Gibson's chauvinist adman suffers electrocution by hairdryer and wakes up hearing voices subjecting him to torrents of abuse. It isn't schizophrenia. Hexed by the dryer, Nick Marshall can now read women's minds. Turns out they really do hate him. If the premise for Meyer's superficially good-looking romantic comedy stinks, it doesn't help that she's toeing the John Gray 'Mars and Venus' line of reductionist claptrap. There's precious little in these minds for anyone to read: waitress Lola (Tomei) is afraid of getting hurt again; new boss and putative ball-breaker Darcy (Hunt) is quite nice at heart. It's easy to take candy from these babies, and so Nick does, putting his new-found skill to work and poaching Darcy's ideas. So far, so insipid. Hunt's career woman is paper-thin, while Gibson trespasses awkwardly on Clooney territory, as he explores mysterious girly products, waxing his legs and trying on tights. After his transformation, irritation levels mount as 'feminisation' sets in. Alongside an automatic identification with gay men, Nick develops a taste for spilling his emotional guts and jumping headlong into the romantic mushpot.