To accuse the inexplicably-titled After.Life of sexploitation would hardly be an overstatement; this is a film, after all, whose publicity campaign – and, as far as this reviewer can fathom, entire premise – rests solely on the twin notion that Christina Ricci makes a particularly attractive corpse and that a warmed-over Liam Neeson performance doesn’t cost much nowadays.

Certainly, a great deal of the running time is spent voyeuristically eyeing up the doll-like Ricci (whose sublime performance in Barry Levinson’s Addams Family movies serves as a stark reminder of how low she’s sunk 17 years down the line) as she either bathes or lies naked on a steel trolley. One would feel sorry for Ricci, but after her appearance in Black Snake Moan (another title which revolves solely around her scantily-clad suffering) it would appear that the starlet is drawn to sexploitation like a moth to a flame.

That said, the premise of the film is at least mildly interesting: Ricci’s schoolteacher is caught in a car accident only to wake up in the basement of Neeson’s funeral home, whereupon he informs her that she is dead and he is gifted with the ability to talk to lingering souls. She thus spends the rest of the film debating whether or not she’s actually deceased or in fact the prisoner of a delusional maniac, while her bereaved boyfriend (Justin Long) tries desperately to track her down.

In steadier hands this concept might have worked, but with Agnieszka Wojtowicz-Vosloo’s cack-handed script and direction it’s a wasted opportunity offering little more than Neeson shambling about delivering a series of portentous sermons on mortality and Ricci either squeaking sadly or walking around in the buff. Though repeat viewings may reveal the truth of our protagonist’s predicament, I doubt you’ll care enough to bother.