Ads are calling Under the Tuscan Sun “fresh", "smart”, and “sexy". These were probably written by the same people who promised us that Gigli was “explosive fun”.

Loosely based on the best-selling travelogue by Frances Mayes and set along the transcendently golden, sun-washed Italian countryside, Diane Lane portrays Mayes as a newly divorced, heartbroken writer who decides on impulse to abandon all reservations and purchase a decrepit house in Tuscany. The rest is a painful amalgam of fluffy “humourous” moments and an even fluffier plot as Frances grapples with renovations, romance and culture shock. Impressively, this film somehow manages to drown in its shallowness.

Credit must be given where credit is due. The photography of this movie is beautifully done, and captures perfectly the warm glow of the Italian countryside. But a pretty setting does not a movie make. Alas, the entire film is like a lovely picture-postcard, the back of which is entirely blank. A great deal of the film is comprised of bland, sleep-inducing vignettes, serving only to fill space and to turn what could have been a charming 40-minute short into an insipid, tedious feature-length disaster. Audrey Wells once again proves that she can't direct to save her life (as if The Kid hadn't convinced us). This is nothing more than an imitation 'foreign art film' which constantly alludes to Fellini's La Dolce Vita, yet remains an uninspired hollywood saccharin-fest that's about as foreign and exotic as a Tater Tot.

Now an A-list actress with incredible talent, Diane Lane is beautiful yet accessible--a kind of everywoman to whom audiences are naturally drawn. Her subtle, convincing brand of acting, however, is wasted in this utterly ridiculous attempt at filmmaking. Lane is put in the unfortunate position of having to carry this entire load of chick-flick drivel on her (beautifully toned) shoulders.

Wells' first mistake was to assault the audience with a multitude of underdeveloped characters and annoying sub-plots, none of which we actually care about. The film felt like a bottomless pit of “romantic comedy” clichés: Frances enjoys a playful romp with an "Italian stallion" of a man, a walking stereotype in every sense. There is also the gay best friend, the ruggedly handsome workmen, the cute old lady, the young lovers, and the muse (Lindsay Duncan) who inspires within the protagonist a renewed sense of life. This muse, however, more closely resembles a drunk, aging sorority sister than a sensual woman of the world. Wells seems to enjoy hitting the audience over the head repeatedly with pseudo-religiosity and symbols that are as subtle as a Richard Simmons Jazzercize! video. For instance, Frances finds comfort in the image of the Virgin Mary over her bed, and a faucet that is at first clogged gushes joyously once Frances finds happiness.

The curtain finally closes with a neat tying-up of every possible loose end as Frances discovers love, solves all of her friends' problems, and throws a party in her newly renovated mansion. No doubt this rotting pile of estrogen-soaked garbage will be eagerly snapped up for a lengthy run on the "W" channel.

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