The latest distinguished figure to put a vodoo hex on his own chances of living out the day is this film's veteran airline pilot, Capt. Ray Bashore (Barry), who can't wait for this one flight from Los Angeles to Paris to be over, as it's the final leg of a long and distinguished career, and he looks forward to spending more time with his wife and grandchildren. You know in your heart that Ray's a Dead Man Walking, an irony that is excellent geek porn on several levels, since the actor playing him was in the stirring film of that title, and it will not be long before the titular mob of carnivorous ambulatory corpses invades this one. Could be worse. The in-flight movie was The Master of Disguise.

This particular flight to Paris is only one-third full, which is good news not only for those hardy protagonists who will soon have to fight off fellow passengers transformed into zombies, but for viewers already strained to the breaking point by the annoying qualities of the existing characters.

For instance, there are two despicable young couples of the sort who compete at how may times the guys can call each other and total strangers "dude," and how many times they can refer to good-looking women as "bitches," and how many times the ladies can hiss and spit. In short, they belong to that sizable subset of humanity that might be smarter and more charming (and have better table manners) after their transformation into ravenous zombies. This leads to some awfully redundant dialogue as their ladies hate each other and delight in calling each other "bitch" even as the boys apply the perjorative to the rest of their gender. You know it won't be long before these girls have a hair-pulling slap fight in the aisle. And yes, that actually happens. It's Sluts on a Plane!

There's also Federal Marshall Truman Burrows (Chisum), who's transporting Frank Lee Strathmore (O'Connor) to face a long prison sentence in France. Strathmore's determined to goad Burrows by any means possible, including the novel measure of channeling John Malkovich.

Finally, there's black golf celebrity William "Long Shot" Freeman (Derek Webster)�you're supposed to think Tiger Woods�who irritates his hot wife with his willingness to interrupt this romantic journey by signing autographs for anybody who comes up to express rabid fandom. He might have a better chance of completing his journey unrecognized if he doesn't keep his gold-plated golf club in first class with him. Still, if you don't expect the inevitable scene where he uses that club in conjunction with his his bitchin' skillz to drive a severed head across the passenger cabin and into a hole in the floor, you're giving the movie too much credit for taste and subtlety. The scene might be even more resonant were he being followed around by a crowd of spectators politely applauding in appreciation, but no, that would be just silly.

Coffee, tea or intestines?

In any event, zombies become part of the in-flight entertainment when turbulence frees Dr. Kelly Thorp (Laura Cayouette), a scientist infected with the zombie contagion, from a refrigerated crate under guard in the hold. The goon watching over her, who has evidently been ordered to spend the entire flight from L.A. to to Paris in his isolation suit, lets loose with his automatic weapon. This is just the beginning of an entire fusillade of gunfire that will soon be zinging around the high-altitude environment without causing immediate explosive decompression. There's at least one moment of enjoyable cognitive dissonance underlying the foolishness of all this as Frank, the prisoner under heavy guard, notes by contrast that his beloved pearl-handled toenail clippers were confiscated at the airport in L.A. Poor guy. All the other guys have firearms, and he can't even make sure his cuticles line up.

Neither all that flying lead, nor the homemade firebomb that Burrows blithely tosses into the hold at one critical moment, provides much of an impediment to the plane's ability to remain aloft. (One stray bullet fired in the hold does, memorably, take out a stewardess in the cabin above.) But, that said, you cannot really judge a zombedy�zombie comedy, as in The Mad, Shaun of the Dead, Peter Jackson's Dead Alive and the much inferior Flesh Eating Mothers�on the grounds of logic, verisimilitude or physical plausibility. The sole criteria determining quality are the energy level of the action, the angst among the characters still breathing and the quality of the zombie sight gags. With that said, it must be conceded that once the interminable, horribly acted first 40 minutes end, and we're done learning about all of these supremely uninteresting people, the film presents occasional moments of genuine inspiration.

For instance, there's the sequence where one of the contemptible hotties retreats into the bathroom. The editing provides several repeated ominous close-ups of the toilet bowl, filmed from above, leading the audience to the inescapable conclusion that something undead is about to come slithering up the drain after her. The movie is already so over-the-top by this point that this remains a reasonable assumption. But nothing of the sort happens. They're just random shots of the toilet, designed only to drive us to expect the stupidest development possible and proven a red herring when the scene ends in another manner entirely. Honestly. That makes this one of the few movies ever made that not only contains but also actually benefits from random shots of the toilet, putting it one up on, let's say, Casablanca and Citizen Kane.

I also deeply appreciated the poor passenger zombified while strapped into his seat, who keeps reaching for passing victims but cannot chase anybody because he never figures out how to unlock his seat belt. The punchline of his story is pure bliss.