You can imagine the producers of this sequel asking the scriptwriters for “something classic with a twist”. Presumably, they feel the finished product represents a perfect rebooting of the Blake Edwards brand — the 2006 remake of Pink Panther wasn’t screened for critics; Pink Panther 2 was. Sorry fellas, but your confidence is misplaced.

In possibly the most excruciating comedy of the year, Steve Martin (who co-wrote the script) reprises his role as the clumsy Inspector Clouseau and hunts the missing Pink Panther diamond once again, first in Rome, then Paris, while the mousy, short-sighted woman of his dreams (Emily Mortimer) peers on. As do various tetchy experts who, of course, disparage his time-honoured methods. These include John Cleese’s Chief Inspector Dreyfus as well as a dream team of international detectives including Alfred Molina and Andy Garcia.

The twist here is that this time our hero is in for a bit of PC training. A lady called Mrs Berenger (Lily Tomlin) is on hand to stop Clouseau calling the Japanese cop a “little yellow man”. She also chastises him for beating up little kids and ogling attractive women. Postmodern? It feels pre-war.

The cast are not so much bad as helpless. Jeremy Irons pops up as a stroppy toff, Bollywood star Aishwarya Rai Backhchan, as a gems expert, looks very pretty. She’s there to be ogled, what more can one say? Brilliant French actor Jean Reno manages to preserve his dignity as Clouseau’s manservant, Ponton.

Garcia, meanwhile, gamely tries to tease naughtiness from the jaded slapstick and double entendres.

As for Martin, his appearance provides a crumb of comfort. These days he sports Andy Warhol hair and the sad air of post-scandal Charlie Chaplin.

He’s going for surreal sweetness and on at least one occasion, he pulls it off. Mostly, his high jinks, as orchestrated by Norwegian director Harald Zwart, are so lacking in momentum that the only surprise is that the whole film doesn’t grind to a halt.

It’s John Cleese — his angry dial turned to 11 right from the start — who alerts you to what’s missing from this frivolous, pointless exercise: lightness of touch.