Club Le Monde

For the uninitiated, clubbing epitomises the Devil at work. After watching Club Le Monde, you'll reappraise the situation. There is sex, drugs and garage sounds, but mostly it's about sad blokes who can't get girls and silly chicks who'll snog anything still standing.

Basically an ensemble picture, the plot bunny hops between star crossed lovers, a man who wants to have his penis pierced, two East End babes snorting coke in the lav, a nutter in shades who solo raves, two pink-cheeked public schoolboys from Tunbridge Wells, three noisy transvestites, an angry barmaid, the club owner having it away in his office and a sexually confused bouncer who wants to read law at uni.

The guys are self-conscious prats and the girls feisty. Sex is treated like a vodka chaser - don't sip it, swig it down - and the mood is one of loneliness. Banter is banal, or embarrassing, and the club a filthy basement where drinks cost an arm and a leg.

Is this a display of misguided innocence, or the manipulation of youth by unscrupulous entrepreneurs? It looks like a meeting of morons in badly lit rooms for the purpose of instant gratification. The club owner's cynicism has a dry sense of humour, which is a blessed relief after the whinging of unrequited boys and the farty giggles of drunk girls.

Lame acting accompanies a patchwork script. To compare this with the ultimate clubbing movie, Human Traffic, would be an insult. Club Le Monde lacks the wit, imagination and confidence of Justin Kerrigan's classic. Ironically, it goes soft at the climax, as the club owner talks you down: "The kids, they do some drugs, have a drink, have a dance, have a snog if they're lucky and go back home again. I mean, it's all pretty harmless."