In 1998, Capcom were considering their options for the potential “Resident Evil” film franchise. Their shortlist was down to two directors. There was George A. Romero, 30-year veteran of the horror genre, director of the “Living Dead” trilogy and founding father of the zombie film. Or Paul W.S. Anderson, that fucking “Mortal Kombat” guy.

Guess who they chose?

As devoted readers (thanks, Mom) know, I have an unhealthy obsession with zombie flicks. Yet despite being the only person on our island to have seen both “Zombie Holocaust” and “Gates of Hell,” I was so incensed by the first “Resident Evil” that the 2004 sequel went unseen. So why return for the third? Simple – see if you can turn down a plot like this: Zombies have taken over our post-apocalyptic world, the few survivors keep on the move “Road Warrior”-style, hoping to make it to Alaska. How cool does that sound?

All the potential of an undead epic is there: a gunslinging Milla Jovovich in hot pants, vast spaghetti-western plains, shotguns and machetes, evil scientists and gruesome deaths. Yet screenwriter Anderson and crew have somehow still crapped out. Where did they go wrong? I can’t say. The film feels so empty, so lifeless that you lurch out feeling the need to consume something profound – like an Ang Lee film. OK, you want me to spell it out for you? It’s a video game that you can’t fucking play.