Some have admired Michael Dowse’s oddity for its dynamic use of sound and its mockumentary ambitions, but I couldn’t get beyond waiting for the next bottle of a particular single-malt Scotch to show up. There’s one in almost every scene, sometimes dozens, and they’re often so foregrounded, you feel you have to knock them down to watch the movie: this must be the most iron-clad product-placement deal in movie history.

At least Frankie Wild (Paul Kaye) gets to make ample use of the stuff, as well as all the other legal and illegal substances available to a star DJ on the fast track in the club scene in Ibiza. It’s a typical rise-and-fall story: DJ hits the top, marries a venal woman, gets lost in a cocaine haze (his habit personified by a giant, drooling badger), goes deaf, and tries to redeem himself with the love of a good woman, also deaf. Various colleagues and friends, some real, I presume, comment in "interviews." The problem is that none of this is funny, unless the ropes of snot pouring from Frankie’s nose strike you as droll. As for the sound element: never a big club-music fan, I was nonetheless engrossed by the montage near the end where the deaf Frankie tries to regain his skills by sensing vibrations. Too bad the focus, when not on the Scotch bottle, is on his dirty feet. (88 minutes)