Regular readers will know the problem we have with the cinematic genre most usually known as The Sort of Foreign Films You Can Safely Watch With Your Mum. You know the deal. Babette’s Feast. The Chorus. Life is Beautiful. The Quince Tree Sun. And so on. No dirty muckiness, no existential unrest and nothing to frighten the horses, just the sort of bucolic whimsy that goes down well with a glass of Pinot Grigio (or maybe a Stella, seeing as how those very beer ads faultlessly replicate the relentlessly cheery continental quirkiness of the genre). We can’t stand ’em as a rule – boil-washed, ironed-out dullness with hospital corners, mostly. We make an honourable exception for Cinema Paradiso, but even then we’re not quite sure why. But lest a reactionary gut dislike be in danger of watering down, the director of said film-based cute-in really blows the sickometer with this appalling, appalling confection in which Tim Roth grows up on an Atlantic cruise ship, plays the piano as it rolls around the ballroom, and generally acts the twit while overblown sets and Guinness advert-standard camerawork choke the screen with their pointless expense. Peter Vaughan’s in it at the start for a bit, but otherwise this is pure glutinous, congealed quaintness of the foulest stamp.