Monicas, 2 and 7:45 p . m .
Not even slavish devotion to the careers of director Peter Greenaway or Brian Dennehy would be enough to recommend this smugly obscure and enervating nonsense, in which an American architect travels to meet his fate in Rome as he curates an exhibit of a long gone and obscure French architect--as dead as this film's heart. Full of symmetry, parallels and coolly composed visual epigrams, it is elegantly chic and without a single redeeming character or reason for anyone to penetrate its hermetic pretensions. Rome, however, never looked lovelier.