Any film about the modern art world should be cynical, boorish, ironic, sarcastic and angry - and Boogie Woogie does this. It is irreverent and aims to show the shallowness and the intrigue; but fails.

What we get is kind of a mix of different threads, it's hard just to see why she's sleeping with him, who is sleeping with her and she's sleeping with her (too) etc; we get video installations and linear stories at the same time, and it's meant to be about voyeurism etc; but with a great cast, it just fails to push to the ridiculous and aims instead to be a film about relationships, all of them ugly and meaningless.

The women come off far better than the men here, and Joanna Lumley in particular, otherwise there's just no gravitas here whatsoever, which may be the point, but it makes for very shallow viewing.

All in all, just unenjoyable, only occasionally is the humor really on spot and truly spiteful, mostly it's just ranting or something....

If art and relationships are your number one thing you might enjoy this - we couldn't find either here....

With its many stars and connections eminently qualified to speak about the art scene, I was well-primed to enjoy Boogie Woogie to the utmost.

It's based on a successful novel by author and screenwriter Danny Moynihan. The movie is a sexy black comedy set amid the hustle-bustle of fine art acquisition, dealers and galleries with concomitant affairs, in contemporary London. Characters slyly draw on real people. Critics and art experts have consequently been falling over themselves to show their knowledge of closely-linked actual persons and events. Whatever the disclaimer says.

Boogie Woogie has gone to great lengths for authenticity. Real masterpieces are cleverly interwoven with fictions. Even the title work is so closely allied to the real thing that it makes you wonder. (Boogie Woogie is the name of a series of prized paintings by Mondrain, and the central artwork in the film is an accurately fictionalised piece, only destroyed afterwards at the request of Mondrain's Estate).

Dealer and gallery owner, Art Spindle (Danny Huston), wants 'Boogie-Woogie.' A painting he covets above all else. Its current owner, Alfred Rhinegold (played by Christopher Lee), is desperately ill. Rhinegold's wife (Joanna Lumley) wants to up the ante by encouraging rival bidders. Especially Bob Maclestone, a collector incisively played by Stellan Skarsgard. The plot is further complicated by everyone jumping into bed with temptingly wrong people and for deliciously wrong reasons. The BBFC, after a spoiler alert, goes into not inconsiderable detail over the somewhat singular sexual content. So I won't. Fans of funky erotic subject matter have no fear: you shall find out for yourselves.

Boogie Woogie brims over with great actors. Nobody needs to be ashamed of performances here, with or without clothes. They are cast in great roles and throw themselves into performances in a way that belies their love of art and desire for the picture to succeed. And so if its reach is slightly greater than its grasp, I nevertheless feel a bit uncomfortable explaining why it doesn't put woogie back into my boogie.

Comedy, like abstract art, is to an extent subjective. But Boogie Woogie tilts at both windmills without embracing either. 'Ripping the lid off the art world,' is a great and noble concept. But the result here, for one reason or another, is uneven, woefully ill-judged, and a squandering of talent that borders on sacrilege. Gags aren't very funny, it doesn't arouse our passion for art, and most of the 'in' references are pointlessly unintelligible to anyone not already familiar with finer details of the respective power-brokers' sex lives.

Danny Moynihan has relocated the story of his novel from New York to London: this is where some of the problems arise. Lines sound inauthentic, unconvincing, as if desperately trying to persuade us that this is Real Cockney Art-World. Subtler tones of any backstory also seem damaged. Mondrian's last painting, for instance, 'Broadway Boogie Woogie,' represents the restless motion of Manhattan. Its grid-like patterns suggest New York's ordered chaos. It has a prominent yellow which is the yellow of New York taxicabs. And a metaphor to jazz in the title echoes the movement and rhythm that are seen as analogous to Mondrian's painted marks. There are even deeper studies about the art referred to, which relate to the nature of perception, but the film seems to have lost these at the word go. Any eponymous substance has long been abandoned before such thoughts could kick in.

We are, however, treated to a constant (and at times intrusive) jazz soundtrack. And much arty chat. All delivered at a speed guaranteed not to detract from the sight of Gemma Atkinson (or Gillian Anderson) treating us to glimpses of their more tangible assets. As both Moynihan and director Duncan Ward have been intimately involved with art, not to mention Damien Hirst being present as consultant, one might be forgiven for wanting a little more meat on this bone than provided by the purely, if you'll excuse me, pornographic aspects of such a pun.

Joanna Lumley reprises some of the flavour from her hit TV series, Absolutely Fabulous. The familiar clash of taste and gobbiness is in full flow. But whereas Ab Fab scored with visual gags and highly developed comic characters, Boogie Woogie's attempt to lampoon style-over-substance seems injudicious and hollow. Whereas Mondrian's actual work bristles with luminous colour, the film tries too hard to be bright and ends up lacklustre. In a word, inadequate to the task. Leading parts are not charismatic enough to command or sustain appeal for the full hour and a half, even with such great actors. Timing of jokes seems rehearsed rather than spontaneous. The overall effect is ironically artificial.

One of the best things about Boogie Woogie is that it might inspire you, as it inspired me, to read the original novel. The book is not everyone's cup of tea – but it is undoubtedly original, well-written, quite often shocking, and does everything the movie set out to do and doesn't.

Strangely, for a film I have to admit I didn't like very much, I am strongly drawn to watching it again. I want to imagine it as it could have been. Should have been. A film that makes us care about art. Laugh about the shenanigans. Feel shocked or excited by sex and drugs and jazz. And I desperately, desperately, want to see a note at the end-credits that reassures me: "No actors were harmed in the making of this train wreck." Boogie Woogie is an oddity. Not quite bad enough to be good, and not good enough to wholeheartedly recommendable. But, like a painting where the oils contained the wrong amount of linseed, the effort that has gone into its ill-fated brushstrokes is nevertheless sadly commendable.

Featuring a de-fanged Christopher Lee (in one of his final roles) as a stubborn but dying owner of a Mondrian painting worth up to $30 million, and Mulder-less Gillian Anderson (whose files here are more likely to be triple than single "X"), along with the passing of the roller skates from infamous BOOGIE NIGHTS "roller girl" Heather Graham to on-screen skating newbie Amanda Seyfried, director Duncan Ward's ensemble flick BOOGIE WOOGIE has features bound to intrigue nearly everyone. Modern art credits for movie usage include Jake & Dinos Chapman, Gary Hume, Constantin Brancusi, Banksy, Gavin Turk, Danny Moynihan, Jessica Craig Martin, Faile, Sarah Lucas, Michael Landy, Robert Gordon McHaig III, Sam Taylor-Wood, and Jim Lambie--all curated by Damien Hirst. Worth the price of admission is the verbal deconstruction of a divorcing couple's collection, including pieces by Picasso, Smith, Kelly, Judd, Flavin, Brancusi, Warhol, Beuys, Hockney, Magritte, Struth, Giacometti, Lucas, Katz, Mapplethorpe, Bacon, Emin, Currin, Landy, Hirst, Rusche, Barney, Dogan, and "the Jew in the library," accomplished through inter-cut parallel scenes between the wife and her thrice-divorced confidante, counterpointed by the conversation between the husband and his divorce lawyer. Plus there's nude chicks.