Based on a novel sending up the New York art scene of the 1990s, Duncan Ward's disastrous comedy is another example of what I once dubbed "flatire", flattery posing as satire, in this case directed at the contemporary London art world. Its characters include an unscrupulous American dealer (Danny Huston, alternately spluttering with rage and exploding with crafty chuckles); a rich old connoisseur with the eponymous pre-war Mondrian everyone covets; a cockney lesbian turning her louche life into a vast, Emin-style installation; and an adulterous couple (Gillian Anderson, Stellan Skarsgård) with art-packed residences from Aspen to Tuscany.

The movie is witless and crude, neither brashly comic enough to be Carry On Saatchi, nor sufficiently observant in a moral way to be a Jonsonian comedy of Hoxton humours. Almost every painter and sculptor in London has lent work for inclusion in this bonfire of vanities.