There’s an argument to be made that any Hollywood film that acknowledges older women as sexual beings is a good thing. You could extend that argument to take in the fact that, since the industry routinely drapes the likes of Robert De Niro and Morgan Freeman with Vegas totty in the name of entertainment, surely Diane Keaton and Jane Fonda getting in on the action is only fair.

But just as Hollywood insists that its older actresses conform to the body standards of women many decades younger – with their doggedly aerobicised bodies and chipmunk cheeks, Fonda and co look incredible, but unlike most women north of 70 – so the movie industry crowbars this collection of formidable acting talent into the same kind of screamingly obvious romcom premise that female actors of every age group have to endure.

Diane (Keaton), Vivian (Fonda), Sharon (Candice Bergen) and Carol (Mary Steenburgen) are lifelong friends who have discussed books and quaffed wine every month since the late 1960s. Then one of them suggests Fifty Shades of Grey (sound the product placement klaxon, and basically keep sounding it for the entire film) and the women collectively get their mojos back. It’s not so much the reductive message that the path to happiness must be walked alongside a man; more that the writing is wincingly awful. The script leans so heavily on innuendo that you almost forgive the smirking, coffee-shop-jazz score because it at least drowns out some of the tittering.