Twenty-One

It's about time for a smart, frank, inventive little film that presents a young woman's view of taking responsibility for her own life. But Twenty-One isn't it. Patsy Kensit, addressing the camera while performing her toilette, ostensibly tells it like it is for a tender British beauty searching for love, carnal and otherwise, but the script makes her unbearably coy. Her brief clothes are a lot more revealing. Watching her muddle lifelessly through adultery, impossible love with a junkie, and even a purportedly redeeming friendship — yammering all the while — you probably won't arrive at her conclusion that we need to find happiness in whatever small corner we can, because you'll have turned off the sound long ago (also avoiding some linguistic difficulties with cockney and brogue). If Twenty-Oneis true to life, life's a dog. But Kensit's not; she's a real siren. Her movie's just wrecked on the rocks. D+