Somewhere out there a good movie called The Pink Panther’s been made, and possibly can be again, but no where in the imagination can one fathom that the Steve Martin iterations of Blake Edwards’ comic gem be counted as one of them. If there’s a saving grace, it’s that Martin isn’t quite as embarrassing as Roberto Benigni in the Son of the Pink Panther, but that’s faint praise. Basically, if you liked the original remake Panther, than the sequel will tickle you similarly. But if you’re like me and looking for actual laughs in your comedy, than this sequel will be oddly famished despite the fact that the deck is stacked in its favour, and I’m not just talking about the presence of Aishwarya Rai.

I say stacked because the goofiness and faux Frenchiness of Steve Martin is diluted be the appearance of “The Dream Team.” That’s the name of an all-star group of detectives – including, inexplicably, Clouseau – who are brought together to unravel the mystery of the Tornado, a master thief that’s stolen the great treasures of Britain, France, Italy and Japan. Clouseau, as played by Martin, mixes comedic ineptitude with occasionally astute detective skills, but it’s mostly about him making an ass out of himself and everyone else writing him off as an ass. That is all except Clouseau’s loyal partner Ponton played by Jean Reno, who remains the only genuine French person in the film.

These are high rollers too this Dream Team. Andy Garcia plays the Italian gumshoe, who has a comically long name and is an ascot-wearing lothario that flies his own plane. Alfred Molina plays the British flat foot, a prim and proper man in tweed and a beard that thinks he’s Sherlock Homes. The team is rounded out by Yuki Matsuzaki representing Japan, and because he’s Japanese, he’s incredibly tech savvy. With our stereotypes in place, we introduce the bombshell Ms. Rai whose magnificent blue-green eyes are the closest this film ever comes to enchanting. Fortunately though, she’s in the movie enough to block out Martin’s mugging and the bizarre romantic predicament between Clouseau and his secretary Nicole (Emily Mortimer).

Naturally, the focus of the film isn’t the crime the story’s constructed upon, but I had it figured out in about five minutes. Like it matters though because the presence of Gil Grissom after taking a couple of meat cleaver hits to the parietal bone would have upped the IQ points on the Dream Team by at least 50. But I don’t know what else to talk about with this movie because what it’s passing off as comedy was stale when it was being done 50 years ago. At times it seems that Steve Martin is so out of touch with what’s funny, he might as well be making a silent film. There’s really only one inspired comedic moment I can think of, and it’s when Clouseau takes a bullet but it ricochets off his medal and hits a waiter. Everybody kind of shrugs and moves on, which makes is a great moment of black comedy and is infinitely funnier than jokes about the Pope’s hat.

Shawn Levy, the director of the first Pink Panther, did a smart thing and got off on the first floor, recognizing that there were far greater possibilities with a second Night at the Museum than a second Pink Panther. The movie starts once again with that wonderful little animated sequence and the music by Henry Mancini that’s far more entertaining then any of the live-action stuff that comes before or after it. And it’s an unfortunate reminder that though animation and orchestration has come along way in the last 40 years, the process still begins with a competently written script that goes for wit rather than cheap laughs about funny accents. You’re never going to beat Peter Sellers at his game, so why try? I say for Pink Panther 3 get Jason Statham to play the ass-kicking Clouseau. He won’t be constantly tripping over stuff at least, especially his tongue