Somebody’s trying to sell me “cool” and I just ain’t buyin’.

That somebody is director Jim Jarmusch and his film is “Broken Flowers,” Bill Murray’s latest star vehicle that some critics are praising as “uncommonly sweet” and “deadpan minimalist.” Uh huh. Apparently Murray is the new face of coolness in hip flicks. Sorry, but I can’t agree.

To be fair, I didn’t particularly care for Murray’s last two efforts, either. “Lost in Translation” lacked a plot, although Murray’s character was worthy enough, and “Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou” meandered aimlessly. Too much plot, nothing cohesive, not even Murray’s character, whom I found vapid and detached.

In “Broken Flowers,” Murray lapses into an even shallower aloofness, bordering on catatonic trance. He plays Don Johnston, a bachelor who, basically, has no character. No personality. No visible ambition or motivation. Don is little more than an aging lump on a sterile couch in a dark room, wondering why his latest girlfriend is leaving him but lacking the fortitude to ponder any hope of reconciliation. I get the feeling reconciliation is not in his nature. Nor, for that matter, is emotion. And we are supposed to care about this man why?

Don receives an anonymous pink envelope, a cryptic note telling him that he has a 19-year-old son whom he’s never met, who he’s never even suspected existed. The note tells Don that his son is searching for him. Don is uninterested, although his neighbor, Winston (Jeffrey Wright), a wannabe mystery writer, is suddenly enamored by the notion of Don tracking down his former lovers in hopes of discovering the boy’s mother. Winston is adamant about instilling a sense of purpose in Don’s seemingly meaningless life.

Somehow, Winston jumpstarts Don’s curiosity enough for Don to agree to seek out the women in his past.

There’s a fleeting resemblance to “About Schmidt” in this film— although where Jack Nicholson’s character has a bittersweet, empathetic quality, Murray’s has zip. Zero. Nada. Where Schmidt’s quest occurs transitionally, logically, Don’s does not.

Seemingly half the film unfolds in rainy glimpses outside Don’s car window or as he sits wordlessly in airport terminals or aboard buses. Entire scenes— fade in to fade out—simply observe Don as motionless, wordless, devoid of apparent thought or feeling. If I’m supposed to “get it,” I do. This is the “new age” of storytelling, of looking inside a character by simply looking at him. The onus is on us, the audience, to empathize. Suddenly, some filmmakers have gone Zen.

This isn’t Zen, folks. This is the boredom that results when Zen doesn’t kick in.

Don’s journey is sullen and empty. The four past loves he encounters—he brings them each a bouquet of pink flowers—are little more than superficial and stereotypical shells, all broken, fragile women leading disparate, despairing lives. Even in their presence, Don does little more than wait mutely until they remember his face, each with a varying degree of apathy or hostility. One can only wonder if he was instrumental in their damaged psyches or if, like Don, they were utterly bleak at birth.

I found the production quality lacking. Lighting is murky and uninspired and camera placement seems almost haphazard, roughly akin to cinematic snapshots. Reality TV is bad enough. Reality movies don’t work for me, either. I felt continually distanced by the insipid nature of the filmmaking, as if Don’s personality wasn’t distancing enough. Don’s character, his dismal personality, so utterly disinterested me that I found myself ambivalent about the film’s outcome—which, in fact, never happens. No resolution, no lessons learned or hopes lost. “Broken Flowers” is a film about a man who seeks his son, but it never even leads us to that potentially bleak encounter. At the film’s conclusion we, like Don, are left standing in a damp, meaningless reality.

In a nutshell: If you’re wondering why people are flocking to a film about penguins, this is why. The birds take us on a more intelligent journey, give us a richer experience and have much better personalities.