Logan, Fraiser, Better Call Saul. The number of spinoff series and films considered to be better than, or even as good as, their parent IPs is rarer than a sane California Democrat, and Ballerina isn't one of them. Whereas John Wick, especially the first one, was a tight action juggernaut with a distinctive style and a unique universe supported by a charismatic and reluctant protagonist, this spinoff is a creatively bankrupt retread led by a generic and unremarkable diversity checkbox insert.

The potential was there for something fun and interesting, something which would build on the lore laid out in the previous films without being a lesser copy of what came before. Rather than a nigh-mythological 6-foot-tall combat leviathan mowing through a sea of ballistic death, Ballerina's early moments acknowledged the diminutive assassin's physical limitations and promised a new perspective, as she learned to "fight like a girl."

However, in true modern Hollywood parlance, "fight like a girl" quickly (as in immediately after it's said) changes from meaning to fight in more innovative and unexpected ways that would use her opponents' greater size against them, into a slew of crotch kicks as she wades headfirst into lopsided battles full of accommodating stunt men portraying lifetime zealotous killers who suddenly forget rudimentary combat fundamentals like minding corners, maintaining cover, or simple patience when your prey is cornered and you have overwhelming numbers.

The lack of combat creativity could have been forgiven if Ballerina didn't fail on so many other levels. Veteran movie villain Gabriel Byrne phones in a bland and uninspired performance for a bland and uninspired character, who has barely any screen time and a wasted motivation. The usually compelling Angelica Houston's turn as the head of the Ruska Roma is so flat and lifeless that paramedics almost certainly checked her pulse between takes just to make sure she was still alive. So too, a gently de-aged Keanu appears tired and bored as he collects his paycheck in scenes that are little more than trailer bait. Worst of all, the lovely de Armas turns in a performance with fewer dimensions than a cosmic string.

However, the film's most glaring flaw isn't all of this, its complete unoriginality, or even de Armas' ability to shake off damage like she's the T-1000; it's its pathological repetitiveness. Once de Armas' Eve completes her perfunctory training, the so-called “adventure” kicks off — and every segment follows the same almost comically rigid formula:

She enters a public, seemingly harmless building. She briefly interacts with a benign frontline worker. A mysterious, menacing man arrives. A fight breaks out. Despite his size and supposed skill, he behaves like an idiot and is swiftly overpowered by the 120-pound Eve. A larger melee erupts, filled with the dumbest professional killers imaginable. She kills them all. A surprise female assassin appears to provide a more "balanced" fight. Eve escapes.

Moments later, the cycle begins again — cosmetically altered, but fundamentally and rhythmically identical.

It all culminates in an overlong and redundant final battle full of faceless paint-by-numbers thugs and thrillless action. You might find this very digital blood spatter a worthy diversion, but I was squirming in my seat and checking the clock by the end of the first hour.