X-Men, forty-years-old, presents a growing minority of genetically mutated super-gifted – feared, envied and rejected by the 'normal' populace – who must choose between attack and peaceful self-preservation. The aggressives are led by metal-bending Ian McKellen (Magneto), and the peacefuls, the X-Men, by überpsychic schoolteacher Patrick Stewart (Charles Xavier).

Historically most of this is inherited from Wilmar Shiras’ hit novel Children of the Atom, in which mutant kids are born to power plant workers after an explosion. In real life atomic radiation causes tumours and twisted limbs. But, as every good fanboy knows, science fiction mutation is a sort of fantastic evolution. X-people fly, spit fire, or grow new limbs.

The first two X- films were about preventing disaster, but X3's disaster has already arrived. Phoenix, a lovely X-gal turned insane mutant superpower, is killing indiscriminately, like sneezing. Achoo, another one dead. Also, a drug for removing superpowers is being offered by humans and taken – in various degrees of the term – by mutants everywhere.

On paper this sounds very Hamlet, cochlear implants, and the westernising of rainforest tribes. But the shift from impending doom to full-on calamity asks too much of the (new) director and staff writers. The film feels stretched between trying to shock and provoke, and displaying the characters. It attempts both at length, but does neither well.

Phoenix, for instance, is about as subtle as a hurricane hitting a barn. Her 'evil insanity' consists of red mascara, sticky out lips, and couched eyebrows. And the X-cure is syringe-shot from plastic guns by soldiers with bad aim. Even old villain Magneto is reduced to cheap theatrics, like flying the Golden Gate Bridge to Alcatraz. Give the special effects team something to do?

Grief and loss is handled with dialogue of the "He's dead!", "Oh no, really" and "I didn't want you to do that" sort. Fight scenes are devalued, personal tensions declenched, complexities simplified. Xavier says things like, "I don't have to explain myself to you." Even Hugh Jackman, as Kreuger-clawed favourite Wolverine, seems tame.

This is a moderately entertaining film, though, despite the title, as episodic as its predecessors. There's no 'last stand,' and no serious conclusions to be doodled about anything except, say, Wolverine's libido. As spandex ballet, it'll do until the new Superman film, but as X-Men its anathema.