rated R

Imagine the “The X-Files” if instead of aliens Mulder and Scully were tracking down bankers. Let’s face it, bankers tend to be pretty dull. A characteristically level headed and pragmatic lot, they skew to the mundane at their worst, however nefarious their transactions may be. What few thrills are offered in this account of an obsessive, embittered Interpol agent (Clive Owen) and his feisty N.Y. assistant DA sidekick (Naomi Watts) hot on the trail of a shadowy multinational financial conspiracy are relentlessly eclipsed by a preponderance of dudes in gray suits sitting around talking at each other.

Freshman screenwriter Eric Singer’s script shows all the hallmarks of being written by a freshman screenwriter. Though ambitiously, if abruptly, bounding from New York to Milan to Berlin to Istanbul and back, following clues to unravel the plot-heavy mystery at hand, the rare bits of action are repeatedly hamstrung by long scenes of monotone exposition by a succession of completely interchangeable executive types. If it weren’t for their various European accents, viewers would be very hard pressed to tell one from the next. It’s something of a feat that such globetrotting adventure could be rendered down to such a tedious boardroom affair.

German born director Tom Tykwer, who hit the indie scene running (literally) with “Run Lola Run” and the studio scene stinking with “Perfume: The Story of a Murderer,” once again proves an adept hand with the camera, but the technical proficiency of his taut direction and admirable production values far outstrip the quality of the material with which he’s working. Cramped, under-lit interiors actually appear to mock the weaknesses of the script, and the occasional bursts of action are overwhelmed by expansive panoramic exteriors with a fascinating eye for the innovative architecture of each locale. An extended and brutal shootout at New York’s Guggenheim museum (conspicuously wedged in at the studio’s request when the film was testing poorly with advance audiences), though properly kinetic and respectably choreographed, ultimately stands out more as a celebration of the building’s famously distinctive lines than a proper showdown between characters.

Which brings us to the “characters.” Underdeveloped is perhaps too charitable a word to describe Clive Owen’s lumbering granite slab of an investigator, and Naomi’s wattage is severely dimmed in a role that offers little more to do than read from a series of manila folders. All opportunity for romance between the leads is carelessly, almost recklessly neglected, leaving little between the two, or the audience, than a palpable sense of emotional bankruptcy.

Though offering small and sporadic doses of intrigue, suspense, a little vengeance and, yes, murder, as cerebral thrillers go, “The International” suffers a palsy from which it is regrettably incapable of recovering.