Young audiences over here could be forgiven for not really knowing exactly who Nancy Drew is.

But in America she's a literary heroine, a sort of plaid-skirted, pocket-sized Jane Tennison without the neuroses but with the knack for solving a tricky case.

Originally appearing under the author's pseudonym Carolyn Keene way back in 1930, the virginal tec felt the collar (and nothing else) of wrong 'uns in four films during that decade.

Screen appearances have been in short supply since (a small screen series in the 70s and a TV film in 2002) until Hollywood decided it was time to update her for a new generation.

To be honest, she hasn't been rebranded that much - she's still eighteen, beautifully mannered and decked out like Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music.

The only concessions to the new millennium appear to be an iPod, a mobile phone and a social strategy pinched from Alicia Silverstone in Clueless.

Accompanying her attorney dad on a business trip to LA, she leaves the comfort zone of River Heights behind her and is pitched into a vacuous world of Beverly Hills 90210.

Promising pop to "stop sleuthing", she nevertheless unearths a mystery surrounding the death of Dehlia Draycott, a Hollywood actress who owned the crumbling mansion they have rented in LA.

This could have provided the perfect opportunity for some humour based on Nancy's time-warped personality but it's never really capitalised on.

Any levity relies on Nancy's over-eager sidekick Corky (Josh Flitter), a miniature Michael Moore clone whose laboured repartee you rather wish would be dropped out of a helicopter alongside him into the Pacific.

The action only really perks up in the third reel with the appearance of a handful of cartoon thugs but this merely gives the impression you're watching another film.

At a time of fine teen comedies such as Mean Girls and Freaky Friday, the real mystery was why this was made at all.

Tim Evans