How appropriate for Frank Miller’s The Spirit to open with the image of a flatlining heart monitor, as his film is dead on arrival — an utterly lifeless, hollow shell. If Miller wanted to endear a whole new generation to Will Eisner’s comic creation, this $60 million feature was not the way to do it. Instead, this all but assures those unfamiliar with the source material that they will remain that way, that the original comics shall never touch their hands.

Too bad, because the virtually unknown Gabriel Macht (Behind Enemy Lines) is not a bad choice to fill the role and red tie of The Spirit, the masked-and-suited crimefighter formerly known as slain cop Denny Colt. He has the right look, the right attitude; he’s just in the wrong movie.

Tonally, The Spirit is an absolute misfire. Eisner’s comics had a slight streak of goofiness running through them, often with a sense of humor as sharp as the overall material often was dark, but never on the level of Three Stooges slapstick comedy, complete with cartoon sound effects lathered on with a dozen too many punches of the button. Miller even includes the dreaded “scratched record” effect, as if demonstrating in one misbegotten move how out-of-touch he is for such material.

The inert narrative involves the retrieval of a vase of the blood of Hercules, which supposedly will grant immortality to whomever partakes of its drops. Archenemy The Octopus (Samuel L. Jackson, Marvel’s The Avengers) wants it; diamond thief Sand Serif (a stunningly sexy Eva Mendes, The Other Guys) has it. The Spirit chases both, while he also chases skirts. Nothing ever really happens to advance a plot, as if the entire thing were a MacGuffin; characters are abruptly introduced and given little to do beyond blighting the résumés of their actors. Macht is the only one who doesn’t embarrass himself (or us), whereas Jackson’s entire performance hinges on yelling and talking about how much he hates eggs.

You know what The Spirit needs? Well, a frickin’ grocery list of items, but color would have been nice. Eisner’s world popped with blues and reds and greens; Miller’s largely exists in shades of gray. Did Miller’s divorce from a colorist make him detest primary swatches? More or less co-opting the black-and-white-with-a-smidge-of-red palette from his own Sin City was not a wise decision. For one thing, this ain’t Sin City. For another, it makes Miller look like a one-trick pony, and one who’s already three hooves over the threshold of the glue factory at that.

As The Spirit not-so-memorably informs us in his opening monologue, his city screams. And boy, did I scream right along with it, in cinematic pain. —Rod Lott

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