A silly little movie called "Kangaroo Jack" poses an unexpected moral dilemma for conscientious filmgoers.

The film itself qualifies as a competent if inconsequential comedy – good for a few laughs and a few thrills and made with surprising respect for the family audience. I saw it with my 10-year-old son and he loved every minute of it, enthusiastically declaring as the lights came up, "Wow! That's Four Stars all the way!" (Remember, he's a 10-year- old boy.)

The plot concerns two goofball New York friends, played by the likeable Jerry O'Connell and the intermittently hilarious Anthony Anderson, who is featured in the excellent "Barbershop."

The pals unwittingly humiliate O'Connell's Mafia-chieftain stepfather, Christopher Walken, and to make up for this offense, Walken dispatches them on an errand to deliver a large bundle of cash to a fellow mobster in the Australian outback.

On the way to the rendezvous, the guys drive their jeep into a kangaroo. Thinking they've just created some exotic Aussie roadkill, they dress the creature in sunglasses and Anderson's "Brooklyn" jacket and pose with it for some souvenir snapshots. It turns out that Kangaroo Jack isn't actually dead, and proves his vitality by kicking at the Yankee visitors and then hopping away into the wide open spaces.

Of course, Anderson left the bundle of cash in the jacket pocket, so for the rest of the movie the two guys try to track down the wayward marsupial before assorted and impatient mobsters track them down with murderous intent.

Though populated with the sort of colorful stereotypes you'd expect in a "Crocodile Dundee" movie, the scenic and wildlife photography is altogether superior, with a particularly exciting sequence involving a bush pilot combing the landscape for the runaway beast. Estella Warren, who makes a specialty of looking absolutely stunning in even the most wretched movie fare ("Driven," the remake of "Planet of the Apes"), this time lends her undeniable glamour to an above average project, playing a naturalist (and natural love interest) who agrees to help the boys in return for their promised donation to her conservation program.

Except for a few dismissive references to Mafia criminality, and earthy jokes about flatulent camels, there's nothing in this "PG" picture to place it off limits for kids. In fact, the target audience appears to be pre-adolescent boys, like my Danny. Why, then, considering its energetic and entertaining aspects, do I feel so reluctant to recommend it?

The biggest problem with "Kangaroo Jack" involves nothing you'll see on screen, but the identity of one of the driving forces behind the film. The story and screenplay originated with the playboy producer Stephen Bing, a loathsome, predatory rascal notorious even by the undemanding standards of Hollyweird.

Known in the British press as "Stephen Bing Laden," this pampered heir won headlines recently as the father of Elizabeth Hurley's illegitimate baby. He famously tried to escape responsibility for the child, viciously insulted Ms. Hurley, and demanded DNA tests to prove his parentage. Mr. Bing also happens to be one of the two largest financial contributors in the history of the Democratic Party – providing more than $5 million with one check so that his pal, Terry McAuliffe, could erect a new Democratic National Committee headquarters building.

With this background in mind (which you'll find in no other review, by the way), you should buy tickets to "Kangaroo Jack" only if you're comfortable advancing Mr. Bing's career and providing additional funds for strident, partisan Democratic propaganda.

In response to this caveat, some sharp-eyed reader might assault your reviewer for inconsistency. After all, last week I delivered a positive (THREE STAR) verdict to "The Pianist," directed by Roman Polanski, a fugitive from the United States – but welcome in decadent Europe, of course – since he faced charges a quarter century ago of indulging in sex with a 13-year-old girl in Jack Nicholson's hot tub. If we're going to shun movies because despicable people played a role in their production, we may find very few projects to consider.

The difference between the situation with "Kangaroo Jack" and the "Pianist" is, however, significant and instructive. First, Polanski's well-publicized personal problems occurred decades ago, while Stephen Bing's made news merely months ago. Second, Polanski presently pursues no prominent political agenda, while Bing continues to devote much of his life's energy to bashing Bush and all other Republicans. And third, and most importantly, "The Pianist" counts as a serious, substantive, artful – if flawed – directorial tour-de-force about World War II suffering, while "Kangaroo Jack" amounts to mildly pleasing piffle about nothing in particular.

As with the work of another prominent Democratic Party contributor, Stephen Spielberg, boycotting Polanski's project will deny filmgoers the opportunity to sample one of the better, more challenging movies of the moment. In Spielberg's case, the messages of "Saving Private Ryan" count as so patriotic, even heroic, that you can easily overlook the director's long-standing friendships with Clinton and Gore.

Denying yourself, and your kids, the chance to see "Kangaroo Jack" – despite its suitability as family entertainment – will, however, in no way impoverish your life. (TWO AND A HALF STARS, rated PG for some rude references to bodily functions and to stylized gangster violence.)

Another adequate comedy released this week involves no comparable complexities for prospective patrons. "A Guy Thing" follows a clean-cut, nice guy bridegroom (Jason Lee, who's developing expertise in these Everyman roles) who drinks too much at his bachelor party, and wakes up the next morning in bed beside one of the "Tiki Girl" dancers (Julia Stiles) who had entertained his friends.

His frantic attempts to conceal this indiscretion from his elegant, spoiled-princess fianc?e (Selma Blair) and her domineering father, who also happens to be the hero's boss (James Brolin), provide a few chuckles. The plot thickens when it turns out that the hula dancer also happens to be the bride's cousin, who's present at the wedding rehearsal dinner and other occasions. Given the well-established Hollywood preference for flaky free spirits over stuck-up, well-groomed aristocrats, it's obvious which cousin will appear more appealing, and which way the story-line twists.

Along the way, a subplot involving Julia Stiles' psycho, tough-cop ex-boyfriend provides a few surprises, but even the most predictable elements of the main story come across with enough pizzazz to generate consistent low-grade laughter. The PG-13 rating looks appropriate (no pre-teen kids, please), though even the supposedly racy sexual encounter that opens the movie turns out to involve considerably less naughtiness than it first appears. (TWO AND A HALF STARS.)

If "A Guy Thing" represents an entirely disposable diversion, at least it combines with the far worse "Just Married" (currently ruling the movie box office), and TV hits "Joe Millionaire" and "The Bachelorette," as scraps of evidence that the entertainment industry once again understands that Americans love to fantasize about romance that leads to … marriage, preferably with a big showy wedding. The attitudes toward connubial bliss in all these offerings (of decidedly uneven artistic quality), prove surprisingly, refreshingly old-fashioned. Congratulations – and you may now kiss the bride.