Going for bust with Jennifer

Sigourney Weaver, still hot at fifty-something, and Jennifer Love Hewitt, scorchio, play a mother and daughter who take rich men to the cleaners. It goes like this: Weaver plays virginal cutey-pie and gets the mark to the altar. Then, before the groom can quench his ardour, a disguised Love Hewitt in a spray-on dress leans over in front of the sap, her moist tongue dancing a quadrille on her drooping lower lip. Snakes alive, the poor man can't help himself. Enter Sigourney, screaming blue alimony. You see, it's not called a bust for nothing.

So far, very entertaining, especially in a clutch of sunny locations. But where's the film's focus? Not Sigourney - too old, even with a lift. Not Gene Hackman, though he's a treat as the duo's very last job - an emphysemic tobacco billionaire whose red nose, cigarette holder and curmudgeonly manner are an enjoyable nod to W.C. Fields. Not Ray Liotta either - though, having recently enjoyed having his brains spooned out by Hannibal Lecter, Ray has regained just enough star status to force an unnecessary extra storyline on the film. Result: the movie overbalances like a chesty girl without a rucksack.

Which leads us to the real star of the film - Jennifer's breasts, of course. Which is not to deny the role of good support, of course.

Verdict: Wunderbra.

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