Anna Karenina

With the authentic backdrop of imperial Russia at his disposal, writer/director Rose luxuriates in Viscontian sumptuousness, but marble and gold leaf do not by themselves a movie make. Both Marceau's Anna and Bean's Vronsky seem tentative in the extreme, especially towards each other. We don't believe their grand passion for a moment, and without much emotional involvement to usher us along, the philosophical progress of Molina's narrator is abandoned in favour of the sixth form inanities packing Rose's turgid script. Tchaikovsky's 'Pathétique' swells every time anyone so much as coughs.