FORGED in the same cinematic fires as the muscle-bound romp 300, Immortals is a feast of naked male torsos and rippling biceps loosely inspired by the myth of Theseus and the Minotaur.

Screenwriters Charley Parlapanides and Vlas Parlapanides have taken this simple story of heroism against the odds and expanded it into a swaggering swords and sandals adventure awash with decapitation, dismemberment and gratuitous sex.

The blood-letting is graphic and relentless, even with scenes of eye gouging and evisceration removed from the original cut of the film to secure a 15 certificate. The cast are a leather loincloth-clad army of walking washboards and chiselled jaws without any charisma.

Leading man Henry Cavill, who will be flexing those muscles as Superman in the forthcoming remake, is especially wooden, delivering his lines as if he is reading them off cue cards for the very first time. The camera lingers lasciviously on his beautifully-toned body as he cuts a swathe through hordes of nasty henchmen but, like the rest of Tarsem Singh’s film, he’s a posturing endorsement of brawn over brains.

Many centuries ago, the Gods waged war against the Titans and imprisoned these creatures deep within Mount Tartaros, within a cage that can only be broken by a bolt from the mythical Epirus Bow.

Thankfully, the weapon is lost... until megalomaniac King Hyperion (Mickey Rourke) and his hordes declare war on the Gods by ravaging the land in search of  it.

Ancient law prevents Zeus (Luke Evans), his daughter Athena (Isabel Lucas) and the other Gods, including Poseidon (Kellan Lutz), from intervening, so they watch with mounting dread from their vantage point on Mount Olympus as Hyperion slaughters everyone who gets in his way.

Immortals is a barrage of brutal fight sequences, many of which unfold in slow motion to revel in the athletic physiques of the cast.