Steve Martin’s psychological flaw in the superb “Dead Men Don’t Wear Plaid” was his Hulk-like fury upon hearing the words “cleaning woman,” which would incite a snorting rage that could break chains and defeat Nazis. I’ve got a bunch of “cleaning women.” The latest is hearing Fergie’s latest cassingle-worthy yowl, “Clumsy.” “Clumsy” pretty much sums up Fergie’s bleating bimboization of Little Richard’s “The Girl Can’t Help It,” a song best used backing Divine, strutting in downtown Baltimore in “Pink Flamingos.”

It sates my thirst for blood, then, to see just that sort of musical mooching and other bastard children of movie mashups of rocks and retirement parties, like “Walk the Line” and “Ray” skewered like the cliche-fried Oscar-seeking corn dogs they are in the mostly Johnny Cash biopic sendup “Walk Hard: The Dewey Cox Story.” John C. Reilly, as comfortable as an egomaniac porn star (“Boogie Nights”) and too-polite policeman (“Magnolia”), takes on every dumb rock movie but “Chappaqua.” The gag where a classic song is sampled by an illiterate celebrity performer hits home in this day where a poptart like Hillary Duff can cover The Who and not get keelhauled for changing the lyrics to “I hope I don’t die before I get old” (Duff’s head would explode if someone played “Baba O’Reilly” to her).

Admit it, even if you liked “The Doors,” you understood what Denis Leary was saying when he screamed, “I can sum (“The Doors” movie) up for you in five seconds, OK? ‘I’m drunk. I’m nobody. I’m drunk. I’m famous. I’m drunk. I’m (effing) dead.” There’s the whole movie, OK? ‘Big Fat Dead Guy In a Bathtub.’ There’s your title for you.” The saccharine flashback to the dead sibling (“Ray”)? Kablow! The neon-sign obvious way “Walk the Line” elbowed you in the ribs when Johnny Cash stumbled on the phrase “walk the line”? Pow! The Seriousness of It All, when addiction and depression take over (“Superstar: The Karen Carpenter Story” — yes, the one made with dolls)? Foom!

“Walk Hard” has plenty of lampooning of Great Moments In Pomposity that never made it past the documentary. He does an acid-bathed concept album like Brian Wilson’s album “Smile,” which hibernated from the 60s until this decade and emerged with songs like “My Vegetables,” where Wilson proclaims “If you brought a big brown bag of them home/I’d jump up and down and hope you’d toss me a carrot” and no one smacks him instead. He slumps into a sunglasses and obscurity phase (which begs the question why Bob Dylan gets quoted for saying the very cool “money doesn’t talk, it swears,” by people who forget he also said, in the same song,“my eyes collide head-on with stuffed graveyards,” which is pure nonsense). And there’s a scene where a fading, late-Elvis variety show-like Dewey Cox is interviewed by a plastic, Entertainment Tonight-like host (who complains off-camera about her stupid, empty career) played by Jane Lynch, the hilarious butch dog trainer from “Best In Show.” She’s only in “Walk Hard” a few minutes, but she and “The Office“‘s Jenna Fischer, the female lead in “Walk Hard” nearly steal the scene from Reilly. Jack Black and Jack White cameo, and Jack White doesn’t appear to have been outside since he got married in a rainforest three years ago.

There’s an unfortunate bookending gag about slicing people in half with a machete, which is the movie’s low point. But anyone who wants to make a serious music bio from now on should have to see if they can watch Cox be introduced (with ultimate gravitas) as “performing his final masterpiece, which will sum up his entire life,” and still think their project is fresh, before they’re introduced to the backers. Also, they should suggest introducing Dan Bern, who wrote some of the songs, to someone who will give him vast riches for his brilliance.

A little further back in the genre of movies about men who are faithful first and only to their music is 1991’s “Johnny Suede.” Brad Pitt stars, a Brando who spends half the movie walking around in his tightie-whities, an out-of-place, doe-eyed, frank and bean-eating aspiring rock singer with a pompadour you could hide a ‘59 T-Bird in. He falls in love, records some songs, hangs out with Nick Cave, gets his heart broken and lives in a Brooklyn neighborhood where trash bursts into fire randomly in the streets and young women date Bela Lugosi-like men in fur coats with cameras. Sounds like Bay Ridge. This was the first movie of writer/director Tom DiCillo, the underrated creator of “Box of Moonlight” (which is a story about a square who meets an off-the-grid, ceramic deer-collecting modern-day Davy Crockett and discovers the joys of quarry lakes, stolen tomatoes and surf rock mixtapes).

I’ll let you guys have sensei Kurosawa’s 20 minutes of flowers falling onto a mute calligrapher’s scroll, if you let me have Pitt’s dream sequence where he murmurs the virtues of his napped leather shoes to a delirious audience of girls: “It doesn’t stand up so much in the crowd of the leather. You don’t notice it at first but once you do you can’t take your eyes of and you wonder how the hell could you overlook it in the first place?” Surprisingly, Pitt and Catherine Keener have probably the most realistic sex scene ever committed to plastic disc, though some of the relationship surrealism is a little much (and she always strikes me as the kind of woman who requires high maintenance from every relationship in movies).

“Johnny Suede” is wonderfully weird in a Kenneth Anger way without being similarly inaccessible. It’s addictively weird, like this video online by Massachusetts’s 22-year-old Ryan Murphy, called “Ben Bernanke,” in which the chairman of the federal reserve demands his friend’s teeth and tells him, “You’re the architect of my dreams, Spencer. You plan them. And build them on blue paper. And hand them to me. And then I dream them, Spencer.” I’m just saying. You’ve been warned. The movie did seem at times a little incoherent, heroin addiction retold by an eccentric who nods off to sleep at odd moments. It could just need another watch. I’m willing to find out.