At one point in this belated, dreary sequel, Joseph Gordon-Levitt's vengeful young gambler confronts Powers Boothe's snarling powerbroker about the woman who binds the two men together. "She was a whore," declares the latter. "She was an angel," retorts the former. That's about as subtle as the depiction of women gets in this suitably black-and-white world, where the dress code for female characters appears to be lingerie with weapon optional.

In 2005 Sin City wasted a wonderful look – all inky, stylised panels derived by Robert Rodriguez from the comic books of his co-director Frank Miller – on ludicrous male fantasies and ripe dialogue. If you were a 15-year-old boy it might have been the best film you'd ever seen, but for everyone else the poses quickly became repetitive.

Aside from the unnecessary 3D treatment, it's surprising how little has changed with Rodriguez and Miller's new version. All the male characters are still having a contest to deliver their voiceover in the lowest monotone possible; lipstick and blood provide the only traces of red; and Jessica Alba, once more playing Nancy the sweet stripper, is still bereft of acting skills.

Mickey Rourke returns as the violent lunkhead Marv, while newcomer Josh Brolin is a private investigator with issues. The only member of the cast who transcends the cliches and self-indulgent misogyny is Eva Green. The Casino Royale star plays Ava, a manipulative femme fatale who draws men to their obsessive doom. Frequently naked and permanently in control, Green's performance should be an invitation for someone to write her a decent role.

Apart from that it's a procession of violence and misjudged machismo, where starlets solemnly wield swords and decapitate an endless procession of goons and no-one appears to have a plan. The film noir classics Miller and Rodriguez fetishise had actual plots, twisting their characters' desires to breaking point. This just has Lady Gaga as a waitress with a heart of gold.

Familiar actors come and bloodily go, generally failing to make sense of reductive roles, and there's a particularly unfortunate exchange where the only black male character, Dennis Haybert's enforcer, is declared to not even be human. Of course, virtually no-one is human in this self-important mess, where outlines and outfits are inflated to ludicrous proportions. There are eggs that do a better job than this lot at being hardboiled.