In Paul Schrader’s American Gigolo, Richard Gere starred as a suave male escort with a bevy of rich and generally older female clients who suddenly finds himself at the centre of a murder investigation.

Frequently lit through Venetian blinds and populated with superficial characters, it paints an unflattering portrait of Los Angeles’ high society.

Whereas in Paul Schrader’s The Walker, Woody Harrelson stars as a suave male escort with a bevy of rich and generally older female clients who suddenly finds himself at the centre of a murder investigation.

Frequently lit through Venetian blinds and populated with superficial characters, it paints an unflattering portrait of Washington DC’s high society.

Lazy rehash? Perish the thought, because - get this – Woody’s call guy is gay. So if it’s canasta the ladies are after, Carter Page III is their man. But for services of a carnal nature, they're obliged to look elsewhere.

Being the chivalrous sort, Carter thus drives bored senator’s missus Lynn (Scott Thomas) to her fancy man... who is regrettably unable to perform by virtue of being stabbed to death.

Carter extends his chivalry by telling the police that it was he who discovered the body and not Lynn. They believe him and everything goes back to normal.

At least you’ll wish they did. For that would mean you could miss the rest of this chronically uninteresting whodunit in which you really won’t care who done it or why.

It’s been touted as more of a character study than a thriller, yet, Harrelson aside, only the classy Scott Thomas and Run Lola Run’s Moritz Bleibtreu - as Carter’s photographer boyfriend - emerge with much credit.

As the essentially decent soul let down by his own naivety, this could have been Harrelson’s best role since The People Vs Larry Flynt... if only he didn’t sound like Truman Capote being attacked with Billy Bob Thornton's sling blade. Pass the French-fried puh-tay-tuhs.

As usual, Tomlin adds nothing to proceedings; Willem Dafoe’s single scene is clearly a favour to the director; and – blasphemy alert – Bacall’s presence is not much to crow about these days.

And Ned Beatty could do his shifty-old-fart routine in his sleep. Which - given The Walker’s funereal pace - is quite possibly what he was doing here.

When Schrader’s Taxi Driver spoke, everyone listened. But his second-go Gigolo ain’t talkin’ to me.

Elliott Noble