You guys, it's time to give up on Jessica Biel. It's fine if she wants to be an underpants model, or a background thing with boobs for Adam Sandler to fondle, or a very attractive block of mild cheese, or a great philosopher even—but she is not an actress. It's physically uncomfortable to watch her attempt seriousness, or attempt humor, or say the word "sardonic," or move and talk in any way. As the great Paula Poundstone once said of Daryl Hannah (and YES, I am now preparing to quote a standup comedy routine from the year 1990), "I agree that she's pretty—I think she's beautiful—but couldn't we just have a picture of her in the upper corner of the screen? Does she have to try to move and talk like that? 'Cause I think those are the two problem areas for her: the moving and the talking." AS WAS HANNAH, SO IS BIEL. Enough.

In Easy Virtue, Biel plays a moving, talking, race-car-driving American lady (oooh, feminism!), who shows up at a decaying English country house peopled by grumpy, decaying English aristocrats. Having recently married the family's son, she proceeds to cause many scandals and scenes while the soundtrack bleats cheeky, old-timey-fied cover versions of "Car Wash" and "Sex Bomb." (Read that last part again if it didn't sink in.) She understandably enrages Kristin Scott Thomas (the mother) and unconvincingly charms Colin Firth (the father). Biel is supposed to carry the film on her flimsy, mink-draped shoulders. Her ineptitude is monumentally distracting. Her feistiness is annoying to the fundament of one's being. Her jokes sink like, I don't know, fucking Artax in the Swamps of Sadness.

It's the roaring '20s, or something, which means adorable outfits beyond compare (and in fairness, wearing adorable outfits is an area in which Biel excels). Based on a Noel Coward play, the script contains some cleverness. BUT IT DOES NOT MATTER, BECAUSE THE WORDS ARE ALL COMING OUT OF BIEL'S WOODEN FACE. Curse the moving and the talking of Biel!