There's not one thing to like about Chris. First off, he screws like an epileptic virgin veal calf. Watching him brings shame on men everywhere, and it's hard not to want to look around the theater and make eye contact with a few women as if to say, "That ain't me, babe." If you're a woman, it's hard not to become depressed at the thought of how many men actually do have sex like that, then have the gall to still act like their penis is the center of the universe.

Chris's sexual skills are just the icing on the cake of a gratingly wishy-washy personality. He seems to think he's missed something in life and become the man he never wanted to be, but later when he takes a bath with Marion and her breasts float above the soap suds like mountaintops on an ocean horizon, I wanted to scream, "Chris, wake your pasty British ass up, remember that French B.O., and kiss your Francophilia goodbye!"

Aside from the big boobs, it's not exactly difficult to predict which way Chris will go. Let's see, a British guy has to choose between a life of debauchery and chaos or one of predictability and boredom. Chris is about as likely to choose the former as Prince Charles is to streak across the field during a cricket match.