It's unclear, outside of a mounting sense of irrelevance and career inertia, what prompted Paul Hogan to revive his Crocodile Dundee franchise 13 years after the last installment. Capitalizing on the popularity of crocodile hunter Steve Irwin, perhaps? As the main financier (and recipient of profits) of the first movies, Hogan certainly didn't need whatever money it might scrape up. Still, as much as the decision would seem to invite vicious barbs, Crocodile Dundee in Los Angeles is not nearly the laughingstock it could have been, perhaps because it has the sense not to try very hard, in keeping with the laid-back persona of the title character. Played-out franchises tend to embarrass themselves by slipping into vulgar caricature, but this third Dundee movie is notable for how quiet it is, how content to amble along at the slow pace of the old-school culture clashes that launched the series. While this is no reason to recommend the movie, especially when the frittered time forces a hasty conclusion, it does give the film some sense of being above the fray. More wrinkled, but essentially no worse for the wear, Hogan has some fun with his own status as part of an old order of extinct animal hunters and decidedly 20th century male role models. Unfortunately, the movie itself also retains this ancient mind set, leaving intrepid reporter Linda Kozlowski little to do but try to avoid looking old, while Hogan solves her newspaper investigation. He has to do something with the nearest croc a good 6,000 miles away.