The Coen brothers have once again managed to re-invent the bungled heist film. They’ve done it in Southwest slapstick (“Raising Arizona”), blood-spattered Midwest snow (“Fargo”), Raymond Chandler Los Angeles noir (“The Big Lebowski,”) and Cormac McCarthy Western (“No Country For Old Men”).

In “Burn After Reading,” writers/directors Joel and Ethan Coen take to the nation’s capitol with a cast of megawatt stars (Brad Pitt, George Clooney, Tilda Swinton, John Malkovich and constant presence Frances McDormand, Joel Coen’s wife) all of whom they cast as “shockingly dumb people” (Clooney’s words) whose lives collide after a CD of CIA analyst Malkovich’s research is lost at a gym. But instead of hyping up the tension and importance of it all for the audience, the Coens let the characters get worked up for our amusement: Bow-tied Malkovich, seething at Clooney, offers him goat cheese, pronouncing the French word chevre as “chev-wuh.” He boils when Clooney grins and worries about his “lactose reflux.”

Lovelorn McDormand takes a string of blind e-dates to a “Mamma Mia!”-scale wretched rom-com to see who will guffaw with her.

Elizabeth Marvel, Clooney’s wife, reads aloud her saccarine children’s books about Oliver the cat, who causes mischief among D.C. legislators.

Pitt, an exercise-enthused gym rat, slurps from a water bottle he cocks upside down like a gerbil. His blackmailing voice must be heard.

Swinton, evil as her Narnia Ice Queen, promises tongue depressor-induced pain in a too-brief glimpse into her life as a pediatrician.

And then, there’s the secret project Clooney’s been welding in his basement …

The Coens don’t get a free pass for creating my favorite movie of all time, Lebowski. “O Brother, Where Art Thou?” was like a sugar-comaed pitch to Disney — too precious, too purple and too cute to belong anywhere but a novelty theater with “old-timey” gaslights and waitresses with garters. Call that whole movie a fluke.

But one wants to say as little as possible about this latest effort, just like “No Country For Old Men.” Enjoy it like a good fresh “chev-wuh.”

In fact, the only thing bungled here is their big car chase a scene in which McDormand, driving a cheapo Ford Probe, zooms after Malkovich, driving an early ’80s turbodiesel Mercedes 300D. The Probe smashes into the Benz, partially crumpling its rear end. Had there been enough damage to do this kind of body damage to the tanklike frame of this workhorse, a car that can strip the bumper off a Mitsubishi and barely crack its turn light plastic, the Probe would look like a crunched can of Tab. I never understand why filmmakers destroy perfectly lovely cars (in the early ’80s, their dashes were lit with fiber optics and their bodies welded in 10,000 places) when they could have sent to the junkyard a truly deserving PT Cruiser.

It’s more than made up, though, by the use of proto-punk band The Fugs’ 1965 song “CIA Man” over the end credits. Finding one’s dad’s band (he wrote, howled and drummed) as the satisfying, smirking end to an awesome movie is a fine surprise indeed, and, since the song’s not on the soundtrack, a good excuse to move more copies of The Fugs First Album and get tunes like “Slum Goddess” and “I Couldn’t Get High” into people’s ears.

Best of all, the Coens have proved they are the masters of recreation. Like McDormand’s character’s lust for lipo, a tummy tuck, an eye lift and a boob job, they keep returning to their own body of work, dabbing with magic markers where they could tighten, flatten and improve. They have little risk of creating a monster and what they hope to perfect is already pretty awesome already.

Ashley O’Dell reviews movies that aren’t in theaters anymore.