Akerman's most overtly commercial project yet turns out to be a comedy without humour, a romance without affection. She laboriously hauls into place all the items on the specification: wacky premise (dancer Binoche pretending to be a psychiatrist, psychiatrist Hurt pretending to be a patient), best friends to whom the plot can be confided, a big cute dog. But it never begins to come to life. Hurt looks haggard, Binoche flutters prettily, a butterfly in a graveyard. The prevailing gloom is lifted only by some imaginative art direction.