Other than, that, I thought it worked, and remarkably well. In particular, I was impressed by the way it riffs off epic motifs, and makes itself a classic dragon-slayer story--told in a kind of epic, sonorous meter, including the unreasonably high diction with which characters speak, and the various roles played by women and men throughout--whereby the warriors (and I loved that big, broad hint where Clive Owen's character in the parenthetical voiceover comments on Marv as a man out of his time, who should have been a berserker, a gladiator. Yeah.) and the women for whom they fight play their destined roles and pay their destined prices, and bring the dragon down. It's Beowulf in the Bronx, baby, and it riffs that with imagery, and with characterization, and with its very structure--vignettes, refrains, big wonks of gorgeous exposition, ridiculous High Church dialogue, graphic violence, unkillable monsters and all.
Verse and chorus. I could almost hear the stress count and the triple rhymes clashing and banging like blades at the back of my head.
I've seen some reviews who saw it as denatured noir, or as noir-pastiche, but it's not. It's noir being used as a mask and a shadow-boxing partner for a heroic epic of the antique sort--Sigurd, Beowulf, Gilgamesh, Roland, Arthur--the kind that can only end "and then the hero died under the dragon's corpse, and they bore him through the village on a platform of spears, wailing and tearing their hair."
For one thing, it's too damned idealistic to be noir.
In other words, I walked away satisfied.
Except for that ugly Jessica Alba thing.
Also, parenthetically, it's going to be amusing watching hobbits Fight The Typecast for the next ten, fifteen years. Just saying. Yeah.