Martha Fiennes apes PT Anderson with this muddled satire about a group of self-absorbed Londoners whose affluence offers no defence against the vicissitudes of modern life. Without a central focus, however, it’s tricky to know where our sympathies should lie. With Damien Lewis’ cocky young politician, about to be exposed by journo pal Ben Chaplin? With bored wife Kristin Scott Thomas, too obsessed with her imminent boob job to notice the looks her gay friend (the director’s brother Ralph) has been giving her neglected son? Or ailing whore Penélope Cruz, too ill to fend off soppy social worker Rhys Ifans? Given the implausible contrivances that link these disparate protagonists, though, it’s hard to care much about any of them in a chilly drama whose sleek aesthetic masks a hollow soul.
