Joel Schumacher’s limp-wristed thriller, The Number 23, works on the pretense that if you’re too busy doing arithmetic throughout the entire movie, you won’t actually notice how incredibly awful it is. The problem here is that once you get sick of playing Where’s Waldo? with every conspiracy nut’s two favorite digits (and you will get sick of it), there will be nothing left to distract you from the rest of this self-consciously stylized trainwreck.

The film tells the story of run-of-the-mill dog catcher, Walter Sparrow (Jim Carrey), a middle-aged family man who’s quiet life quickly spirals out of control when his wife, Agatha (Virginia Madsen), gives him a curious, self-published book for his birthday. Sparrow becomes enamored with the strange tale of a hard-boiled detective, distressingly named Fingerling (again played by Carrey), and immediately starts drawing parallels between himself and the gumshoe, no matter how reaching they may seem. It isn’t long before Fingerling’s dangerous obsession with the number 23 becomes Sparrow’s own, potentially leading him down the same twisted, murderous path as the character, haunting almost every aspect of his life. I’d say that’s a pretty remarkable feat for any novel, much less one that by all appearances seems to have been written by someone with a severe mental handicap. Certainly makes for a crappy birthday present, though.

The underlying concept is one that balances dangerously between interesting and absurd, and in the clumsy hands of Schumacher and first-time writer Fernley Phillips, it falls soundly into the latter. The script is practically littered with plot holes big enough to drive a Buick through, and the fumbled attempts at David Lynchian caliber weird will leave you shaking your head in disbelief. By the time you’re formally introduced to the bulldog that serves as “protector of souls”, you’re liable to have a neck cramp.

And Carrey doesn’t fare much better, barely treading water in the role of Sparrow, and feeling hopelessly miscast as the dark and mysterious Fingerling. His forced, brooding mannerisms always feel just shy of satire, as do his strangely lispy, poor-man’s Philip Marlowe voice-overs. Throw in a couple late 90’s style tattoos, and a penchant for clutching a saxophone that he never seems to actually play (not that it would help), and you’ve got yourself one supremely nerdy excuse for a bad ass. His cause is certainly not furthered by the fact that most of the dialogue in the book’s universe is ludicrous at best, betraying a screenplay writer who’s watched far too many Film Noirs without actually listening to any of them. Much like The Black Dhalia, another rather painful throwback to the days of Raymond Chandler, the weak writing and schticky performances make for many moments of unintentional comedy (but not quite enough of these moments to warrant actually sitting through the film).

The best thing I can manage to say about The Number 23 is that it’s not incredibly hard to look at. Matthew Libatique, the talented cinematographer behind Pi and The Fountain, jumps through visual hoops that almost make you forget how ridiculous the rest of the film is. Almost. His storybook-esque introduction into the book’s world proved to be the highlight of the entire production, and while Fingerling’s stomping grounds often feel like a somewhat transparent mesh of Se7en and Sin City, they still prove to be far more interesting than the characters that live within them.

But no amount of clever art direction and artificial lighting can mask the preposterous and overwrought mystery, particularly as it accelerates towards its mind-numbingly illogical reveal. If I had been at all emotionally invested in the film upon discovery of the big “twist”, I might have actually felt insulted. Fortunately, I had stopped giving a damn long before it actually got there. While Schumacher’s greatest crime against humanity remains putting nipples on Batman, The Number 23 can safely be added to his growing list of monumental failures.