input: Let me be up-front, I like pulp. However it is like one of these "easier dives" that you see at the Olympics. It has to be marked down a little because it is easier to give a cheap thrill than drag you inside the world of, say, a late medieval painter.

This is only a two hour ghost train ride and while often (or more accurately, most of the time!) ludicrous and unlikely it always goes forward and it always entertains. If not always in the right way. Check out the memorable quotes section for a chuckle.

(However quite why it has been given a "Worst Film" Razzie is baffling - I bet there was a thousand worse films made in 2006, but this film got the treatment because it was viewed as a fashionable victim.)

Head case and popular novelist Catherine Tramell (Sharon Stone) is now over in London writing a novel, but death and destruction follow her around like flies follow a horse during a spot of hot weather. God heavens, she can't even visit the toilet without tripping over at least two corpses and I am sure if she opened the closet in her vast penthouse flat one would come tumbling out in grand Hollywood style.

Yes, clearly a very dangerous lady to be circling around (if you like your pulse to be above zero), but is she personally responsible? I mean why would anyone put two-and-two together and start thinking she might be a murderer? Equally her reaction to such accusations seems very casual. However is this just a personality disorder (some form of b/s risk addiction) or further evidence of her guilt?

For reasons I cannot fully understand or explain Stone is assigned to psychiatrist Michael Glass (David Morrissey) for evaluation rather than taken down the cells following another "lover found dead in mysterious circumstances". Thankfully (for Stone) he is far crazier than any of his patients and has a troubled home/working life of his own. In the blink of an eye the relationship changes from doctor to patient and then it is hard to tell because it all becomes something of a revolving blur.

In to this heady mix comes Roy Washburn (a strange Welsh sounding David Thewlis) who tells the love struck doctor - in his capacity of policeman of many years standing - that the lady in question may be dangerous. I mean, hold the front page. However Glass is now too glassy-eyed to realise or care. Like a dizzy boxer in front of a prime-time Mike Tyson he ripe for the big take-down, however not before finding that Washburn might have a secret or two himself.

Now comes Millena Gardosh (Charlotte Rampling) a fellow psychiatrist and a rare example (in this film) of someone who isn't barking mad or else a murder suspect. Presuming that she has actually watched the finished film she must look back with nostalgia when her underwear came off with the ease of Stone's - thankfully (for us at least) those days are long gone. Strangely she doesn't think Stone is quite as dangerous as everyone else - or else she doesn't think the script is good enough or her cheque large enough to do any proper acting.

After several laps of the track roughly outlined above it comes to a climax that mixes provincial rep with a cliff-hanger/twist, that while as farcical as the rest of the movie, gives us enough elbowroom for Basic Instinct 3 - highly unlikely this may be at this point in time.

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pos/neg ans: positive

input: Like wearing a hair shirt. Positively, absolutely, without a shadow of a doubt one of the worst movies ever. Pure torture. Zero stars out of ten. One long, tedious, labored, pretentious, self-conscious, theatrical, and leadenly artsy scene after another. Intended to be dreamlike and impressionistic, the soul bared, it is, instead, morose mush.

Half-naked, father and son grope and whisper to each other like lovers. "Homo-erotic" is the point, loud and clear. OK, so what?

Repeated more than once by the son is the line, supposedly lifted from "Lives of the Saints," "A father's love crucifies. A loving son lets himself be crucified." The parallel to god and his son, Christ, is heavy-handed, irrelevant, and bombastic, like everything else here.

Some reference points to the theme of Russian filiality: "Mother and Son" (1997); "The Return" (Andrei Zvyagvatsev, 2003); "Little Odessa" (James Gray,1994); Turgenev, "Fathers and Sons"; and, of course, Dostoyevsky, "The Brothers Karamazov."

Credits in English indicate intended international distribution, meaning that the excuse cannot be used that you have to be Russian to understand this mess.

This is nowhere near as accomplished or compelling as Sokurov's last, "Russian Ark" (2003).

As in his "Mother and Son," an equally powerful soporific, some scenes are filmed from distorting mirrors, though not as interestingly. The film is almost monochromatic, shot from start to finish through beige filters, making it as visually as it is dramatically numbing. A soft-focus haze only adds to the drugged feeling.

An annoying soundtrack drones on, never shuts up, like a tape loop. An old radio constantly plays in the background. Russian Romantic melancholy swells endlessly as "themes based on Tchaikovsky." The presence of a "sound designer" (Sergei Moshkov) signifies, of course, that all those irritating little sounds, radio static, noises, distortion, and such, are "designed."

It's hard to believe someone (Sergei Potepolov) actually wrote this thing. It all seems as arbitrary as traffic, as if improvised by bored actors, popping out of nothingness into nothingness.

Modern art has finally succeeded in signifying the thing without being the thing, so that what we behold is the idea of the idea, empty as a shell, but not even a shell, merely the idea of a shell. Could one ask for a better definition of decadence?

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input: While a pleasant enough musical, what stuck with me about this movie was the unexpected comedic chemistry between Basil Rathbone, as the has-been composer, and Oscar Levant as his assistant. Playing a high strung, distracted artistic type (a far cry from his more familiar roles as either menacing villains or the coolly logical Sherlock Holmes), Rathbone's character looks like he couldn't find his way out of bed without help. And that help is Starbuck, played with his usual droll humor by Oscar Levant. Upon hiring Crosby's character as his ghost song writer, Rathbone introduces him to Starbuck by saying, "He does all my thinking for me.", to which Levant responds, "Ah, it's only a part-time job." Of course this goes right past (or over) Rathbone, who's too busy fretting about where his next hit song will come from. As another reviewer said, who knew Rathbone could be so funny! Too bad he didn't have more opportunities to display his comedic talent.

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positive