IF THE DAVINCI Code put Tom Hanks in danger of turning into Nicholas Cage—a speaking slab of wood with nothing better to do than run around uttering historical gobbledygook in increasingly annoyed tones—then Angels & Demons (Columbia Pictures) completes the transformation. With the exception of maybe the National Treasure movies, I’ve never seen an ancient-gold-digging thriller with duller protagonist. Thankfully, the movie around him provides plenty of bludgeoning distraction. After his last Dan Brown adaptation failure, director Ron Howard has given his pacing a shot of caffeine and cranked up the volume, making Angels & Demons a much more watchable, if similarly absurd, pseudo-religious adventure.

It brings one no pleasure to recall the ridiculous controversy over The Davinci Code, a dreadful movie spun out of a dreadfully-written Dan Brown novel that the public was less inclined to “fall for” than it typically does for a J.J. Abrams scientific theory. The “sequel” (the Angels & Demons book actually preceded The Davinci Code) makes that abundantly clear in its ponderous speeches that “wrestle” with faith and reason in the same way Robert Langdon (Hanks) wrestles with symbology—it’s all about as transparently fabricated as an episode of Fringe.

The most ridiculous plot points serve as bookends to the story. In the beginning, as His Holiness lies in state and the Cardinals are entering conclave to choose his successor, scientists are cooking up a “God particle” that is supposed to prove the Almighty’s existence, but somehow winds up in position to blow up his holy city. There’s no mystery to the rest of the movie when the Illuminati, who lose no time in kidnapping the four cardinals from whom the next Pope will be chosen, hand in their riddly ransom note. But somehow, even as Langdon and his strangely expressionless sidekick (Vittoria Vetra) barrel through cathedrals, tunnels, and tombs, their obvious trajectory gives you space to enjoy their surroundings. Free from the need to untangle a convoluted plot, you can marvel at the quaint, ancient-looking Vatican streets and the beautiful artificial version of Saint Peter’s Square. (I couldn’t tell if it was shot on location or not—it wasn’t.)

And then there’s Ewan McGregor, who plays the most absurd character of all—a young priest, a close associate of the recently-deceased Pope whose fake accent and put-on weepiness (you’ll understand that part later) have a weird magnetism. In fact I don’t recall ever disliking McGregor in a movie, and he’s played some terrible roles. Here, he and the rest of the supporting cast—a grave Pierfrancesco Favino as the Holy See’s head of security, the nervously perfect Thure Lindhart as an anxious young attendant—perform so heroically that we never miss the leaden leads when they’re off-screen.

One has to wonder what this film might be like had it been made by the French, the Italians or even the English. There’s something so painfully American about it—its brute force, from gruesome chest-branding to endless explosives to portentous, inane dialogue about the cohabitation of religion and science. It is what it is: a silly novel made into a silly but fun visual banquet. You can’t help but gawk at the deep red of the costumes, the perfection of the sets, and the awe-striking torn sky in the final moments. When it comes to smoke and mirrors, Americans can’t be beat.