Berlin, the city where David Bowie became a true artist, Sally Bowles broke our hearts in Cabaret, and now Bedways, where three young aesthetes go on a journey of sexual liberation, knowing not where it may lead – apparently.

Complaining about the plotline here is a bit like flicking through Penthouse and grumbling about the quality of the writing - obviously, I’m missing the point.
Basically, over seven days, Girl A makes a film, directing two actors, Boy B and Girl C, through a series of increasingly intimate scenarios, culminating in – ooh la la – some apparently real-life horizontal jogging. Could this contrived “intimacy” possibly have repercussions for the trio’s relationships with one another?

In this claustrophobic setting, these three peer wordlessly at each other for what seems like hours, pausing only to light another cigarette and claim how little they care for each other, this being European and all. It’s almost a relief when they abandon this pantomime of intellectual curiosity and take turns to get it on. I say almost - there’s a lot of cheekbone and underfed anatomy on display, I’ve probably seen more tantalising flesh in the Sainsbury’s chicken cabinet.
Which would all be fine as a thinly-disguised bit of soft porn, if the film weren’t peppered with comically pretentious statements from the off.

Hans tells us “all politics are the desires of men” shortly before making a beeline for a city sex-den, and a pounding soundtrack reminds us that “Flesh is the law”. With a final flourish, the director even throws in some quotes from Michel Foucault, just to remind us how deep he really is.

By now, any interest I might have had in this bunch of narcissists has been thoroughly exhausted, and I’m longing only for the warmth and wit of Bowie and Bowles, and some spirit-restoring burlesque.