THE BACHELOR

Directed by Gary Sinyor. Starring Chris O'Donnell, Renee Zellweger

GOOD JAYSUS. I didn't think Chris O'Donnell could sink any lower, but he has, in spectacular style. Very possibly the single worst "romantic comedy" in the history of humankind, The Bachelor is a noxious, brain-dead, ultra-dull, offensive and staggeringly unamusing excuse for a movie, and those are the least of its sins.

Presumably the brainchild of Beelzebub or one of his minions, the film's primary purpose is to provide an excuse for the infernal O'Donnell (Fried Green Tomatoes, Batman Forever, Batman ... Robin, In Love and War) to resurrect his largely stillborn A-list career with an easy-option lame-brained date-flick, the only genre to which his non-existent talents are remotely suited. He co-produced the fucking thing, and it wouldn't surprise me to find out that he's the only actor alive who saw fit to appear in it.

Billed without any apparent irony as "a tale of love and its motivating factors", Bachelor's plot runs roughly thus: preening pansy Jimmy Shannon (O'Donnell) has spent three years embroiled in a remarkably boring relationship with personality-bypass girlfriend Anne (Zellweger) and all his mates are getting married, one by one. Our Jimmy values his freedom dearly and is deeply reluctant to tie the knot, but the pressures of commitment eventually overwhelm him - and over the course of a candlelit dinner, he comes up with the most stunningly cack-handed marriage proposal ever witnessed on screen, prompting the immediate dissolution of their relationship.

Back to the blissful world of bachelor life, then, until Jimmy's gnarled auld grandad shuffles off to meet his manufacturer, leaving behind a $100 million inheritance which Jimmy can only claim on condition he gets married before his 30th birthday, which is a mere matter of 24 hours away.

From this point onward, O'Donnell runs around like the most pathetic plonker you've ever clapped eyes on, frantically proposing to all of his exes in an obvious state of over-anxiety, insincerity dripping from his every word. They all tell him to go fuck himself before the papers are informed of his plight, and our hero becomes head-hunted by what seems to be every unattached female in town.

This culminates in an unbelievably excruciating finale, with thousands of white-dressed brides chasing him across the city, while the director choreographs the whole thing as if it were a military set-piece. Oh, how I laughed . . . One doesn't exactly need to be Albert Einstein to foresee the film's eventual conclusion, either. Renee Zellweger's performance is distressingly dire, and her characterisation is as sexist as they come - a twee, whiney, clingy commitment-freak who sets the cause of gender equality back by several decades with her whimpering demeanour and all-round lost-puppy weaklingness.

Co-producer Gary Segan, in a moment of madness, was quoted as saying that "Not many movies speak to men about romance. Guys will identify with Chris. He is incredibly funny in a way that's easy to relate to." Quite.

The Bachelor deservedly flopped in the States, and probably signals the ignominious end of both leads' bid for global megastardom - but don't count on it just yet.