This is one of those pathetic attempts at "daring" theater that I hoped had died with the 80s, where every line has to be a barbed zinger and all the characters have their masks ripped off to reveal the ruthless/contemptible reality underneath. It's the kind of thing that people see so they can go to the next cocktail party and preen themselves on being tres sophistique' as they talk about how searing it all was. Surprisingly, the actor who comes off best is Julia Roberts - she doesn't have to throw any tantrums, and she just gets through it with professional aplomb. All the others are blubberingly sincere, when the only way to deal with such crap is either with cool irony a la Kingsley and Irons in "Betrayal" or honest, unsentimental romantic passion like Bardem in "Segunda piel". And the dead hand of Mike Nichols turns it into an excruciatingly tasteful TV movie (ah, that chic classical music - Rossini for the oohlala email exchange and Cosi fan tutte wafting through Julia's apartment like the latest fragrance from Guerlain).