Arriving on the big screen after lengthy delays and preceded by a dreadfully unfunny trailer, it's almost a relief to declare that Steve Martin's take on "The Pink Panther" isn't nearly as awful as you may have feared. Sure, it's a bit of a lame, unnecessary vehicle, but it's less offensive to the Peter Sellers' legacy than "Son of the Pink Panther" or "Curse of the Pink Panther."

Scripted by Martin and Len Blum ("Meatballs"), "The Pink Panther" begins when a legendary soccer coach (Jason Statham) is murdered. As if that wasn't crime enough, somebody filched the corpse's gigantic diamond, Pink Panther. Chief Inspector Dreyfus (Kevin Kline) figures this is his ticket to the Medal of Honor and hires bumbling Jacques Clouseau (Martin) to make him look good, assigning straight-arrow Gendarme Gilbert Ponton (Jean Reno) to watch Clouseau as he interrogates suspects, including sexy singer Xania (Beyonce Knowles), and stumbles and bumbles his way around Paris and New York City.

"The Pink Panther" begins with a respectful credit sequence that utilizes the style of the "Pink Panther" cartoons and, most importantly, Henry Mancini's unembellished theme music. Sure, the animation isn't very clever and composer Christophe Beck finds ways to misappropriate and remix Mancini's score later in the film, but it's a comforting start.

There are also plenty of gags that pay homage to the early Sellers films. A giant globe features prominently and Clouseau engages in a series of playful attacks with Ponton that mirror the relationship between Sellers' Clouseau and his houseboy Cato. Without exception these tips of the hat lack the punch provided by Sellers and director Blake Edwards and, like the Mancini theme, will just make many viewers nostalgic for the real thing.

If you had to cast a current actor to accept Sellers' comic mantle, Martin's as good a choice as any with his blend of physical grace and verbal dexterity. The problem is that I never entirely understood the purpose behind Martin's interpretation. The accent, the moustache and the mannerisms are tailored to be enough like Sellers to be recognizably Clouseau-esque, but different enough to avoid accusations of mimicry. And that's all there is to it.

And the entire movie, from the supporting performances to Shawn Levy's flat direction, follows Martin's lead, connecting the dots and never approaching inspiration. Kline mines character tics from better work like "French Kiss" and "A Fish Called Wanda," but can't even commit to whether his accent is British or French. Knowles relies on her sexiness and charisma and Reno on his Everyman likeability, but neither is distinct. Emily Mortimer comes the closest to being memorable as her klutzy secretary gets an Audrey Hepburn-style makeover in the final act.

Through its admirably short 90-minute running time, "The Pink Panther" never made me laugh a single time, though Martin's clever wordplay yielded one or two chuckles. That being said, I never felt like the source material was being desecrated -- Sellers isn't rolling over in his grave, he just won't notice.