Deception Review

Dante Spinotti photographs this with the night-glass polish of a far better thriller, all tower windows and sodium light, and his craft is the only element doing honest work. The premise, an anonymous sex club arranged by mobile phone among the corporate class, is a 1990s idea arriving a decade late with none of that cycle's nerve, and the adult material is oddly coy, shot like a perfume commercial.

Ewan McGregor plays the auditor as a bundle of nervous tics, blinking behind his glasses for two acts before the script remembers to give him a spine. Jackman, who also produced, has to be magnetic and then sinister, and the turn is legible from his first scene because the writing gives Wyatt Bose no interest in anything except the reveal.

Michelle Williams is stranded in a part built as a symbol rather than a person, handed nothing to play but wistfulness. The last third drops the psychology entirely for wire transfers, a suitcase and a chase through Madrid, which is the moment the film concedes it was never about loneliness or desire. Even the retitling from The Tourist reads like a shrug from people who knew what they had.