REVIEWED - ME AND YOU AND EVERYONE WE KNOW: Comfortably beating the Jet Li punch-up reviewed elsewhere to the title of most cliched genre picture of the week we have Miranda July's achingly pretentious attempt to cram together all the most irritating tropes of oh-the-emptiness-of-modernity film-making into one grisly package.

Me and You and Everyone We Know, whose vaulting title alone barks out warnings, won an award at Sundance for "originality of vision". They were having a laugh, weren't they?

Focusing most closely on the relationship between a confused conceptual artist (the drippy Ms July herself) and a creepy shoe salesmen (John Hawkes, rather good), the film wanders about a Los Angeles suburb in search of Solondzian oddities. You know the sort of thing. This child is obsessed with ASCII art. This little creature collects consumer goods in a hope chest. This teenager and her friend persuade a neighbour to assist them in settling an argument as to who gives the best blowjobs. That the director believes these plot turns to be so surprising adds a poignant sadness to their deadening familiarity.

July is quite well known in the art world, and some of the vignettes - skilfully scored to electronic throbs and bleeps - would be reasonably tolerable if displayed in a gallery. In such circumstances the hilarious "director's statement" would, presumably, appear in the catalogue. "Minute movements that do occur are brought about by the character's [sic] ability to withstand a moment, to remain open in the face of shit," Miranda spouts. You have been warned.