Nobody expected the sequel to the most guilty pleasure of 1992 to be a great work of art. But Sharon Stone and the makers of Basic Instinct 2 have taken trashy silliness to phallic new heights (about the height of the London 'Gherkin', anyway).

Stone returns as Catherine Tramell, the oversexed crime writer who loves to get the law community's knickers in a twist while wearing none herself. First it was the San Francisco PD, now it's the London Met's turn.

Barely a minute has elapsed and already we're wondering what happened to London's traffic and who's pressing the clutch of Catherine's sports car while she's being pleasured at high speed by a drugged-up footballer (Stan Collymore).

No matter, Stan's dead at the bottom of the Thames before we're through the opening credits and Catherine is hauled in for his murder by tenacious copper Roy Washburn (Thewlis, struggling to keep a straight face).

She's clearly guilty, but gets off thanks to the psychiatric assessment of ambitious shrink Michael Glass (the hopelessly miscast David Morrissey, filling Michael Douglas's saggy breeches as chief dupe).

Apparently, she's addicted to risk. The man's a genius.

But Catherine's not finished with the incredibly weak-willed Glass, digging up skeletons from his past and using them as the basis for her new book. That gets under his skin. But even brilliant psychiatrists can get into a pickle when they start to think with their loins.

Others drawn into her sticky web include Glass's colleague (Rampling), the hack journalist who’s boffing his ex-wife, and a madly-coiffed professor straight out of Monty Python. It's all getting very silly.

Filled with dialogue that would embarrass the Carry On team, each scene trumps the last for sheer daftness.

Take the discovery of Victim #1. While in the throes of passion, Glass is interrupted by a distress call from his ex. He turns up at a shabby flat to find a belt-strangled body trussed to a bed in bondage gear.

"What happened?" he asks. The man's an idiot.

There's no denying that Stone is a fine showcase for her personal trainer and make-up team. Yes, Shazza, you're nearly fifty and you're fit... but oh my god, don't you know it?

Sadly, Stone has turned an interesting character into a cartoon, all mischievous smirks, breathy taunts, slinky robes and cigarettes.

We're supposed to be writhing in ecstasy, not rolling in the aisles. This ridiculous romp is about as erotic as watching a tipsy aunt playing strip karaoke.

Elliott Noble