A Midsummer Night's Dream

A story of star-crossed lovers, fairies and a weaver with the head of a donkey needs something more than Hollywood's help to stop it looking silly. Michael Hoffman has decided to update the Elizabethan romantic comedy to turn-of-the-century, for no good reason other than as an excuse to introduce bicycles, and change the venue from ancient Greece to Tuscany where locals speak Italian and everyone else Shakespearean verse.

The enchanted forest resembles a set from Hook and the fairies have stick-on wings and behave like hand maidens. Michelle Pfeiffer, as the fairy queen, spends the whole time in bed, while Rupert Everett, as the fairy king, lounges about half-dressed, looking bored.

Stanley Tucci's Puck has Darth Maul knobbles on his head and is allowed to play with the bikes. As for the amateur thespians who use the forest as rehearsal space for the play they are to perform at the Duke's wedding, only Bottom the Weaver has any role to speak of and Kevin Kline makes the most of it. In fact, he steals the film. Not difficult, under the circumstances.

The lovers, Christian Bale and Dominic West, are either wet or laddish. The objects of their desire, Calista Flockhart and Anna Friel, are neurotic and bouncy. The Duke (David Strathairn) is pompous and his beautiful new wife (Sophie Marceau) has nothing to do.

This is one of those films where you wait for someone to fall off a horse. They don't. You fall asleep, instead.