There really was no reason for The Transporter films to be as good as they turned out. Luc Besson has produced some utter tripe down through the years. Jason Statham is a great athlete and a man of some charisma, but he is not averse to treading water when the occasion demands. Nonetheless those pictures managed a delightful combination of violent choreography and comic self regard.

There really is no reason for this reboot to be as criminally appalling as it has turned out. Ed Skrein (henceforth referred to as Not-Statham) is a charismatic fellow who, in Ben Drew's Ill Manors, proved that he can deliver an angry line with aplomb. Camille Delamarre did a tolerable job directing the deranged Brick Mansions. The scenery is nice. The car has all four wheels attached. Yet Transporter Refuelled is such a dire, squashed little thing that, if found on the roadside, you would not hesitate to put it swiftly out of its misery.

The plot has something to do with prostitution on the French Riviera. We know his because, in the opening scene, a key villain barks: "The prostitution on the French Riviera belongs to me now." Supporting the terrifying possibility that the film-makers believe they're taking a feminist perspective, some of the evil man's employees later rise up in criminal rebellion against him. Nothing, however, can stop the women – who quote The Three Musketeers at the most hilarious moments – delivering their lines with seductively lowered brow as if spying on the neighbours through a letterbox. Somehow or other, Not-Statham and his dad (Ray Stevenson) end up entangled in the conflict.

We can forgive the vulgarity that sees every second scene lubricated with a vodka brand whose label is conspicuously displayed. We can forgive the incoherent spasms that stand in for plot. But there is no excuse for perfunctory car stunts and leaden fist fights. You may as well sell us a 99 without the Flake. Or the ice cream. Or the cone.