THE NEXT BEST THING

Directed by John Schlesinger. Starring Madonna, Rupert Everett)

Yes folks, it's here at last: the most eagerly-awaited film in all human history, starring the almighty Rupert Everett alongside his erstwhile pal Madonna in what aspires to be a serious issue-based drama about parenting, surrogacy, homosexuality and the nature of friendship.

The result - Next Best Thing - is every bit as embarrassing as you might expect, but it becomes perversely compelling in a car-crash kind of way the longer it goes on.

Next Best Thing's plot was conceived by one-time best mates Ciccone and Everett (who have tragically fallen out as a direct result of the film's Stateside critical savaging), and runs thus: odious fag-hag and yoga instructor Abbie (Madonna) lives with her stupendously effeminate best pal Robert (Rupert), is sick of men and their evil-inconsiderate-bastard ways, and starts coming over all clucky as the biological time-bomb ticks relentlessly away. Somehow, she manages to fuck her unequivocally gay housemate one night after a few drinks too many, and then waits a couple of weeks before announcing that she's pregnant (which she is) with his child (which it isn't). Saint-like Rupert enthusiastically accepts the challenge of fatherhood, and everything works beautifully until Sam (the kid) hits the age of six and starts firing one awkward question after another.

The kid is played by one Malcolm Stumpf, who is the single worst child actor you have ever clapped eyes on (with the shining exception of the monstrous little fuck who portrayed Anakin Skywalker in the last Star Wars epic) - but he does get to sink his teeth into some magnificent dialogue ("Daddy, are you a faggot?").

Rupert's character seems to be a fine father altogether, but trouble lurks just around the corner. Halfway through, this horrible super-tanned smoothie who looks like Lou Diamond Phillips turns up to sweep Madonna off her feet (and onto her back), complicating the blissful existence of our hero and the good-natured but frankly effeminate little creature whom he is wilfully turning into the minciest kid ever to stalk the face of the earth.

A bitter and recriminative custody battle ensues, which finds our beloved Rupert entering serious-actor mode, to grimly compelling effect. He fails miserably, but in fairness, the script stacks the odds against him hopelessly. Meanwhile, the great Madge cements her position as the most wooden actress who ever lived, and the only worthwhile thing to hold onto is the film's shamelessly overblown final stretch, with tearful breakdowns and impassioned courtroom sequences aplenty. It's a frightening amount of fun, in spite of itself, and I would almost implore everyone to go and see it - just be aware what you're letting yourself in for.

A modern art classic. Arguably.