There’s something ugly and profoundly self-absorbed about the go-nowhere loser comedy “Hancock,” a superhero action blockbuster that arrives in theaters tomorrow almost as a big-screen equivalent of an US Weekly magazine. When not poking fun at its central celebrity when he’s down on his luck, the film cashes in on the drama as he’s shuttled off to rehab, then slaps together a redemptive coda without doing any of the heavy lifting. All things considered, reactions to the film will likely mimic those of gossip-rag readers: fleeting enchantment slowly replaced by indifference.

The story, about a bitter, drunken superhero, culminates in a narrative black hole from which screenwriters Vincent Ngo and Vince Gilligan (a frequent contributor to “The X-Files”) seem incapable of escaping — namely that “Hancock” is trying both to debunk and revel in the classic superhero fable. But the awkward final chapter asks the audience to believe in and even cheer the magic-from-within of a man who has carefully polished his well-earned reputation as a malcontent with the help of a media consultant. There are times when the down-and-out title character (Will Smith) tugs at our hearts, but more often than not he is little more than a spoiled brat, someone who might be interesting to psychoanalyze but is hardly fun to watch for 90 minutes, superpowers notwithstanding.

Clear parallels can be drawn between this train wreck of an experiment and “Wild Wild West,” the abysmal clunker of the 1999 summer season. In both films, Mr. Smith stars as the hero of a bizarre alternate universe. Here, it’s a world of conflicting genres that may have looked appealing on the pages of Messrs. Ngo and Gilligan’s script, but arrives on the screen confused, wandering, and lazy.

Early on, the film works as an inspiring spoof. Hancock isn’t just a drunk; he’s a rude, crude, vindictive, and mean-spirited drunk, played by Mr. Smith as if his very soul were ugly. He’s the kind of guy who falls asleep on park benches with whisky in hand, hoots at women as they walk down the street, and mocks cops when he arrives at crisis scenes. His sour nature is outweighed only by his laziness; he uses his powers whenever and however he deems fit, and often does so maliciously. When he flies, he lands at full speed, destroying whatever happens to be beneath him (a street, a car, etc.). When he rushes to aid the police as they try to stop a high-speed chase, he mangles a half-dozen patrol cars and a highway overpass.

So it’s little surprise that Ray (the ever-lovable Jason Bateman), a smarmy PR rep, meets Hancock for the first time as the immortal is being heckled by bystanders. Moments earlier, Ray’s car had been stalled on a stretch of railroad track. Hancock arrived as a train was bearing down, but rather than simply pick up the car and fly to safety (and for him it would indeed be simple), Hancock decided instead to step in front of the train, bringing the locomotive to a dead halt and unleashing a vicious derailment. Hence the boos.

In his callous disregard of all those around him, Hancock exists almost as the anti-Iron Man. Unlike with Superman, people don’t point up in the sky in awe, but rather in fear of where he may land next. Unlike Batman, he hasn’t channeled his flawed personality into a defender of the meek. He shows up when he feels like it, which is usually when his hangover will permit.

Director Peter Berg (“Friday Night Lights”) tries mightily to nudge things along, stitching together these various comedy sketches into some sort of flowing narrative. Ray decides to do for Hancock what his colleagues have done for the likes of Britney Spears and Lindsay Lohan, aiming to transform this public embarrassment into a public treasure (at least Hancock has some talent). Taking Ray’s advice, Hancock surrenders to the authorities (who have a warrant out for his arrest), voluntarily enters prison, and begins attending weekly therapy sessions. But as so many celebrities in rehab have discovered, reinvention is a tricky feat, and worst impressions often stick. By punishing us with such an abrasive screwup, the makers of “Hancock” make it nearly impossible for us to cheer a more committed, complicated character later on.

But of course, the public eventually comes calling, and the movie spins on a dime. Hancock shaves the stubble, drops the bottle, and presto — instant forgiveness from everyone. That is, everyone apart from Ray’s wife, Mary (a bitter Charlize Theron). The reasons for her disdain are divulged only later in a shocking twist that stands somewhere between mind-blowing and arbitrary. Mary’s motivations are the ultimate impetus for the film’s turbulent change of heart, and they take “Hancock” to places far more routine, and far bloodier, than audiences will be expecting.

It’s a hyper-serious twist to a hyper-silly concept, and it suggests that Columbia Pictures didn’t really want a clever comedy so much as a superhero franchise with legs. The studio — which, like most of its ilk nowadays, seems to be in the business of making convincing trailers rather than complete films — has instead created the ideal conditions for an act of mass-market alienation.

ssnyder@nysun.com