BEDAZZLED

BEDAZZLED

Directed by Harold Ramis. Starring Liz Hurley, Brendan Fraser

“Liz Hurley is the Devil!” declared a recent issue of Empire magazine, in a rare display of insight and wisdom. Their sentiments are shared by many thousands of struggling Hollywood actors, whose revulsion at Hurley’s brazenly selfish strikebreaking has rendered her a virtual pariah in her adopted neck of the woods. Thus, Bedazzled – a remake of the 1967 Peter Cook/Dudley Moore caper – almost certainly represents Hurley’s last shot at infamy before she is forced to return to Blighty to tour the pantomine-and-sitcom circuit as a sort of third-millennium Barbara Windsor.

It’s ideally cast, if not a whole lot else – Hurley is not exactly out of character, replete with industrial-strength mascara and six-inch ball-busting high-heels. She’s pitted opposite the unfailingly amiable screen presence of wide-eyed, puppy-dog, All-American uber-jock Brendan Fraser (George of the Jungle, The Mummy) and, in general, the dynamic of the set-up cannot be faulted. Unfortunately, it never really fulfils its comic possibilities.

The plot’s straightforward stuff: Fraser sells his soul to Beelzebub in exchange for a lusty temptress (haven’t we all?) who will grant him seven wishes. All are granted, and all turn out to be more trouble than they’re worth. You want to be rich and powerful? No problem, we can turn you into a Colombian drug baron. Oh, you wanted to be president of the USA? Sure, you can be Abe Lincoln on the night of his assassination.

The plot is inspired, but since it’s merely a spin on the age-old Faust yarn, the makers can hardly claim any of the credit. More disappointingly, the script lacks wit or style of any description, even when it attempts to be funny (Fraser: “I think you’re hot”, Hurley: “Baby, you have no idea”). Fraser is an acceptable if unmemorable comic actor, but poor Hurley is simply ridiculous, debasing herself in a variety of skimpy designer outfits and trying so hard to do ‘smouldering’ that you fear she might spontaneously combust.

Director and former Playboy co-editor Ramis (Multplicity, Analyse This) lacks the nerve to steer it out of gentle-comedy mode, and a good three or four of the film’s key Seven Sketches simply aren’t funny.

Hurley is finished as any sort of Hollywood force. A huge loss, you will all agree.