"There, see? Schultz looks right at the coffee-pot radio, then says he sees nothing. It doesn't make sense!"

Auto Focus tells the sadly sordid story of Bob Crane — Hogan of TV's "Hogan's Heroes" — whose comfortable, 1960s suburban life is derailed by sexual addiction. What starts as a fondness for "photography" magazines (nudge nudge, wink wink) soon blossoms into full blown obsession, destroying his family, decimating his career and ultimately leading to violent death.

Sounds uplifting, doesn't it?

As the movie opens, Bob is a church-going family man. He's got a loving wife and three kids, his drink of choice is grapefruit juice and he's about to star in a sitcom improbably set in a German POW camp. Then, through co-star Richard Dawson — who I always suspected of being a bad influence — he meets John (Carpy) Carpenter (not the director of Halloween, another John Carpenter), hi-fi and video tech and quite the swinging guy. Quicker than Newkirk can forge a German ID card, Bob is hitting the strip clubs and picking up loose women with Carpenter, and splashing a little vodka into his grapefruit juice to psych himself up for his first orgy.

Ever since he had to act without them in The English Patient, Willem has relied excessively on his thumbs.

Written by first-time screenwriter Michael Gerbosi and directed by that chronicler of the sordid Paul Schrader, Auto Focus is highly stylized and retro-chic, but subverts its swinging 60s imagery and titillating subject matter by turning sex into a banal, perfunctory activity, no more erotic than bowling. (Unless, of course, bowling turns you on, in which case, more power to you.) As Bob and John make their way through an endless series of easy conquests, playing on Bob's celebrity and John's electronics, the very thing they're obsessed with becomes more and more routine until eventually they're sitting on the couch pleasuring themselves to a videotape of one of their escapades and chatting about day to day things without a second thought.

"I'm afraid there'll be no orgies for you tonight, Bob. You have the mumps"

As Bob follows his trajectory from self-proclaimed "likable guy" to minor celebrity to desperate has-been, Schrader modifies the film's style from slick and polished to frantically paced to grainy and jittery. This reflection of Bob's mental state is echoed perfectly by Greg Kinnear's strong performance. He embodies a character who skates by on quick wit and charm, and doesn't quite know how to cope when those gifts fail him. It's tricky business, depicting the inner life of this man who's all on the surface, revealing his motivations when he himself has no clue why he does what he does, and Kinnear does it brilliantly.

Also strong are Rita Wilson and Maria Bello as Bob's two disillusioned wives and Ron Liebman as his put-upon agent. Willem Dafoe does a credible job as John, trading his way up the celebrity ladder and basking in its reflected glow. He overplays the desperation a bit for my taste, but he does sleazy well.

The same could be said for the film.

Gorilla Pants rating: 3.5 out of 4 bananas