C-

Stephen Hopkins was, I’m afraid, exactly the wrong person to direct this Americanized version of Claude Miller’s rather obscure 1981 “Garde a Vue,” an unsettling little movie about the interrogation of a prominent lawyer (the always interesting Michel Serrault) by a provincial cop (Lino Ventura) about a series of rape-murders of young girls. Small, sly and delicately insinuating, Miller’s film was essentially a verbal duel which held audience interest through its sharp writing and superb performances, and the assured, unforced helming accentuated those virtues.

Hopkins, however, is hardly the sort of fellow to cultivate the cerebral, dialogue-driven aspects of such a cat-and-mouse conversational exercise. His feature resume–“A Nightmare on Elm Street 5,” “Predator 2,” “Judgment Night,” “Blown Away,” “The Ghost and the Darkness,” “Lost In Space”–shows that he specializes in big action extravaganzas, and here he brings the same slam-bang style to bear on material for which it proves totally inappropriate. From the very opening, in which Hopkins and cinematographer Peter Levy offer sweeping, abruptly-cut helicopter shots of San Juan, where the action is now set, the makers hit us over the head with visual tricks–jumpy depictions of interview responses in which the interrogator appears as well as the speaker, neck-wrenching pans, hazy slow-motion bits–that have the odd effect of diminishing the emotional wallop of the piece rather than enhancing it. The transplantation of the narrative to Puerto Rico also undermines the powerful sense of claustrophobia that the original achieved, as well as the plausibility of the plot; now, instead of being trapped, along with the characters, in a cold, dank, isolated location, we’re placed in the middle of a colorful, roaring carnival (into which, needless to say, the camera regularly swoops), and the idea that, in an American setting, a smart tax attorney would permit himself to be badgered for hours without benefit of counsel is simply absurd from the get-go. Part of the problem in these respects must be traced to Tom Prevost and W. Peter Iliff’s screenplay, of course, but Hopkins maximizes the deficiencies rather than ameliorating them.

Within such an unfortunate context Morgan Freeman and Gene Hackman may be doing fine work as the wily, subdued police captain Victor Benezet and his arrogant, class-conscious quarry Henry Hearst, but the whiplash editing and unnecessary camera gyrations chop their performances up into such tiny, overlapping bits that it’s impossible to tell. Neither actor has the opportunity to fill out his character or endow it with much depth or resonance; they’re straightjacketed by the directorial technique so snugly that they barely seem able to breathe. The result is that the revelations about the personal flaws of Hackman’s Hearst, a man who’s worked his way up from middle-class roots to wealth and influence but is locked in a strained and loveless marriage, lack the tragic dimension they’re intended to have.

If one can’t be entirely certain about the quality of the lead performances, however, there’s no doubt about the mediocrity of the two major supporting turns. As Benezet’s cocky, aggressive lieutenant, Thomas Jane (the shark wrangler from “Deep Blue Sea”) is a one-note bore. And as Hearst’s coolly estranged young wife Chantal, Monica Bellucci proves a an excellent model, wearing her nice clothes with aplomb and posing in just the right light to give her face a lovely sheen. But she recites her English lines as though she were reading them phonetically off a teleprompter, and she’s unable to make her character’s motivations even remotely credible.

Any film with Hackman and Freeman, of course, is bound to have moments that impress, and this one is no exception to the rule. And though it’s staged rather clumsily, the twist ending possesses a certain Hitchcockian tone (though it’s more reminiscent of the master’s television series than of his features). But given the quality of the source material and its exceptional cast, Hopkins’ film is a serious disappointment, one for which the director bears the primary responsible.

The studio assiduously excluded reviewers from previews of Stephen Kay’s updating of Mike Hodges’ 1971 Brit gangster melodrama, but even absent opening-day notices audiences will undoubtedly be warned away by the stench emanating from theatres where it’s showing. To paraphrase the title of an old sitcom, the phrase “Welcome Back Carter” will not be on many lips.

Hodges’ film was not, truth to tell, any sort of masterpiece, but the tale of a brutal crook who systematically annihilates his brother’s killers was certainly influential, inaugurating an era of amoral anti-heroes and boasting skillful direction and a canny performance by the young Michael Caine. This refashioning is nothing more than a tired revenge story. The title character has been turned into an externally hard-boiled dude who’s really an old softie with the proverbial heart of gold, suitable for an aging Sylvester Stallone to play–which he does in his customary stolid, impassive manner. Poor Caine, meanwhile, has been delegated to smirk his way through the role of one of the suspects in his bro’s demise; one would like to think that the recent Oscar-winner accepted the part as a nod to his earlier turn, but you have to remember that the fellow is entirely undiscriminating in his choice of roles (he was in “Blame It On Rio,” “The Hand,” “The Island” and “Jaws: The Revenge,” after all). Entirely too much emphasis is devoted to Carter’s avuncular relationship with his brother’s widow Gloria (Miranda Richardson, totally wasted) and punkish daughter Doreen (Rachel Leigh Cook, mostly sullen but with one of those supposedly heart-tugging smiles). There are nonetheless still scads of villains scattered throughout the labyrinthine but strangely dull plot, including Mickey Rourke (looking like a wax figure with a glandular condition), John C. McGinley (obnoxious and irritating, as usual), and Johnny Strong (a colorless pretty-boy). Stallone’s Carter is obliged to deal with all of them in a narrative which involves a couple of tepid car chases through the rain-covered streets of Seattle, a few brutal fights, and a final confrontation with Rourke which renders the threatened “Rocky VI” moot since it simply repeats that series’ cliched finale. There’s also a closing twist which makes no sense whatever.

Still, even such limp material and so mediocre a cast might have provided some crude amusement if the picture exhibited any directorial style. Unfortunately Kay (co-writer of the atrocious 1999 retread of “The Mod Squad”) lets the thing slog along lugubriously, shooting everything in sombre tones, showing no panache in the action moments, and even resorting to occasional bursts of solemn slow-mo or raggedy overlit montages in a failed attempt to generate sympathy, energy or suspense. The fact that the story is supposed to be happening during Christmastime, allowing for hamfisted counterpoint between the images of the season and the cruelty of the happenings, makes the whole mess even more dispiriting.

The sole saving element, in fact, is a campy turn by Alan Cumming as a nerdy computer mogul entangled with all the baddies Carter must overcome. The Scottish actor makes a very convincing scared, sniveling wimp.

The only message this dreary remake will give its viewers, proceeding from its title and its holiday setting, is that it is far better to give than to receive. So if you should happen to get this “Carter,” just stamp it “return to sender” and ship it back without delay.