A largely-pointless reworking of Bram Stoker’s novel, this travesty owes much to Hammer-horror updatings such as Dracula AD 1972, but without the necesssary quotient of horror and/or humour required for such an enterprise.

The plot’s laborious indeed: dynamo antiques-dealer (if such a thing exists) Simon (Miller) works for well-established London antiques-dealer Van Helsing (Plummer), descendant of the original vampire-hunter. With the aid of insider and all-round cunning minx Selina (Esposito), a team of high-tech thieves break into Van Helsing’s vault in search of priceless artworks – instead, they discover a crypt which has not been opened in a century.

Determined not to leave empty-handed, the intruders nab the semingly-impenetrable coffin and flee on a US-bound private jet, only to be mauled halfway across the Atlantic after the corpse of Dracula (Butler), which lies within, is re-invigorated. It soon transpires that our Van Helsing is in fact the original, having kept himself alive by jacking up with the leeches that prey on the vampire’s body, in order to protect the world from the undead one. Since the Victorian era, however, he has found the time to father a particularly prissy daughter, who now lives in New Orleans and works in a Virgin record store.

Aware that Dracula now seeks her out as a soulmate (what with his blood technically coursing through her veins via daddy’s leech collection) Van Helsing and his trusty assistant Simon set off on a mission to save the girl and kill the nasty vampire. This is trickier than it sounds, as Dracula transpires to have been around since biblical times, so the trusty old stake-through-the-heart routine isn’t gong to work. (Furthermore, he has already created three blonde moppet vampiresses to afford himself protection, and in the process look after the film’s Tits And Ass requirements).

While Dracula 2001 is by no means as godawful as some other entries from the Wes Craven Presents… canon (Wishmaster, anyone?), it is still terrifically unaccomplished, and highly unlikely to inspire round-the-clock vigils outside the nation’s plexes. Johnny Lee Miller’s performance has all the charisma of an infinite void, but it’s Butler’s Dracula who is the most grievous offender, flouncing around throughout in a manner apparently inspired by David Ginola shampoo commercials, and coming across as easily the least convincing screen Dracula since George Hamilton (Love At First Bite).

There is also an unacceptably vile level of product-placement going on: the virginal heroine’s soul is more endangered by Richard Branson than any vampire on view (Christ, the girl even sleeps with her Virgin ID badge). In fairness, the makers at least attempt to add a couple of twists to the mythical tale, but they’re hardly compelling enough to justify Dracula 2001’s release, never mind re-invigorating the genre. Somebody should have shouted stop...