Industry outsiders can be great — cartoonist Max Cannon, poet August Kleinzahler and comedian Masaki Sumitani (whose greatest sketch I don’t think I’m allowed to name) all excel at repelling, provoking thought and still managing to pump out the jams, or product, or what-have-you.

These men are in a different league from Mike Traeger, the writer/director of “The Amateurs” (released in 2005 in the UK and last December here), a story about a lovable loser (Jeff Bridges) and his wacky scheme to enlist his podunk peers in making a full-length amateur porno movie. That’s because Cannon et al are at least interested in having an audience.

In 2005, Traeger told the Writers Guild of America that he’s not interested in selling what he writes, which is highly suspect (and probably a potent line of bullpucky) because it means no one’s interested in buying it. And in a country where you can sell compressed pancake batter in a can, ad time on “Dancing With the Stars,” and high-heel Crocs, the elevated toilet seats of the shoe world, that’s saying something.

The story goes that Traeger wanted to do a story about nice people, but knew the only way it would get made was if it were about porn. Which is nonsense, because if he were interested in “nice people,” he wouldn’t have scornfully named Joe Pantoliano’s character “Some Idiot” or their town “Butterface Fields,” as low a thing as watching the argument about the definition of “donkey punch” on John Gibson’s show on Fox News.

The earnest cast of “The Amateurs” should have spelled success alone. There’s the enthusiastic but closeted Ted Danson, the always-enjoyable-to-loathe Pantoliano, Eileen Brennan (Mrs. Peacock, from Clue!) as his mom, the perfectly bed-headed William Fichtner (the voice of Ken Rosenberg, from the “Grand Theft Auto” franchise!) and relative newcomer Melinda Dahl, a darker, more-likeable Kate Hudson. But plenty of actors capable of more, especially Patrick Fugit and Tim Blake Nelson (Delmar from “O Brother, Where Art Thou?,” which I’ll get pilloried for saying I loathed, so just keep moving) are left to languish.

There’s some good writing, too, especially Bridges’ monologue criticizing the porno’s screenplay: “Exterior. Top of train. Day. The train speeds through the city as Yvonne and Jizelle lay on top of the train … Reaction shots from people in skyscrapers as they peer and gawk out their window at the passing train,” and a work session that includes some funny business with corn chips.

But in the end, it’s Traeger’s broken sidewalk of a work ethos that trips the whole movie up. His “I just wanted to do Capra” cop-out is like saying that, in the 90s, he wanted to do a story about two college pals who wanted to get good grades, but knew the only way it would get made was if it were about a pair of cardboard jerks whose only chance for A’s is if they can convince a roommate to kill himself. That ended in “Dead Man on Campus,” (which Traeger, sensibly, like most audiences, has never seen). Traeger’s middle-aged effort is watchable, all the way through, but its heart is tin, not corn, and it’s hard to like a movie when the best acting comes from its creator, who pretends to not care if you do or not.