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From the creators of Who Wants to Be a Playboy Centerfold? comes the inevitable: The Real Cancun, a spring-break chronicle touted as the first “reality” movie. Producer Mary-Ellis Bunim, who along with partner Jonathan Murray is to blame for introducing the genre with shows such as MTV’s The Real World and Road Rules, alleges that bringing the reality concept to film “represent[ed] an unprecedented opportunity for us to kick up the bar in terms of the kinds of stories we want to tell.” But make no mistake: The Real Cancun single-handedly stomps the bar of cinematic standards to levels that put Joe Eszterhas to shame. A nonviolent Jackass, the film is actually pretty entertaining initially, with inspired editing pairing the cast members’ dumber (let’s hope) musings with deliciously catty cues, such as the treacly music that plays after Matt volunteers his pee to jellyfish-stung Sarah or the abrupt slowing of the action when one of the group offers the teetotaling Alan a getting-to-know-ya shot of tequila. Some cast members, God bless ’em, need no embellishment: Twin Tori Spelling look-alikes Nicole and Roxanne give freshly awful connotations to the idea of shaking it like a white girl during their X-rated wet-T-shirt-contest entry. And then there’s Casey, a Miami model. Blond, muscular, and just this side of Fabio, Casey isn’t even a student, but after watching him strike a pose (a request from his interviewer), walk around in a “Got a sister?” muscle shirt, and ask, “Anyone want to make out or something?” to random roomfuls of people, you’ll understand that his participation was something Bunim & Co. couldn’t pass up. But there’s trouble in paradise after director Rick de Oliveira lets these fine specimens get away to pursue a more, uh, cinematic story: the downfall of Alan, courtesy of Sweet Lady Liquor. This baby-faced closet freak, with his creepily infantile request to “see boobies,” is tiresome after his first body shot, and his peer-driven degeneration is hardly a surprise. The second half of Cancun collapses under its contrived drama, no longer winking at the audience while getting uncomfortably closer to its subjects: Infrared cameras allow for—what else?—nighttime filming in the boudoir, and showing the parties under covers hardly disguises the fact that these moments are essentially the lowest-rent kind of porn. Gentle viewer, your $8 has given Cancun’s creators a little more incentive to “kick up the bar” a bit further next time ’round. Are you not entertained? —Tricia Olszewski