When I told my colleague Mark Asch that I was thinking of seeing this film based partly on the fact that one of my favorite current directors, Alexander Payne, was executive producing, he had some prescient advice — “don’t get burned.” This is a film ostensibly about something other than its own failure, but I remain unconvinced. Heather Graham’s ditziness is so past vertical your jaw will drop in amazement, while the timing and tenor of the dialogue is so poorly delivered it’s as if the director had Asberger’s Syndrome. Molly Shannon and Alan Cumming do their valiant best as supporting players to save the picture in what is a surprisingly palatable third act, given what precedes it. But by then I had spent the first hour writhing in my seat, physically discomfited by what flickered before my eyes, so it was much too little, much too late.
Opens February 23