Imagine Hugh Grant barking orders on one of Nelson's flagships or slashing at man-eating tigers while dressed in little more than a leather skirt. Doesn't quite work, does it?

Sadly, nor does A Good Year, which reverses those scenarios by having Hollywood’s gruffest gladiator, master and commander toil in the type of role Grant can do in his sleep.

Greedy, underhand, and impossibly smooth, Max Skinner (Crowe) is a complete banker, lording it over the Stock Exchange from the London Gherkin.

Since money comes to money, Max learns that he is now the owner of the picturesque Provençal estate where he was raised by his recently deceased Uncle Henry (the unsurprisingly excellent Finney).

Flashbacks reveal that Henry was the archetypal bon viveur, teaching precocious young Max (Charlie And The Chocolate Factory’s Freddie Highmore) the virtues of slowing down and smelling the roses. They have been forgotten.

Intending to make a quick sale while on forced leave from work (he's underhand, remember?), he encounters a few problems.

The place is falling apart, most of the wine is undrinkable, and a young Californian (Abbie Cornish) shows up, claiming to be Henry's illegitimate daughter and, therefore, rightful heir.

And Max is fickle (Middlesex and Somerset cricket sweaters?!). Money was always his first love, but he finds himself swayed by the charms of hard-to-get local Fanny Chanel (Cotillard)...

The irony of this slight fish-out-of-water tale is that the screenwriter, director and star are all, well, fish out of water.

Scott has mastered many genres - and nobody could compose a more painterly image of Provence - but he simply does not have the lightness of touch for this kind of material.

While the Anglo-French ribbing will go down well on these shores, scripter Marc Klein struggles to attune his American ear to Mayle's very English wit. The verbal exchanges are often awkward and the slapstick is incredibly tired.

Hold on to your sides as the city slicker is made to look foolish by being made to drive a silly little car, has a defiant French mutt pee on his shoes and flails around in a pool of mud.

It all pans out in a prettily predictable fashion and Crowe deserves credit for trying to showcase his lighter side, but you half-expect him to tear off his shirt at any stage and roar "Are you not entertained?!"

He might not like the answer.

Elliott Noble