‘Sister Act’ (PG)

There are several requirements for you to enjoy "Sister Act." Your love of Whoopi Goldberg must be infinite. The thought of her in nun's habit must be an automatic scream. Finally, your ability to forgive bad comedy needs to be celestial.

Very quickly -- the best way to get through this movie -- she's a singer of tacky Supremes-type medleys at a Vegas club. She's also the mistress of murderous mobster and club owner Harvey Keitel. One formulaic day, Goldberg bursts unannounced into Keitel's office just in time to see her boyfriend execute a disloyal goon.

Suddenly a dangerous liability, she runs to detective Bill Nunn, who's been working on a major Keitel bust. The detective shields her in the St. Catherine's convent. Until a trial is set for Keitel, feisty Goldberg will have to play "Sister Mary Clarence," her real identity known only to icy Mother Superior Maggie Smith.

Whoopi messes up while saying grace! Whoopi chafes in her stuffy uniform! Whoopi complains! "This is out of the Stone Age," she says of her new bedroom cell. "Where's the phone?"

She tries, oh how she tries, to make the best of it. But this excommunicative Touchstone Pictures effort is a cheap collection plate of slugs. Anything goes for the quick-hit laugh, no matter how ludicrous or labored. The trouble is, the quick-hit laughs aren't even funny. Scriptwriter Joseph Howard's work ought to be cloistered.

"These people don't even have sex," complains Goldberg when detective Nunn informs her she'll be hiding out at the convent. Stop, Sis, you're killing me! "Look at me," she says, later, dressed for the first time in nun's attire, "I'm a penguin."

Goldberg's musical background comes in handy when she gets the job of sprucing up the nuns' choir. Overnight, she turns this collection of musical incompetents into a synchronized, multi-harmonic soul ensemble, with wackily religious renditions of hymns and standards. Actually, they're lip-synching, but you're not supposed to notice. The hooded hipsters are also high on facial mugging, bobbing and weaving. "Let's take it home, babies!" says bumpin' choir leader Goldberg.

The locals (including the unreachable young) soon catch the sound and start packing the pews. Goldberg also gets the nuns to reach out to the folks on the street -- doing what Nuns Ought to Be Doing. St. Catherine's becomes an instant success story. Even the pope hears about it. So does Goldberg's ex. Unfortunately it's too late for him to do anything about the movie so far.

The prize for most shameless performer is a tough decision. Just in front is Kathy Najimy as a goodwilled sister who (after years of demure devotion) slips effortlessly into shake-your-booty '90s rap dances, and gleefully slips a quarter in the jukebox for Dee Dee Sharp's foot-stomping "Gravy." Veteran actress Mary Wickes takes a close second as a quippy senior sister who, among many improbable qualities, has been keeping tabs on Diana Ross's career.

Even comedies such as "The Naked Gun" operate on a scintilla of logic. This movie operates obliviously. Why, for instance, would Goldberg get involved with a man like Keitel? On a secret night out from the convent, why would she choose a redneck biker bar? When the nuns sing their final triumphant number, as unfortunately they must, where is the band that can suddenly be heard accompanying them? Is it divinely orchestrated? And is there such a thing as comic purgatory for bad movies?