The pilot for the American version of “The Inbetweeners” combines the first and second episode narrative arcs of the immensely popular British TV show of the same name, wraps it in a thick of layer of ‘whatever’ and half bakes it for an hour at 350. The result is fragmented, under-developed, inexplicably paced, and soggy.

It’s not just that the pilot is structurally unsound– the splicing of the episodes together allows for little of the on-screen relationship development that is the backbone of the show– but also, it feels like MTV just doesn’t get it. The 2008-2010 series (and a movie) charts the last school years of a bunch of extremely unfortunate adolescents– pretentious Will, compulsive liar Jay, hopeless romantic Simon and dopey Neil– who navigate the stormy waters of pre-adulthood with impossibly bad luck and massive erections.

What differentiates the British show from other more-semen-than-sense “American Pie” equivalents, are two distinct factors. Firstly, “the Inbetweeners” commits to a whole new level of vulgarity unbeknownst to Stifler or his mom, and, secondly, the original TV series manages to strike a delicate balance between the extreme despair of these kiddies’ misfortunes and the uplifting knowledge that they have each other and many, many years in which to become more successful at life.

The pilot of “The Inbetweeners” 2.0 is not nearly brave enough to be as offensively irreverent as the original (and MTV isn’t allowed to say some of those bad words.) For instance, in the British “Inbetweeners,” the second episode is the one in which Will embarks on a bravado-proving, booze-fueled tirade towards Neil’s ambiguously sexually-oriented dad, wittily labeling him a “bumder” (a scathing portmanteau of the words“bender” and “bum”) and ending the episode with a regrettable accusation of pedophilia. Apparently, that’s the sort of stuff that American audiences object to.

More upsetting, however, is that the soul-wrenching despair aspect of the British show is almost wholly lacking from the US pilot, while the undercurrent of youthful elation is now cloyingly omnipresent. Even the actors are better looking. And, simply put, the show isn’t funny unless it’s very, very sad.

To fans of the British Will Mackenzie and his merry band of would-be sex-offenders, the US version is a travesty. To an “Inbetweeners” newbie, there is nothing to distinguish this particular televised offering from the cartloads of other -“coming of age” to the dulcet tunes of “Grouplove” - schlock that MTV churns out on a regular basis. Indeed, this is just another “The Hard Times of RJ Berger” without the hilarious titular pun.

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It is a truth universally acknowledged, that the obsolescent English gentleman, a creature whose glorious epoch lasted in reality from the regency period to the turn of the century, has become a sex symbol for modern women across the globe.

There are few actors who so seamlessly shrug on a more gentlemanly, or English, persona than BBC favorite, Hugh Dancy. In ‘Hysteria,’ director Tanya Wexler marries one object of female pleasure with another. To wit, Dancy’s English gentleman and the first, British, vibrator. If the result of this union is a little less than paroxysms of cinematic pleasure, it is also a little more than some over-the-sweater petting in the back of a parked Volvo.

The narrative revolves around Mortimer Granville (Dancy), a young physician who is perennially out of work due to his progressive, and necessarily correct, theories on medicinal science. In his search for a new position, Granville applies to work with a specialist on the female condition of ‘Hysteria.’ Not to put too fine a point on it, but the primary method of relieving the symptoms of this perceived malady was through the manual achievement of orgasm.

Granville takes on the position and becomes embroiled in the lives of the specialist (Jonathon Pryce) and his two daughters, the submissive, English rose Emily (Felicity Jones) and the outspoken, social worker Charlotte (Maggie Gyllenhaal). Drama ensues, and the vibrator is born.

Let’s be clear– “Hysteria” is not a biting social commentary on the relative virtues of feminism, capitalism or any other of the -isms you might care to poke a stick at. In other words, this is not “North and South” or even “Downton Abbey” at its best. Beyond conforming to those basic anachronistic truths that are now readily acknowledge in a contemporary setting– women are people, charity is an asset, inability to accept change does not prevent change from happening et cetera, et cetera– this film doesn’t really attempt to intellectually explore, well, anything.

The subject of female sexuality, something which one would think was irrevocably attached to the story of a gendered sex toy, is actually left pretty well alone. Similarly, Rupert Everett’s debauched, potentially homosexual, philanthropist is almost entirely superfluous to the film despite the blatantly palpable themes somewhat inexpertly attached to his on-screen persona. If it’s a thinking (wo)man’s movie you’re looking for, this particular cinematic offering is not for you.

Essentially, ‘Hysteria’s’ lack of agenda leaves room for a completely different movie about the first vibrator. Probably one without Hugh Dancy in it. And that would be a pity because Dancy, alongside an effervescent Maggie Gyllenhaal, whose movie presence provides a welcome relief after an endless summer of languishing teen heroins staring dolefully at the camera like stunned deer, is adorable. Dancy is stiff, uncomfortable and resoundingly unromantic. In other words, he is a perfect English gentleman.

Grade: 3/5

Image Courtesy of   Sony Classics

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