Directed by Ryan Murphy. Starring Julia Roberts, Billy Crudup, Viola Davis, James Franco, Javier Bardem PG cert, gen release, 133 mins

JUST CALL us Millie Tant and slap the word ‘Fume!’ across our brow.

Based on Elizabeth Gilbert's bestselling memoir of the same name, this odious, shapeless film marks a new low in the sorry recent history of the woman's picture. A chilling depiction of snivelling narcissism, à la carte spirituality and all manner of unnecessarily bourgeois extravagances, Eat Pray Loveis enough to make one pine for the comparatively deep and enlightened denizens of Sex and the City.

At 32, Liz (Julia Roberts), our simpering heroine, seems to have it all: a sat-upon husband (Billy Crudup), a glamorous career as a travel writer, and a salubrious home. So why is she so desperately unhappy? Sniff.

She soon sets about improving her lot by accepting diluted Hinduism as her personal saviour, demanding a divorce, and taking up with James Franco. So why is she still so desperately unhappy? Sob.

Several neurotic outbursts later, Liz sets out on a year-long voyage to Italy, where stereotypes gesture with their hands and pontificate on the virtues of laziness; to India, where she – gasp – encounters people who are even worse off than she is; and, finally, to Bali, where they have poor, simple folk who are, like, you know, so spiritual.

Between eating and praying, Liz laments the fact that she has always been defined by her relationships. Who should she meet but a dishy divorcee (played by Javier Bardem in a performance so faxed-in one can scarcely hear the dialogue above the screeching feedback) and it’s farewell newfound independence and “hello, handsome stranger”.

We could perhaps stomach the shallowness and self-delusion if Eat Pray Lovewas a better film. But the plot, such as it is, offers a rambling selection of postcard tableaux that might easily have been delivered under the subheading What I Did on My Summer Holidaysby Julia Roberts, aged 42-and-three-quarters. Money, of course, is no more of an obstacle than it might be for the real life Ms Roberts. Liz even gets a few quid off her balmy Bali hut "because of the recent bombings". Lucky, that.

In lieu of a cohesive narrative, we are instead treated to self-pity, a patronising travelogue and gastro- porn. Roberts spends so much time eating pasta that we expect a tuba to play every time she leaves the table. But, hey, why waste a story on female viewers who are only really interested in food and scenery? We keep waiting for a scene wherein our heroine tries out some new alternative therapy that involves swift kicks to the bottom but, sadly, it never comes.

If this is soul food, we know just the religion: Pass the Kool Aid, will you?