetheart. But alas, they are lost among an irritating and unnecessary interrogation that takes place between our hero and two imaginary cops. This surreal exchange serves no point other than to throw in some random symbolism (remember, "conversation follows") and muck up the plot.

The filmmakers should have used the time they devoted to excessive complication to solidify the characters and their respective motivations. The Minus Man would have the potential to be a mysterious thriller or an exciting slasher flick if Vann weren't one of the dullest murderers ever to grace the silver screen. His banality isn't due to poor acting--Wilson plays his role with flair. The problem is the filmmakers don't reveal enough--Vann, after two and a half hours of character exposition, is still frustratingly vague.

Several times throughout the film, director/screenwriter Hampton Fancher has our gentle killer relate a favorite anecdote in which a spider climbs into his ear only to climb back out. "Nobody home" is the punch line he delivers, flashing his trademark smile. These scenes are so important because the filmmakers want to portray Vann as a "zero," a nothing--a "nobody home" type of guy. He is merely a reflection of whatever others want him to be: a son to an unhappy old couple; a buddy to a high school football star; Mr. Right to an unmarried postal worker. Yet Fancher also wants the audience to sympathize with the real Vann--a man who is tormented by nonexistent cops; a man whose killing is not always within his control ("You don't always choose what you do. Sometimes what you do chooses you," his voice-over proclaims); a man entirely unaware of his lack of identity.

The problem, however, is that this real Vann is never established. All we can know of him must be salvaged from the heaps of inner monologue and inexplicable behavior that the creators have thrown in as unnecessary complication. Sweet Vann is nothing more than a muddle of ambiguous symbolism and cryptic hallucinations--supposed fodder for post-movie conversation and analysis.

As The Minus Man crawls along, we are supposed to "connect the existential dots" (another one of its taglines), but all desire to analyze or discuss the film is slowly sapped. Patience--I thought to myself during the movie-there must be a Sixth Sense surprise finale that'll make it all worthwhile. True to form, there wasn't.

True to its advertisements, admittedly, The Minus Man does spark at least one conversation, a very terse one: "That movie sucked."