Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood (15); <br></br>Ma Femme est une Actrice (15); <br></br>Van Wilder: Party Liaison (15); <br></br>Happy Times (Pg); <br></br>Ten (12)

I didn't think there could be anything more annoying about Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood than that title. Then I saw the movie.

Dear me. This is a Southern-fried family drama that pretends to be about unearthing long-buried secrets but is plainly little more than an exhibition of actressy emoting and cute pyjamas. Sandra Bullock plays Siddalee, who's once again at loggerheads with her mom Vivi (Ellen Burstyn), a one-time Louisiana belle prone to booze, self-pity and epic tantrums. Sensing an irretrievable breakdown between them, Vivi's lifelong friends, aka The Ya-Ya Sisterhood, intervene to convince Siddalee that her mom is just hurting from her troubled past, which requires flashbacks galore to young Vivi (Ashley Judd) struggling to cope with motherhood, marriage and a sudden dose of the screaming abdabs.

Writer-director Callie Khouri, who scripted Thelma & Louise, relies too heavily on the folksy Southern drawl, a gift to the likes of Burstyn and Maggie Smith but apt to irritate when nothing of wit or originality is coming through. Likewise, Angus MacFadyen as Bullock's fiance harps away in a lyrical Oirish brogue to the point where you dread his every appearance. The talkiness veers in tone from dragging whimsy to maundering regret, and almost every note in this picturesque snooze rings false. Almost. There is actually one good thing here: over the end credits Bob Dylan bleats a lovely country ballad called "Waitin' for You", and the only pity is that, being previously unreleased, you'll have to sit through two hours of Ya-Ya-yawn to hear it.

Yvan Attal directs and stars in Ma Femme Est Une Actrice, a lightweight comedy about sexual and professional jealousy. Attal plays a Parisian sports reporter married to an actress (Charlotte Gainsbourg) whose celebrity has begun to needle him: why should it be that his attempt to book at their favourite restaurant gets the knockback while Charlotte only has to mention her name and it's "nine o'clock, table for two"? And why do men feel that they can openly ogle his wife in public? His suspicion is piqued when Charlotte goes to Pinewood to make a movie with a suave English idol (Terence Stamp), and crisis looms as Yvan, shuttling back and forth on the Eurostar, almost goads her into betraying him. Attal keeps his directorial debut light and easy on the eye, but his script lags some way behind: it's just not that funny, and the handling of the resolution is terribly feeble. Gainsbourg is charming in what's partly an autobiographical role (she's married to Attal), though Heaven knows how she coped opposite Terence Stamp, who seems to have given up acting in favour of simply reciting his lines in a flat, dull monotone (see also, The Limey).

Van Wilder: Party Liaison exalts frat-boy hedonism to the level of noble calling. The eponymous Van (Ryan Reynolds) is the coolest dude in college, and loves his party-throwing, trouble-shooting, buggy-driving life so much he never wants to leave. His seven-year stay has now attracted the attention of cub reporter Gwen (Tara Reid), who asks the question that's on everyone's mind: when will this guy get a degree and move on with his life? Well, certainly not before we've had a barrage of crude, Farrelly-school gags about barfing, blowjobs, handjobs, and chocolate eclairs that put a whole new spin on the phrase "the dog's bollocks". If you want an index of how low Hollywood is prepared to aim, Van Wilder fits the bill, a portrait of teenage development not so much arrested as retarded.

For a director of Zhang Yimou's stature, his latest, Happy Times, must be counted as a thorough disappointment, if not a fall from grace. Like other films this week, it tries to meld whimsy and pathos but gets the mixture all wrong. The result: insufferable mawkishness. Zhao Benshan plays an impecunious suitor desperate for marriage, Dong Jie the blind stepdaughter of his intended; his protectiveness towards her involves him in a benign deception that is meant to be touching, but ends up making the girl seem like an utter dimwit. Hard to credit that this is the same director who gave us Red Sorghum, To Live and Not One Less, but I suppose everyone's allowed a dud once in a while.

The most interesting film of the week, strange to tell, is set exclusively in the front seat of a car. Iranian director Abbas Kiarostami's Ten focuses upon the woman (Mania Akbari, serenely beautiful despite the name) behind the wheel as she nips around Tehran and chats with her passengers about life, love and haircuts. Shot on digital video, the film gathers an amazing intimacy from these desultory conversations – a prostitute dispenses some home truths about men ("life is trade"), a jilted friend bewails her broken heart, and the woman's nine-year-old son, resentful of her divorce from his father, shows alarming signs of a chauvinistic tyrant-in-waiting. (You'd happily see her shove the kid out the passenger door and drive on.) The film touches upon its central theme – women's subservient role in Iranian society – so obliquely that one barely notices it's there; what truly compels is the gradual emergence of a woman – philosophical, forthright, sympathetic, cool-headed, witty, wryly self-knowing – who's made her own way and won't now give up the driver's seat without a fight.