Imagine a reverent researcher accidentally spilling coffee onto an original copy of The Declaration of Independence. Sure, the document is now imperfect, but does the stain affect its meaning or what it stands for?

Well, let’s just say director Zack Snyder is a metaphorical butterfingers.

In translating Alan Moore’s prestigious “Watchmen” onto the screen, Snyder’s respect for the graphic novel results in a film that lovingly retains the bleak messages of the original.

But whether it was too much enthusiasm or a lapse into “300″ mentality, Snyder makes some missteps that leave this tribute forever an ugly stepsister to Moore’s 1986 masterpiece.

At a dense two hours and 43 minutes, this anti-superhero superhero movie will most likely lose newcomers to the finer details of the comic’s mythology. Fans, however, will appreciate the painstakingly recreated winks in their direction.

In a large nutshell, “Watchmen” paints an alternative 1985 in which the United States wins the Vietnam War thanks to the efforts of Dr. Manhattan (Billy Crudup), a withdrawn demi-god, and The Comedian (Jeffrey Dean Morgan), a cynical sociopath.

The victory fuels a global tensions and masked vigilantes are eventually outlawed. The film traces the lives of six ex-heroes who once banded together under the name Watchmen.

Now, these aren’t your Clark Kents and Diana Princes. We have the schlubby, meek Nite Owl (Patrick Wilson); the Silk Spectre (Malin Akerman), a vixen with mommy issues; the vain Ozymandias (Matthew Goode) and the uncompromising, psychotic Rorschach (Jackie Earle Haley).

When it appears that someone is targeting them one by one, these has-beens don their masks again to prevent a larger sinister plot.

The acting talent runs the gamut from dazzling to dull. Wilson’s Nite Owl immediately endears, and Haley’s Rorschach emerges as the anti-hero of the hour with his growling whisper and boiling rage. However, a flat performance renders Akerman into little more than a walking fantasy in yellow and black latex.

Opening strong with a trans-generational montage to Bob Dylan’s “The Times They Are A-Changin’,” Synder does not disappoint with thought-out frames and rich colors.

But the glaringly X-rated tendencies and sometimes laughable music choices leave much wanting. I mean, how necessary is it to have full-frontal blue male nudity? And Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah” for a sex scene, really?