Tim Kincaid’s Riot on 42nd St. is so bad that it’s an argument for New York City officials’ Disneyfication of the area depicted — one of sex shops and flame steaks, of grindhouse theaters whose oft-flashed marquees were playing everything from Steele Justice and Penitentiary III to Masters of the Universe and Wet Hookers. Real wet hookers strut the streets outside to the tune of the Casio-clap soundtrack.

Having served time behind bars for killing a drug pusher, Glenn Barnes (John Patrick Hayden, Hot Tamale) brings his porn ‘stache and Haggar slacks back to the Deuce and more specifically, back to The Garage, the spacious theater owned by his family. Barnes aims to help them reopen it as a nightclub, thereby acquiring the wrath of Farrell (Michael Speero, She’s Back), the owner of the rival club across the street, Love Connection, where skanky women dance undulate in the altogether.

Farrell’s competitive business strategy is twofold: First, get his ladies to prostitute themselves to customers, and two, crash The Garage’s debut gala with automatic weapons. The latter proves more effective as his goons shoot up everyone in the place, whether they’re being entertained by high-stakes gambling, hoochie lingerie dancing, stand-up comedy (courtesy of actual “comedian” Zerocks, playing himself) or a woman crooning something about a “Uranus Child.” The shootout — with each group shown killed twice, the second time in gut-busting slow-motion — results in the titular riot. Then a cop played by future Lawnmower Man Jeff Fahey (in just his third movie ever) says something meant to be profound. Go home, people.

As cheap as dirt and probably as tasty, Riot on 42nd St. is punishing viewing that finds inspiration in repetition. Writer/director Kincaid (Breeders) flourishes with such incompetence, it all makes sense when you learn of his prolificness in the world of gay porn. This comparatively mainstream release is woefully flaccid, good only as a time capsule of the Big Apple’s sleazier, greasier times. —Rod Lott

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