Greenwich Mean Time

A "YOOF" movie, as they call it over the water, GMT is essentially a retread of Human Traffic without any of the charm. I wanted to like it, and I tried fairly hard, but it just couldn't be done.

The chief problem: its characters are all, without exception, shallow and soulless dickheads with whom it is totally impossible to empathise. They're a gang of twentysomething Sarf Londoners who form a band, specialising in a truly awful freeform-jazz/crack- jungle hybrid.

If Greenwich Mean Time had any awareness of its own shallowness, it would have gone for laughs and been a hell of a lot more enjoyable. Instead, it makes the terminal mistake of aiming for the heart-strings.

The plot: GMT (the band's name) are on their way to worldwide renown and superstardom (or so they seem to think) when their progress is interrupted by a motorcycle accident which leaves Charlie (Alec Newman) paralysed in hospital in a vegetative state with various things hanging out of his brain to keep him alive. Our sympathy for him is slightly diminished by the fact that he has established himself to be a complete wanker before the accident actually happens, and his uncanny facial resemblance to David Beckham doesn't help.

The only remotely involving sub-plot concerns Bean (Benjamin Waters), the most sensitive, intense and idealistic of the troupe, who plummets into a frightening state of crack addiction over the course of the film's duration, and possesses more spirit than all his mates put together.

Waters essays the character with such driven intensity and doomed passion that you're left in no doubt we'll see him again.

The excellent Talvin Singh crops up towards the end for a live scene when the band begin to 'make it', but he seems to be there for the laugh, and the audience is beyond caring by that stage. GMT isn't exactly a bad film - it's far too complex to dismiss out of hand - but it's extremely difficult to like, no matter how good a mood you're in.