After escaping a fire on a luxury yacht, trophy wife Jennifer (Kelly Brook) wakes on a remote desert island with only sexy boathand Manuel (Juan Pablo di Pace) for company. By the time her wealthy and obnoxious husband Jack (Billy Zane) washes up, the scene is set for a primal struggle between the men for Jennifer and survival. As preposterous as they come, Three is unremittingly - though unintentionally - hilarious. If you like rubbernecking, this is a five-star shipwreck.
Hamfisted, boneheaded, leaden-footed and breast-obsessed, Three encompasses a whole physiology of awfulness. Ms Brook is by no means the worst thing in this picture: her co-star and the pestilent script will battle that one out. Zane - who incidentally, with this, Dead Calm and Titanic seems unable to complete a sea journey onscreen - plumbs new depths of overacting in a bloated, reeling waddle towards psychopathy that can only be explained as an attempt to make his real life fiancée look good.
You can sense that the filmmakers were trying to rev up some kind of archetypal, raw, conflict-driven erotic energy - what they ended up with was Showgirls meets Blue Lagoon. With its hysterical attempts at suspense, its collossally absurd voodoo subplot, and its increasingly flailing efforts at sexual distraction, the dreadful Three represents one hundred of the funniest minutes you will ever spend in a cinema.