If you're going to make an entire documentary about a bass player, you could probably do worse than Arthur ''Killer'' Kane, who glowered like Lurch in a dress as he played with those seminal lipstick-punk glamsters, the New York Dolls. Three decades after the group's breakup, Kane, in L.A., is a recovering alcoholic and middle-aged nonentity. He says that he has saved himself by becoming a Mormon, yet he remains haunted by demons of failure. Preparing for a reunion concert with surviving Dolls David Johansen and Sylvain Sylvain, Kane, looking like a bedraggled Liam Neeson, must conquer his jealousy. This makes for a modestly touching journey, but New York Doll, in its wafer-thin way, is an oxymoron: a hagiographic tribute to a rocker with more passion than talent.