Despite all the legitimate accusations leveled at Basic Instinct in 1992 (too sexist, too homophobic, too stupid), there were elements to appreciate, particularly for bad-movie aficionados, but also for anyone who’s entertained by above-average erotic thrillers. The dialogue is absolutely hysterical—I’ll never stop appreciating Joe Eszterhas–penned lines like “She’s got that magna cum laude pussy that done fried up your brain.” (Eszterhas is the man who later blessed and cursed this world with Showgirls.) Director Paul Verhoeven also deserves props for giving fellow lite-porn peddler Adrian Lynne some competition to worry about, and the Hitchcockian touches were reasonably well executed, particularly the soundtrack and the costume design. Sharon Stone was (and still is) drop-dead gorgeous, and she delivers Eszterhas’s dialogue with delicious camp and arrogance.

Some of those successful elements resurface in the sequel. Retaining Stone as psycho-seductress Catherine Tramell was a requisite move and revisiting the original score is a worthwhile nod to atmospheric continuity. The costumes (by famed Hungarian designer Beatrix Aruna Pasztor) are an award-worthy mix of original, noir-appropriate pieces and pristine vintage couture, while the slick sets and tony London locations are easy on the eyes.

However, aesthetics aside, this is an absolutely terrible film. Screenwriters Leora Barish and Henry Bean are lazy at best and borderline plagiaristic at worst. The plot trajectory is a cut-and-paste of the original, substituting a troubled-but-talented psychiatrist (a dull and dumbfounded David Morrissey) for the troubled-but-talented Michael Douglas character, and laughably reprising nearly every scene sequentially (opening sex-and-death hook, verbal jousting in the police station, an “erotic” nightclub sequence, and so forth). The dialogue can’t live up to Eszterhas’s delightfully preposterous rantings (the closest we get is one Tramell-criticizing character dramatically declaring, “That’s her art… the art of mind-fucking!”) and the most egregious offense is the most unexpected: There’s not nearly enough sex. Take away erotic incentive and juicy dialogue and all we’re left with are a lot of pretty clothes and a few dry chuckles.