Any hopes that Marc Rosenbush’s film might transcend its unimaginative title are dashed almost immediately, as manic fade-outs, fade-ins, and overlays of portentous symbols give way to mannered dialogue and bad jokes. The thin plot involves a detective (Duane Sharp) who gets a tip about a murder at a Buddhist temple and goes to investigate. Nonsensically, we’ve already seen the “murder”—a monk falling over dead, without provocation, during meditation. The script tosses us a few red herrings before morphing into a didactic (and stultifying) lesson in spiritual enlightenment. Along the way, it commits a few crimes of its own, against noir, Buddhism, and filmmaking. For one: Sharp’s detective, a sweaty jumble of nerves, lacks even a twinge of allure; the actor stammers and stutters, indicating distress rather than acting it. Debra Miller, playing a female practitioner, fares better, but the weird and remote interplay between the two is speciously sold as romance. (“What’s a lay person?” “A person who can still get laid.”) It’s a long 81 minutes. Melissa Levine