In January 2002, noted metaphysician Marc Munden showed the Sundance Film Festival scientific proof that John Simm and Christina Ricci have no chemistry at all.

Frank's a librarian whose most defining personality trait is being British. Miranda's some American woman who sits outside the library and eats sushi. Eventually she deigns to have a drink with him. Eventually they have sex. And eventually she's revealed to have secrets, none of which explain why a woman who looks like Christina Ricci voluntarily spends so much time with a hapless goober.

Miranda is such a non-event, I only decided to write this review to give myself a linguistic challenge. What's a word for the opposite of chemistry? Simm and Ricci have...damn, this is a tough one. Repulsion? No, being repelled implies there's enough passion involved to inspire motion. Lukewarmness? No, that almost sounds pleasant.

There's a subplot involving corporate intrigue with Kyle MacLachlan as a shady businessman and John Hurt as another shady businessman. And some kind of crooked real estate deal or something? The story line was so weak, its signal died somewhere between my ear canal and my brain. Near the end of the movie, Frank offhandedly mentions a theft of five million quid that happened sometime earlier. That sounds like an important plot point, but I couldn't remember it.

How about indifference? Not quite. Saying Simm and Ricci have indifference sounds like they can still find the energy to shrug at each other.

I'm struggling to think of anything in Miranda that's even worth mocking. The sex scene made me a little queasy. If you want to know how many hairs are in John Simm's buttcrack, have your pencil and paper ready around the twenty-minute mark. The shot lasts so long, you won't even need to hit pause.

Wait! Inertia? Simm and Ricci have inertia. I guess that'll have to do.

3 out of 10.

Seen on Amazon Prime.