Next year, some 90 percent of mankind will be wiped out by a super-germ, and most of the lucky remainder will mutate into hairless zombies with a hankering for human flesh. But not to worry—Hollywood schmaltz of the most virulent strain will live on.

I Am Legend (Dec. 14), the third big-screen adaptation of Richard Matheson's creepy 1954 sci-fi novel (following 1964's Last Man on Earth and 1971's The Omega Man), takes a truly horrific and not altogether unlikely premise and systematically defangs it, shrugging off both the disconcerting moral ambiguities of the book and the dramatic possibilities of mass death—which should be nothing if not dramatic, right?—with idiotic aplomb.

Just our luck that the last man standing, Dr. Robert Neville (the dumbass who inadvertently unleashed the pandemic in the first place), is played by Will Smith, the most blithely cocky action hero since George W. Bush. The guy single-handedly wipes out humanity, including his steadfast wife and adorable little girl, and still manages to crack wise—that is, when he's not knocking golf balls into the Hudson and memorizing Shrek.

Alas, conveying any real sense of dread, much less remorse, is a bit outside Smith's skill set. He never breaks a sweat ... except when he's doing pull-ups, which he does really well. As a result, the near-demise of the species turns out to be a fairly ho-hum event. Director Francis Lawrence managed to wring more tension out of the question of whether Britney's nipples would pop out of her shirt in his video for "I'm a Slave 4 U." We won't spoil the ending ... watch for yourself!

But casting Smith is just one indication of the filmmaker's reluctance to grapple with the frightening implications of Matheson's vision (and if Hollywood's in denial, one shudders to think about how the CDC and FEMA are likely to respond). The movie's post-apocalyptic Manhattan is a wonderland of hassle-free sightseeing. Sure there are weeds growing in the middle of Park Avenue, but that's a small price to pay for being able to barrel downtown without hitting traffic. Meanwhile, since those freaky mutants—the overcaffeinated type, like in 28 Days Later, rather than the dopily relentless breed featured in Night of the Living Dead—have apparently devoured the vast majority of people who were killed outright by the virus, so there are no festering corpses littering the city to remind Dr. Neville of the tragic cost of his monumental fuck-up. And then there's the discount-bin Jesus allegory, the plundering of Bob Marley's grave for a sprinkle of cheap sentiment, and a redemptive final crane shot so syrupy it would give Thomas Kincaid hives. Skip the movie, and try the videogame instead. At least you get to shoot people.