What is the point of attempting to spoof something that is already way beyond the parodist's reach.

300 is such a film. The "oh-not-us-you've-got-it-all-wrong" homoerotic romp played havoc with the sexuality of so many staunchly heterosexual young men that it simply could not be bettered.

Least of all by the mob who brought us Epic Movie: comedy for people with no sense of humour.

Their highly-lucrative movie making style is like a dose of herpes. It's not much fun...and it's certainly not going to go away.

So, sticking loosely to the plot of 300, film-makers Jason Friedberg and Aaron Seltzer crudely send up the camp original while offering tepid sideswipes at the likes of Transformers, American Idol and Happy Feet.

Former EastEnder Sean Maguire plays Spartan leader Leonidas and is probably the best thing on offer, delivering a game performance that really deserved a better script.

He's married to toga'ed nympho Queen Margo (a been-round-the-block Carmen Electra pouting like something out of an Essex nightclub at kicking out time).

Lowest common denominator offerings include a hump-backed Paris Hilton (cackle), an incontinent Happy Feet penguin (snigger) and a cat dropping bedecked Sandman from Spider-Man 3 (nurse, the anthrax).

It's either a sign of the film-makers' lack of faith in their product or complete contempt for the audience that they have to signpost every comedy setpiece to ensure it's not open to misinterpretation.

So when Sly Stallone's last knackered Balboa incarnation is wheeled out the camera zooms in on his "Rocky" belt buckle just to underline exactly who he's supposed to be.

(impressionist Ike Barinholtz is so unsure of his own abilities he has to tell everybody that he's Dane Cook).

This is lame, lazy drivel but it keeps bouncing back by virtue of the money-men's conviction they've hit on a winning formula. Which, I suppose, they have.

Wait for the final credits. Or, if you've got something to do, don't bother.

Tim Evans