Although you’ll soon be able to see this film for less than the suggested price on any number of bargain days at a video store, that doesn’t mean you should. Inspector Clouseau has had a mixed career. In the sublime hands of Peter Sellers, his Pink Panther films were brilliant and bewildering in turn. While Revenge of the Pink Panther was a minor masterpiece of lunacy, Trail of the Pink Panther is a text-book example of train-wreck movies. Thus it is with great trepidation that we return to the future in what’s arguably the ‘first’ movie in the series. The famous owner of a football team is killed, his diamond goes missing. French authorities call upon bumbling Inspector Clouseau to make a hash of the case so they can solve it in a blaze of glory. Naturally, they don’t count on the success of Clouseau’s ineptitude.

The Pink Panther is a film that aches to be liked. The script has all requisite elements, homages, running gags and a surprisingly witty take such as a scene in which Clouseau is advised about the death of a suspect. “Was it fatal?” he asks. “Yes”. “How fatal?” “Completely”. And so on. Yet in the tiresome hands of Steve Martin, each and every line withers and drops before reaching the screen. Desperately emulating Sellers, his is a heavy performance lacking the light wit that turned frustration into charm. As Dreyfus, a pompous Kline fares marginally better than the rudderless Emily Mortimer while Reno as Clouseau’s assistant, the lone Frenchman on cast, merely looks confused. It’s a rum lot and confirmation that some things are best left alone. After Curse of the Pink Panther, even Blake Edwards finally learnt his lesson. After all, a comedy is meant to be funny and if no one laughs in over an hour and half - the joke’s not on us.

// COLIN FRASER