Catherine Breillat departs from the punishingly explicit and insight-free High Art porno movies she’s been making of late (Romance, Anatomy of Hell, Fat Girl), for a costume flick based on a scandalous nineteenth century novel.

The bad news is The Last Mistress is just as uninvolving as her other movies; a deathly slow story boasting as much passion as a wet crossing on the Calais ferry.

An opening title card informs us this is the century of Pierre Choderlos, the author of Dangerous Liaisons. But, where screen adaptations of that book have been witty, lively and erotic (and yes, that includes Cruel Intentions), The Last Mistress fails on every count.

Ryno de Marigny (Gap model mannequin Aattou) wishes to marry the delectable innocent Hermangarde (Mesquida), but must first convince her grandmother (Sarraute) that his days as a carefree libertine are over.

However, having bumped pelvises with his mistress of ten years, Vellini (Argento) that same day, de Marigny is still clearly ooh-la-la for his old flame, and in an extended flashback to granny his meeting with the Spanish firecracker is explained.

Does de Marigny speak the truth when he declares he will forsake all others for hot Hermangarde, or will he still nibble on Vellini’s paella?

It doesn’t matter. The flawlessly chiselled Aattou is a shop window dummy but with less charisma, and he is matched by a supporting cast similarly doped on hippo tranquilizers.

Aged workhorse Lonsdale and the always value for money Argento must inject zest with larger than life turns that often cause unintentional, but welcomed, giggles.

Breillat ensures feminist points seep through (serial male adulterers earning a living from servicing frustrated wives, a sexist wedding service), and puts in some rumpy-pumpy as a reward for audiences who have endured the wet-concrete paced first hour.

Visually, the film is as uninteresting as the similarly dour Don’t Touch the Axe, and now Breillat’s health is failing it may be time she hung-up her viewfinder.

Rob Daniel