There may be no better film for Matthew McConaughey's preferred shirtless condition than S.R. Bindler's Surfer, Dude. Steve Addington, McConaughey's legendary surfer, wears a stitch of clothing above his waist in exactly two scenes: once when walking through an airport, though he compensates by wearing no shoes, and once when actually surfing, where he dons a body suit. Other than that, it's just his black-and-white-striped swim trunks and his exposed nipples. The fact that Addington surfs only once gets at one of this movie's problems. Surfer, Dude is obviously intended to appeal to cinema's burgeoning subset of surf fans, adding a little fictional material to the dozens of surf documentaries that have hit theaters in the early 21st century. But a surf movie without surfing -- Addington and his buddies are enduring an epic drought in their Malibu swells -- is like a Michael Bay movie without explosions. What's the point? Bindler (who co-wrote with two partners) thinks the point is to document the traveling carnival that surrounds surfing culture, both its good parts (the neo-hippie stylings of beach living) and bad (the sport's corruption by flashy entrepreneurs, video games, and reality television). It's all carried off with such half-stoned, good-natured ease, viewers won't be the least bit surprised to see Woody Harrelson and Willie Nelson show up, nor will they ever question the appropriateness of the title. The problem is, it amounts to a whole lot of not much. The movie is just one extended validation of Addington's seat-of-his-swimsuit existence, and his commitment to the simplistic purity of surfing. With or without waves, Steve Addington is a surfer, nothing more, nothing less. If viewers expect nothing more from Surfer, Dude, they'll be as content as a shirtless McConaughey in a summer breeze.