Rated R

How is it that a simple savage warrior from the imaginary world of Hyborea could endure in the popular consciousness for eight decades? It might be that his creator, Robert E. Howard, distilling the anxieties of an era of economic strife and cultural distrust, tapped into something visceral and archetypical with his blatant escape into raw, snarling, masculinity.

Conan, warrior nomad, pirate poet and self-made king, has always been a true antihero, a conqueror of men, a lover of women, a relentless natural force unafraid to face unbeatable odds. However, wearing his barbarism like a crown, he is pointedly a champion for the unrefined, a broadsword cowboy furiously defending against encroaching forces of sophistication.

A child of cheap pulp rags and, later, even cheaper comic books (the most successful of them, "Savage Sword of Conan" in the 1970s, couldn't afford to even print in color), Conan, let's face it, is nothing less than every known male insecurity turned inside out and empowered. He's custom built to appeal to underdeveloped dudes who A) probably wouldn't have much more than a dollar to throw at literary distraction, B) have never heard the word insecurity in their lives, and C) would most likely stomp on its neck if they met it behind a truck stop.

It should come as no major shock, then, that the latest incarnation of "Conan the Barbarian" would be no less than a ripped-out, chest-beating frat party celebrating all things dumb, crude and classless.

Reforged by director Marcus Nispel (a bro who previously touched on the sword-and-sandal subgenre with 2001's Viking rampage "Pathfinder," and went on to breathe new death into both the "Texas Chainsaw" and "Friday the 13th" franchises), the new vision of Conan appears to flaunt some lofty pretensions while simultaneously pandering to society's lowest common denominators.

Specifically ignoring nearly everything Dino DeLaurentis, John Milius and, of course, Arnold Schwarzenegger brought to the last cinematic round in the Hyborean mythos, Nispel renders Howard's meticulously mapped out world into an incoherent mash of badly computerized and indistinguishable set pieces, made even more artificial by a positively dreadful application of post production 3D. He sets up scenes that evoke the fantastically aggressive tone of Frank Frazetta's original paintings (which may arguably be more famous than the stories they illustrated), only to allow his camera to repeatedly, inexplicably fly off the subjects just as they strike their poses. It's an unbelievable squandering of time for everyone involved.

Screenwriters Thomas Dean Donnelly and Joshua Oppenheimer (who as a team brought us the jovial if critically panned adaptations of Clive Cussler's "Sahara" and Ray Bradbury's "Sound of Thunder") seem to have some subconscious understanding of what made Conan the hero he was in Howard's day. They take a few notable stabs to reveal the character as one of some feral nobility and more than just a brutish slayer of aristocratic bastards and their minions. Conan is also portrayed as a skilled tactician and natural leader, following only the needle of his own personal moral compass.

But his rise to awesomeness, beyond a couple of failed duels with his dad as a youth and a throwaway line of narration to cover 15 years of his experience in the wilds of his world, is never shown or explored. Worse, the writers' understanding of Howard's prevailing philosophy skids precipitously from Nietzsche into Freud, reducing Conan's antiauthoritarian impulses into an unfortunate and probably inadvertent quest to recover and wield his slain father's sword. Think about that for a second.

As the title rogue, professional beast-man Jason Momoa brings a suitably rugged, even lionish charm to the role, standing out as nearly the only good decision this team managed to make. Though chained by some atrocious dialogue, and having his ability to act reduced to how well he can make a fist with his face (which he does pretty well, actually), he sure knows how to slash and bash, and he takes every opportunity to prove it.

The rest of the cast struggles through with varying degrees of success. "Avatar" nasty Steven Lang effectively reprises that role, but wearing leather instead of military fatigues. Rose McGowan, as a dubiously gifted witch, mostly just Lady Gagas around like an uncooked honeyed ham in very insensible boots.

There are few things more painful than watching such obvious enthusiasm get so trampled by abject incompetence. The guys responsible for this $90 million mess clearly have an eye for recognizing cool when they see it, but are simply not equipped to be cool under their own power. Their own blue-collar vocabulary is simply no match for their meat-head imaginings. Think of Rodin's "Adam" remolded out of Slim Jims. Or maybe Chumbawamba attempting to perform Carmina Burana by blowing on Bud Light bottles. This new "Conan the Barbarian" is like that. It's a sad, frightening revelation that after 80 years riding the fringes of our civilization, Conan's greatest foes may actually be his followers.­