Flattery lavished on Madonna, the muscle-bound yoga instructor: "fantastic body," "great lay," etc., and she can even straighten out (so to speak) her gay best friend, one tipsy evening. Et voilà, a bun in the oven. The ensuing complications ("Daddy, are you a faggot?") are concerned more to be liberal and enlightened than to be either comic or dramatic, much less credible. Director John Schlesinger, who once specialized in making Julie Christie look good, can do nothing for Madonna (cannot undo, for starters, what her personal trainer and cosmetic surgeon have done for her), and he is a long, long way from Sunday, Bloody Sunday. With Rupert Everett, Benjamin Bratt, Josef Sommer, Lynn Redgrave. (2000) — Duncan Shepherd
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