Closer, the new film from Mike Nichols, arrives with a fanfare of publicity likening it to his earlier work such as Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?; unfortunately it would be more happily classified with his more recent work – such as Wolf.

Closer's plot involves two American women – a photographer (Julia Roberts) and a stripper (Natalie Portman) – who loiter around London sleeping with two quite different but equally unalluring men (played by Jude Law and Clive Owen). Although it employs a range of locations, the film remains bound by its stage origins: overwrought dialogue, unnecessarily high emotions, and an incestuously small cast (it seems amazing that in a city the size of London these two ladies can find more suitable partners!)

Despite the slew of 'best actor' nominations, the only person worth watching here is Jude Law. His turn as a shuffling, unconfident obit writer reminds us of his range – Law is a talented actor, not just a pretty one. Clive Owen, however, appears to be neither. Following his mumbling King Arthur, he once again delivers his lines as if through ill-fitting false teeth.

Closer fades from the mind like an argument overheard on the bus. All that remains is a vague recollection of Clive Owen describing explicit sexual acts as if they were on the menu at a chip shop, and the hazy but less distressing image of Natalie Portman decked out in a frightwig and thong.

Clovis