UNCLE DON’S VIEWS OF NIL REPUTE:

This yawn infested turkey did not just Hoover. It Dirt Devil’d. It Oreck’d. It Eureka’d.

On the way to the theatre, I passed some of them movie posters in the hallways. Let’s see: “Frost/Nixon,” politics, naah. “Milk,” civil rights, pass. “Transporter 3,” drain damage, I’m there.

Having suffered through “Quantum of Solace” last week, a kinda “Indiana Jones” meets “MacGyver,” I looked forward to seeing the new movie from the guy I thought should have been the next Bond.

Prior to the start it was the attack of the trailers. Let’s see, new installments of “Star Trek,” “Underworld,” “My Bloody Valentine.” What next, another “Harry Potter”? Oh yeah, that is coming.

Meanwhile, “Transporter 3” opens aboard a container ship at sea ...

Down a doorway dank and dingy, drag a duo of drunks, downcast and dreary. The object of their desire? A container, there and handy. Its contents? Maybe stuff, hootch and sudsy. Instead there’s dreck, steaming and bubbly.

That dreck would be toxic waste. Enough to empty out the random Eastern European country or three. This is the end of the world as we know it as now, even the Transporter is into saving the planet.

Jason Statham, accompanied by some yowling airhead redhead, is the transporter. You know, someone who transports stuff. This, the third “Transporter” outing (betcha even you low renters figured that out from the title), is but his 2006 flick “Crank” redux, redone and redumb.

We’ve an hour or so of Statham trying to be a Jackie Chan or Jet Li, only with more hair on his chest, less on his head, and with an equally impenetrable accent. In one scene he’s attacked by a platoon or so of chuckleheads who seem to have spent most of their free time ransacking the tool crib at Home Depot instead of tracking down use-able stuff like guns, knives, tasers and suitcase nukes.

In a series of budget “Bullitt” car chases paid for by Audi we get him driving on two wheels between semis, dodging thousands of rounds fired by gunmen trained apparently by Helen Keller, and in the coup de disgrace, driving the auto off a high bridge into deep water, whereupon it eventually wallows to the surface. By now, it should have more dents and dings than a newly painted vehicle in a parking lot full of grocery carts during an earthquake. But this Audi, fresh out of the lake, Shamwowed, smoother than a baby’s bottom, nowhere near as dirty, starts like the Energizer bunny and toodles off in search of bad guys.

The bad guys are hunting Statham and the hollering redhead. Most are sporting teeth as yellow as drug test samples and coiffed in the usual weed whacker style to which Russkies seem to be partial. The chief tracker is the obligatory rat-faced, beady-eyed American peregrinating about in a beater van festooned with the finest in knobs, buttons and blinky lights from an IBM 360.

In a legendarily idiotic chase scene, Statham, separated temporarily from his car, desires its return. Accompanied by the stooges he performs stupid bicycle tricks though shops sweaty and streets gritty. That’s right; he chases a high-powered sports car on a Kmart bike. Great tune. Felonious screenwriting.

The special effects are cheesier than Velveeta. A scene where Stratham drives his car from a bridge onto a moving train is about as authentic looking as a Hot Wheel tossed onto a Christmas tree Lionel.

The fight scenes, jerkier than early 20th century news reels, aren’t nearly as realistic as a bunch of GI Joes.

Lookie, you wanna watch a great no-brainer with car crashes, non-sensical violence and acting hammier than a holiday main course? Check out Statham’s “Death Race.” Lousy reviews on rotten tomatoes, but then, what do critics know?

UNCLE DON reviews B-rated movies and cheesy musical acts for the Daily Pilot. He can be reached by e-mail at reallybadwriting@yahoo.com.