There isn’t a single thing about brilliant-but-alcoholic fuckup Oslo detective Harry Hole (Michael Fassbender) that is unique, new or even vaguely interesting, except his name, which is presumably his porn name serving for some reason as a nom de police. The mystery Hole is investigating involves a serial killer who builds snowmen outside the houses of his victims—supposedly ominous because they look right at the house, as if no one in their right mind would ever do such a thing. His partner on this case (Rebecca Ferguson), whom he doesn’t need and would rather not work with, of course, since he’s a lone-wolf genius, posits that the killer is set off by the falling snow—which, since this is Oslo in winter, isn’t very useful as a clue. She eventually becomes a damsel in distress, naturally, but by the time director Tomas Alfredson’s adaptation of Jo Nesbø’s novel takes this sexist turn, it has already taken another that is infinitely more offensive, so that it barely registers in the grand scheme of pointless awfulness that is this movie. By MaryAnn Johanson