If you’re going to see one movie about a dandy, mustachioed gentleman on a world-class caper involving stolen artwork and featuring an appearance by Jeff Goldblum, make it "The Grand Budapest Hotel." However, if you’re going to see two movies about a dandy, mustachioed gentleman on a world-class caper involving stolen artwork and featuring an appearance by Jeff Goldblum … eh, maybe it’s best to just watch "The Grand Budapest Hotel" a second time.

To be fair, that’s not particularly the goal of the new comedy "Mortdecai" – and there is no font size large enough to convey the sarcastic air quotes I’m placing around the word "comedy." Its inspirations are far less in the vein of Wes Anderson and much more in line with Peter Sellers, the hope seemingly to create a jaunty new modern day riff on "The Pink Panther."

There are worse targets. The wannabe franchise starter’s aim, however, falls so unbelievably short and lands so incredibly, ineptly off that "Mortdecai" instead ends up immediately sinking itself and what little series potential it may have had to irretrievable depths (or perhaps that should be irretrievable Depps).

Yes, as possibly the last act of an extended "Producers"-inspired scheme to lose all public goodwill for insurance purposes, a flagrantly mugging Johnny Depp stars as Charlie Mortdecai, a wildly rich British art trafficker with a flair for the eccentric. Case in point: He has a curly little mustache – apparently a family legacy he’s grown recently fond of – that his aloofly amused, brains of the household wife Johanna (Gwyneth Paltrow) finds repulsive. I hope you find this mild character quirk uproariously funny and fascinating because this makes up an alarming amount of the film’s comedic and conversational material.

Though it may seem otherwise, there turns out to be more adventure afoot than simply some well groomed hair follicles. An art restorer is dead, and the priceless Goya she was working on – one with a Nazi code for some very pricey gold on the flipside – has gone missing. Concerned the money will fund terrorism, the British government (led by Ewan McGregor) coerces Mortdecai into using his black market contacts to find its whereabouts. Considering Mortdecai’s once wild riches have turned into a wild debt, he has his own motives for discovering the painting’s location.

Lo begins a trek around the globe, with Mortdecai frivolously prancing from locale to locale with his indestructible bodyguard (Paul Bettany, starring in an alarming amount of terrible movies nowadays) in tow, on the hunt for a villain so vicious and evil that he smashes a flickering streetlight’s bulb when he gets angry.

Along the way, Mortdecai runs into menacing Russians, sexy horse-riding nymphomaniacs (Olivia Munn, who’s on screen for about 10 minutes total, making this only the second saddest event to befall Aarlivia this month … hmm, Bennifer-ing their names didn’t work out how I hoped), gunfights, swordfights, women in bikinis, leering old men, car chases and hipsters – and you know what that means? More mustaches!

That all probably sounds rather exciting or entertaining or at least kind of sort of almost diverting, so let me reassure you: It really, really isn’t.

Based on Kyril Bonfiglioli’s character, the script from Eric Aronson (who’s only other credit is as co-writer of the 2001 Lance Bass rom-com "On the Line") is not shy with the gags – both of the sickened and comedic variety. They’re just never funny. The closest we get are a few head-shakingly baffled chuckles at the misguided attempts on screen and an accidental moment when McGregor declares a pointless statement with the misplaced enthusiasm of someone who just remembered their line. Otherwise, instead of capturing its inspirations’ witty vigor and slapstick spirit, each humorless gag hits like the movie itself is stepping on a rake, failing in spectacular fashion.

Aronson’s script seems routinely baffled by the concept of a punchline. Yes, Mortdecai has an odd mustache, but other than having other characters repeatedly tell us that fact, there’s no joke. Bettany’s bulldog of a bodyguard is a sexual fiend, but once again, there’s no actual joke. Women in bikinis and seemingly the mere premise of a hotel while visiting Los Angeles baffles Mortdecai – a non-joke but also just plain confused. A Russian thug is really interested in torturing men’s nethers. It’s a movie packed with strange characteristics and odd traits, but no clue how to turn these attributes into actual comedy. When there is an actual punchline, Aronson goes for the easiest, most predictable one available.

Even odder is the film’s weird comedic tone, fluctuating uneasily between childish cartoonishness and witless sexual crudity – not to be confused with raunchy, mind you. Its sex gags are just abrasively blunt, feeling out of place with all of the infantile mustache giggling, furious overacting, disgusted gagging and, of course, CGI puke. There’s somehow both too little and too much, earning an R-rating (mostly with a forgettable scattering of F-words) but never feeling like a movie for adults. In the end, "Mortdecai" plays like a movie for nobody.

Well, maybe one person: Johnny Depp. The actor at least seems to be having fun. He shamelessly mugs up every scene, flouncing through action scenes, squeezing every drop out of his sniveling (and occasionally unintelligible) aristocratic whine and seemingly replacing common punctuation with a collection of twumbly moans and groans.

Whether anyone else is having fun with all of that, well, that’s another story. The extravagant mannerisms and voices get exceedingly exhausting before the opening voiceover (which GAH!) finishes. It only gets more tiresome from there without ever particularly approaching funny (once again, the script’s lack of material deserves an anti-assist). We forget that Johnny Depp became a superstar in the first "Pirates of the Caribbean" movie serving as a nice playful spice, not the entire dish. Now he’s stuck trying to plate overcooked ham, playing a charmless, annoying, flim-flammy caricature who makes as solid of a foundation for a potential franchise – much less a single movie – as Jell-o makes for the foundation for a skyscraper. Disaster was simply inevitable.

The characters around Mortdecai – including McGregor’s government agent, who relentlessly pines for Johanna – aren’t much to care about either. And though no one’s too concerned about the plot in a farcical lark like this, the carelessly assembled story ends up feeling like a bunch of aimless dithering. Several key characters are introduced too late into the film to be worth investing much interest, and it’s an overall adventure-less adventure.

"Mortdecai" is for certain an unfunny, ungodly mess, but give it this: It’s not lazy. As midjudged as his performance is, Depp’s at least showed up – not like in "Transcendence" or "The Tourist." Director David Koepp may be kneecapped by the comedy here, but he brings much of the same energy that previously turned the seemingly awful bike messenger action thriller "Premium Rush" into a surprisingly fun B-movie. It’s not being used in the service of much, but it makes the film less of a chore than it could. Plus, the soundtrack from Geoff Zanelli and "Uptown Funk" hitmaker Mark Ronson is one of the few elements that successfully recalls its "Pink Panther" aspirations.

You won’t hate "Mortdecai," but you probably also won’t be able to take your praise much higher than that.