Poor Sylvia Miles slips from the ladder's lowest rung (a stint on the soap opera "One Life to Live") and falls helplessly into this dumpster of a dud, struggling in vain to make seem authentic her part in what one might imagine was a high school boy's overnight assignment to write about the intricacies of the adult female's heart -- without his mom's help. Some of the cast appear to harbor talent, they do try to make the best of things, but the dialogue is featherweight and hackneyed, there's simply nothing of the material that might let these actors shine convincingly for more than a bit here and there. Like the script, the direction is timid, befuddling. The staging feels palsied, the visuals are ordinary/corny. There were a few dashes of spice; unfortunately, they arose not from the screen but in the form of an amusing variety of the festival audience's snickers and heavy sighs.
Review of Confessions of a Florist
