Birthday Girl (15); <br></br>Murder by Numbers (15); <br></br>Comment J'ai Tué Mon Père (15);<br></br>Beijing Bicycle (PG); <br></br>What's The Worst That Could Happen? (15); <br></br>Rollerball (15); <br></br>Big Fat Liar (PG)

In Birthday Girl, a dorky St Albans bank clerk, John (Ben Chaplin), buys a sexy Russian bride, Nadia (Nicole Kidman) on the internet. Only to find that Nadia comes with strings attached. Rather like a Hollywood star. Almost immediately, two sinister Russians (Mathieu Kassovitz, Vincent Cassel) gatecrash John's house, claiming to be Nadia's cousins, and cause no end of trouble. It's possible that the young British writer-director Jez Butterworth found his producers at Miramax similarly oppressive. Whatever, this hectic "romantic comedy" feels like it has been through the wars.

There's its tone, for starters. One minute we're being invited to sneer at John's parochialism – his silly little car, his docile attitude at work – the next to cheer on his old-fashioned English decency. You want stereotypes? Well, take your pick. Alternative titles for the film could be "Mr Bean Makes a Booboo" and "Russian Men Sure Are Crazy".

It's a pity, because in the middle of all this lies a jagged little drama about the language of seduction that allows Kidman to show off beautifully. Her Russian may or may not be spot-on – but it sounds right. More importantly, with her pinched mouth and Egon Schiele thighs, she absolutely convinces, first, as a woman who'll do anything to survive (she discovers John's penchant for bondage, and indulges it pronto), and then, as a far more complex trickster. Butterworth's script drags depressing truths about desire to the surface, but also allows for out-of-the-blue sweetness. Like Barbara Stanwyck in The Lady Eve, Nadia is both intelligent and naughty. And the scene in which John makes her laugh for real makes one's own cheeks flush. A lot of slapping goes on in this movie. Only the slapstick hurts.

It's a busy week for Ben Chaplin, who is bewitched by another Hollywood princess in Murder By Numbers. Sandra Bullock plays CSI cop Cassie, non-affectionately known by her colleagues as "the hyena". That's because, as she explains to her new partner, Sam (Chaplin), female hyenas have a "penis on the outside". "Is that OK with you?" he asks, wide-eyed. "Oh, sure," she deadpans. "I just wear loose-fitting pants." There's nothing particularly surprising about the film's plotting – a reprisal of Rope, which sees two rich, neurotic schoolboys (Michael Pitt, Ryan Gosling) executing the (almost) perfect murder. That Cassie has mysterious scars on her chest, and a psychopath keen to renew contact, also seems routine. We know, without being told, that her own secrets will eventually be exposed, along with those of the killers.

Cassie's sexuality, though, is not business as usual. As well as flirting rather obnoxiously with Sam, she takes a fancy to one of the kids. The boy in question is played by Gosling, the brilliant lead in last year's The Believer, and their fraught exchanges electrify the film. Gosling is not conventionally handsome – he looks like an anorexic George Bush – but thanks to his live-wire energy, and Bullock's, well, bullish excitement around him, you absolutely believe Cassie when she says he's the prettiest thing she has ever seen. There's a point when he leans into her car with menacing, very adult intent. A few seconds later, he's the one looking lost and naive. Seconds after that, she's unravelling.

Actresses generally move through films being told how pretty they are; even when they're playing the "feisty" female. Bullock takes us under the skin of a woman who is looking the other way. Ultimately, the film doesn't have the space to see it through, but this hyena, with her loose ways and loose-fitting pants, proves haunting all the same.

Comment J'ai Tué Mon Père is an example of how excellent acting and subtitles can dress up a trite premise as Art. Jean-Luc (Charles Berling), a doctor, has a beautiful wife, a sexy mistress and keeps his rich patients happy with a mixture of Freudian analysis, plastic surgery and promises of everlasting life. Then his father, who has been working with the poor in Africa for many years, shows up and – surprise! – Jean-Luc's sterile, superficial existence is turned upside down.

None of these characters has any vitality; they're photogenic symbols (particularly the blameless wife), moved around in a photogenic landscape. Compare Comment J'ai Tué Mon Père to something like Franju's Les Yeux Sans Visage (also about a surgeon who treats his loved ones like laboratory rats) and you realise just what a nip'n'tuck job this is.

Beijing Bicycle starts slowly and never really gathers speed. Against the odds, though, you find yourself gripped. Maybe it is because the peasant boy Guei (Cui Lin) who works so hard to earn his two-wheeler, proves so angstily inarticulate when it disappears. After days of looking for it, he discovers his bike being ridden by a schoolboy, tries to get it back and is beaten up for his trouble. Because he won't speak up for himself, you want to speak for him (the urge to shout "tell them it's yours!" is very strong, but may get you chucked out of the cinema).

The actors (non-professional) are moving, without being cutesy. And if the ending is a bit neat, so was that of Bicycle Thieves, on which this is obviously based. All property is theft. Beijing Bicycle captures perfectly how such a truth changes when you're the one faced with loss.

What's The Worst That Could Happen? stars Martin Lawrence and Danny De Vito as two con merchants (one poor, one rich) obsessed by a "lucky" ring. It is anti-funny, and the most distressing thing is seeing Richard Schiff (West Wing's Toby Ziegler) entangled in the mess. Rollerball is a numbskull sports movie that wants to pound home a serious message about capitalism. The most distressing thing is seeing how much weight L L Cool J has put on.

Big Fat Liar, meanwhile, provides a showcase for obnoxious kid actor Frankie Muniz (of Malcolm in the Middle fame). He plays a waggish high-schooler forced to take on a Hollywood producer (Paul Giamatti), who's an even bigger fibber than he is. The whole thing is an update of "The Boy Who Cried Wolf", which fuels hopes that little Muniz will get beaten up by goons and be left to starve on Sunset Boulevard. Guess what. They don't make wolves like they used to.

Anthony Quinn is away