There are many, many, many things unwatchable about Zack Snyder’s Watchmen, so I shall name just four: Malin Ackerman’s moonface. Patrick Wilson’s chins. Matthew Goode (all of him), Billy Crudup’s blue penis. Off putting. When the Moonface and the Chins have disturbing close-up sex in a floating capsule, I was ready to break things.

There’s a nice premise in there somewhere – it’s 1985 and Trickie Dickie Nixon is still President of the USofA, and in a crack-down on crime, he has banned masked vigilantes. He’s also taken the world to the brink of nuclear war with the Soviets. But it goes nowhere. Slowly. The attention to artistic detail in each shot is magnificent and apparently it sticks pretty closely to the vibe if not the plot of the original graphic novel. However, I find that I don’t care. Watchmen is three hours of my life that I won’t get back.

It shot on a sound stage in Vancouver. Mars and the Antarctic were green screened.

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