Bathed in bright plastic colours, scored to sleazy jazz funk, This Means War comprises endless short scenes that never quite coalesce into a real motion picture.

McG directs as if on autopilot, and while the action scenes are technically proficient they're so lacking in energy and momentum you kind of wonder if the adrenaline junkie wunderkind threw them in as some sort of afterthought.

A film during which very bad things happen very often, and none of them are noticeably funnier than genital trauma brought on by an air rifle.

Undemanding in the worst ways, the movie’s director and writers have gone to considerable lengths to make this experience as effortless as possible, yet they make it so very difficult to endure.