Sharon Stone, pushing fifty, takes her femme fatale act to London, along with her sandblasted face and helium-inflated boobs. There is an exculpatory spirit of self-parody in it, but then there already was, in the 1992 predecessor. The thing about any sort of parody, self- or otherwise, is that it can only be good for a short while. If it was ever any good in the first place. And Stone's bisexual Bacall-speaking serial-killing best-selling suspense novelist was always pretty awful. The most that a new director (Michael Caton-Jones) can do is to keep her off screen for lengthy stretches. A ramrod-straight psychoanalyst (and lower-tier actor, David Morrissey) will be easily wrapped around her pinkie. A slouching moviegoer might be harder to reach. David Thewlis, Charlotte Rampling. (2006) — Duncan Shepherd
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