Steve Martin's dreaded riff on Peter Sellers' Inspector Clouseau comes off like a Saturday Night Live skit from the late 1970s, when audiences showed up nicely toasted and a guest host could coast on the same wild and crazy schtick week after week. Playing at being a bumbling French detective but not for a second convincing us that he is one Martin mugs his way through a rote slapstick caper about a murdered soccer coach and that titular missing gem. The gags that bear Martin's stamp as a writer stick out like conceptual-comedy stink bombs, although the unimaginatively choreographed (and probably outmoded, anyway) physical tomfoolery isn't much better. The one interesting feature is Clive Owen's brief appearance as a Bondian superspy, a vignette that hints at what kind of movies we might instead be enjoying had anyone seen fit to hand that guy the one role he was born to play. (PG)
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