So it goes with Woody Allen’s London films: you know they will be phoney and ridiculous but are powerless to change the inevitable.

McGregor and Farrell lend the film box office clout, but they’re the most unlikely brothers since Arnie and Danny DeVito teamed up for Twins, with accents that refuse to be tamed.

Ian (McGregor) is trapped in his father’s restaurant, but dreams of real-estate riches and a better life for him and his high maintenance actress girlfriend Angela (Atwell).

Meanwhile, Terry’s (Farrell) modest ambition is to set up home with golden-hearted barmaid Kate (Hawkins) and while away days on Cassandra’s Dream, a yacht he bought with money from a greyhound win.

Unfortunately, Terry loses £90,000 at cards, meaning he and Ian, who needs £100K for a property deal, must go cap in hand to visiting millionaire plastic surgeon Uncle Howard (Wilkinson).

But, Howard’s price is a murderous favour that will shatter the lives of both brothers.

Cassandra’s Dream is crippled by Allen’s weakness for London’s docklands, des-res houses and picture postcard weekend retreats.

His plastic world of bistro pubs and philosophising working classes is as artificial as anything served up in the risible Match Point, not helped by the now-typical thick-ear dialogue.

Duff direction, Philip Glass’ inappropriate score, and anchorless acting strangle any suspense (witness Wilkinson’s proposal in a deserted park), and a similar story was executed with more style and humanity in Sidney Lumet's Before the Devil Knows You're Dead, shot in Allen's beloved New York.

McGregor looks more uncomfortable here than in any Star Wars prequel, Atwell’s performance as a second-rate actress seems a little too natural and Hawkins does a dour impersonation of her Happy-Go-Lucky character.

Wilkinson attempts to rescue the film with reliably solid support, but Farrell holds the film together proving, along with In Bruges, that he is best playing losers.

A cheese dream movie, someone should run Allen out of (London) town.

Rob Daniel