Mrs Henderson Presents

The name of their company is no longer Miramax, but the greasy fingerprints still belong to the Weinsteins. And, notwithstanding its atrocious title, Mrs. Henderson Presents has popped out of The Weinstein Company with "crowd pleaser" stenciled on its DNA. Over the next few weeks, as Harvey himself steers Judi Dench through her latest Oscar campaign, we'll have plenty of opportunity to reflect on the corpulent mogul's obsession with treacly narrative and European-flavored Oscar bait (Proof, Finding Neverland, Shakespeare In Love, Chocolat). We may also have time to wonder what compelled director Stephen Frears to abandon the integrity of a lifetime to become a Weinstein Company tool.

Like her recent, over-the-top cameo in Pride & Prejudice, Dench's portrayal of real-life theatre maven Laura Henderson is the kind of cabaret turn she's been replicating for decades. Though, Lord knows, she must get tired of churning out all those cultured, condescending vowels and imperious looks, no one does it better; and when we first meet the newly widowed Laura she's already bored with being 70-ish and single. A similarly situated friend, Lady Conway (Thelma Barlow), winkingly suggests retail or nooky therapy - the thought of Dame Judi with a "luvah" is one I'd rather not entertain - but neither attracts. Embroidery and charity work are equally unfulfilling. "In India there were always people to look down on," sighs Laura, wistfully recalling the pleasures of her colonial past.

She soon discovers that between-the-wars Britain has plenty of people to look down on, chief among them a carefully-coiffed, unemployed theatre impresario named Vivian Van Damm (a delightful Bob Hoskins), whose possible Jewish heritage Laura is willing to overlook. "One must make do," she decides, hiring him to run the crumbling theatre she has impulsively purchased on Soho's Great Windmill Street. After the obligatory audition/rehearsal sequence, the Windmill is soon cleaning the clock of the competition with nonstop musical revues, while Laura and Vivian ("VD" to his friends) perfect their odd-couple vibe offstage. But when revenue falls, due to unprincipled imitators, Laura and Viv must learn what every good businessman has tattooed on his testicles: there isn't a bottom line on earth that can't be improved by a nice pair of knockers.

Following the lead of its Paris namesake, the Moulin Rouge, the revivified Windmill stages cheesy tableaux vivants, filled with fleshy young girls posing artfully in heavy gilt frames. With a girlish mix of flirting and flattery, Laura persuades the British censor (a befuddled Christopher Guest) to look the other way, so long as the girls are immobile - or as immobile as their abundant assets can ever be - and in record time the Windmill's appreciative audience has returned, heavily supplemented by stamping soldiers. Hitler is waiting in the wings, but the movie is far more concerned with the perky naughty bits onstage and the happy grins in the front row.

Mrs Henderson Presents is an exceptionally well-made period piece, trading in threadbare cliches and upper-class puffery. Choosing light over dark on every page, Martin Sherman's screenplay is heavy on the frivolity and easy on the tragedy, a brush-away-the-tears-and-let's-get-on-with-it tramp of exhausting gaiety. Bombing raids and unwanted pregnancies are hastily swept under the rug as Sherman erects the scenery for Dench to chew: a silly, old-timer crush that comes out of nowhere and an embarrassing subplot requiring the regal Laura to shuffle around in geisha drag. So loony is her behaviour it almost sinks the film's one great Pathos Moment - during which we're reminded that the title of Dame is not bestowed on just any old British actress (Catherine Zeta-Jones' expectations notwithstanding).

Filled with vintage songs and unadventurous camerawork (the framing is strictly made-for-TV), Mrs Henderson Presents is so far from the blue-collar grit of Frears' previous films that it plays like the anti-Dirty Pretty Things, pandering to British stereotypes instead of blowing them up. While there's no denying his professionalism, it's sad to see the edgy director of My Beautiful Laundrette and Liam embracing a confection that wants us to giggle at multiple shots of bare boobs. More artistically mysterious - and rather less welcome - is the single shot of Hoskins' flaccid penis. Perhaps it's auditioning for the sequel.