As far as American remakes go, the most benevolent word I can muster is … mundane. One needs only to reference this year’s borderline-racist remake of England’s “Death at a Funeral” to make the case that American remakes have a shaky history at best. With the upcoming release of “Let Me In,” the remake of the 2008 Swedish film “Let the Right One In,” this problem of the remake rears its ugly and, like Hercules’ Hydra, irrepressible head once again.

For those unfamiliar with the Swedish original, the plot is akin to “Twilight” but sans the skin shimmer, teenage hormones and general lack of any redeeming quality. Instead, the story hinges on the profound connection between two twelve-year-olds – one a vampire and the other, an introverted boy named Oskar. Subtle and richly nuanced, the film explores the loneliness of that moment in life when one has left childhood but awaits adolescence with anxiety and ignorance. Less about the seduction and glamour with which vampirism has recently become associated, “Let the Right One In” explored the brutal reality of a lifestyle beset by desperation and dependence.

What then does the 2010 remake add to an already lauded and innovative film? Helmed by “Cloverfield” director Matt Reeves, the film lingers in the realm of its original conceit. Set in Los Alamos, New Mexico instead of the frigid fringe of Scandinavia, the frozen element of a snow-capped atmosphere hasn’t changed, and neither has anything else for that matter. From the apartment where Owen lives to the pool where the penultimate scene occurs, the sets and scenes are virtually identical. Save the switch to English, the pop and sizzle of some ’80s kitsch, and the dramatic name change from Oskar to Owen, the film is nowhere near a novel take on the original. Instead, it’s just mere transcription.

In a recent interview, director Matt Reeves admitted to finding the adaptation process “daunting” when the idea of an American remake was pitched. To achieve an American perspective, ’80s Sweden is exchanged for an ’80s America filled with the looming presence of fear-monger Ronald Reagan, the sexual ambiguity of a David Bowie or Boy George and the requisite presence of video arcades. Though the androgynous element of a Bowie or Boy George underlines the sexual confusion experienced by Owen and Chloe Grace Moretz’s Abby, what trickles down (yes, a Reaganomics pun) is more a nostalgic indulgence than any attempt at constructive commentary.

What does make the film redeemable is the virtuosity of its actors. The quality of Chloe Grace Moretz, Kodi Smit-McPhee and Richard Jenkins’ evocation of pathos is what anchors the film in a sea of familiarity. The vulnerability Smit-McPhee exudes showcases not only the sadness of his particular situation – an only child and victim of relentless bullying ­- but the sadness of a particular moment in a child’s life. His suffering eclipses this in-between age, where social distress and the physical tumult of burgeoning puberty run rampant.

Though the anxiety of impending adolescence may translate well from Sweden to America, the question of this translation’s necessity looms just as the contrived shots of Reagan do within the film. In an age where vampires have permeated the cultural zeitgeist with unceasing ferocity, the American remake has become just as ubiquitous, mediocre and, like “Let Me In,” utterly redundant.