Is it theoretically possible to make a bad movie starring Paul Walker? After all, didn’t this sensual pseudo-teenager—now 33 and at the peak of his Christ similitude—carry such instant classics as “Joy Ride” and “Meet the Deedles” on his broad, handsome shoulders, not to mention his single-handed creation of the “Fast and Furious” franchise?

What else can one expect, then, from “Into the Blue,” than another paradigm shift in the way we view ourselves? How can this inspiring poster child not carry any script with him to greatness?

The short answer: by resembling a muscular (read: troglodytic) piece of drift-wood in board shorts. Walker’s performance is as awkward as when the shy kid in AP English is forced to read Shakespeare in a loud, overly-dramatic British accent.

I don’t mean to claim I’d have done a better job, but I think Marty Feldstein would tell me there’s a reason I wasn’t offered millions of dollars to pretend to date Jessica Alba. What is the reason, then, that Paul Walker is?

Sex appeal is the answer. For many, many people, seeing Paul Walker gyrate like an Abercrombie-clad dolphin is worth $10 admission and those people should be hit hard in the forehead with something heavy.

It’s obvious that the production team understands what draws theatre-goers to “Into the Blue,” or any of the hundreds of other movies marketed at the perpetually hormonal 18-23 year-old demographic. Shockingly they messed up this time: 110 minutes of Jessica Alba writhing around half-naked projected to 20 times its size on a gigantic wall somehow fails to excite in any way. There must be something sinister going on.

Only a tiny bit of thought is required before arriving at the answer: this movie is absurd. I don’t mean absurd like other action movies are absurd. It’s so absurd that you lose your zombie-like fixation on the thousandth shot in a row of Jessica Alba’s bikini-clad bottom wiggling through a sea full of sharks and shout, “They can’t hold their breath for five minutes while fighting cocaine-dealers and heaving treasure chests around, surface for a quick breath, and then return to high-fiving and blowing things up underwater!”

A plot summary? Sure. Jared (Walker) and Sam (Alba) are a cute, free-diving couple who dream about discovering pirate ships full of gold near their home in the Bahamas. When Jared’s old friend Bryce (Scott Caan) and his latest flame Amanda (Ashley Scott) arrive for a visit, the crew have a fun time diving into the lime-green Caribbean waters.

A fun time, that is, until they discover, about twenty feet apart, an airplane full of cocaine and a long-lost ship full of a billion pounds of gold. At this point, my roommate Derek C. Dorr, ’08, ever the fan of craptastic cinema, said, “I wish Ocean Eleven guy [Scott Caan] would get shot.” Word.

It is then, of course, that all hell breaks loose, as the four would-be millionaires get all tangled up in a ridiculous web comprised…actually, does anyone care?

The only reason to see this film is if you absolutely can’t wait to see Jessica Alba in a swimming suit, in which case you can e-mail me, and I’ll send you the promotional calendar I was handed at the screening. It’s just about as hot as the movie, and you won’t have to listen to lines like, “I believe in you more than in the prospect of any treasure.” The movie seems to think women are better when they don’t talk anyway. Perhaps Alba and Walker should go into mime?

—Staff writer Henry M. Cowles can be reached at hmcowles@fas.harvard.edu.