The editors of that silly book they sell in The Works for a couple of quid that lists sexy female actresses (in among the unsexy ones) and which films you might get a glimpse of nipple, might have a passing interest in Calendar Girls. So might you, should you have similarly puerile interests.

Should you, however, aim to see the best-acted, breeziest and most bitter-sweet British-set comedy of the year, then Calendar Girls will fit the bill.

Life as a member of the WI can’t be incredibly exciting, however often you like to tirelessly sing through Jerusalem at the start of each meeting. Sure, there is a range in the topics of the talks provided, from an expert on broccoli in antiquity to someone with a holiday tale to tell (and slides of the very tickets involved, brandished by the ugliest woman north of the Watford Gap). But apart from that it is purely a gathering for friends.

Which is most important when you find out your husband is terminally ill with cancer, as Julie Walter’s character Annie does. Her best friend Helen Mirren, Chris, is on hand to help, and by chance her backside is there to assist and provide the group with activity to engage in after the death.

To explain; a throwaway comment about the state of the settee in the relative’s room of the local hospital leads to the idea of raising funds for a replacement sofa. And the machinations of an active group of minds lead to the compulsion that the WI members should pose, singly, doing regular WI-type activities (flower pressing and arranging, carol singing, et al) in the nuddypants.

Cue a whole host of dissenters, from the women who do eventually bare some flesh, to their husbands and families, to the WI branch chairwoman even. The most important for sheer humour stakes is the reaction of Chris’s son, when he stumbles across a botched dry run, which raises some of the loudest laughs heard at a preview cinema screening in a long time.

The rest of the film concentrates on the ladies as they muck in with the idea, and produce the calendar. Chris, Miss January, also takes it upon herself to raise as much awareness and funds for the project, in order at first to safeguard her investment, but then, seemingly to a dangerous extent, to the detriment of other important things.

It is a credit to the film makers that they have produced what is at times a hilarious film from such a stale idea (no offence, original ladies). For, of course, such a calendar exists. However, the disclaimer at the end, and much of the press launching the film into our awareness, is heavily guarded, and openly stating this is an approximation of what went on, with characters changed, events truncated and heightened for the cinematic effect. Why, even the name of the WI branch has changed (from Rylstone to Knapeley).

However, to worry so much about the veracity of what we are seeing is to ignore the fact that the audience leaving this film will have seen a great little treasure. The females in it are all of a fine standard, as the names above will verify. But among the other familiar faces of a certain age (or older) are Annette Crosbie, who has surprisingly little to do, but does it very well, and Penelope Wilton (you will recognise the face if not the name), who gets a major part, which would be brilliant but for her personal problem being so blatantly signposted. Celia Imrie is cast as the one with the biggest, er, buns, and provides a great scene when the novitiate photographer is trying to direct the shoot ~ through the keyhole.

The men as a result get small roles, but never is the casting skimped. John Alderton is the dying chap, someone unrecognised is the photographer, and is great at it, and among the highest-billed husbands is John Fortune, who doesn’t even get to say anything. Yet, chaps, you will like this film, for it is far too universally friendly to be called a chick flick.

The direction, by Nigel Cole, who last did Saving Grace (which has similar feel-good attributes and older woman lead focus) is fine, pointedly making good use of what little darkness there is in the script, provided mostly by the inevitable crossing of swords among the ladies. It also matches the rugged beauty of the Yorkshire scenery with the equally craggy females, dare one say it.

The music is of minor importance, but is of suitable fare; and one wishes not to have to rate special effects below this op, as the most special effect here is the script. It is one of those pleasing films where all the cast come across as perfectly wholesome, rounded characters one would cherish as friends, especially as they are all attractive and witty, yet believable with it. If only real-life were to provide one with such friends, with exactly the right words to say at the right time.

The script, it must be said, is a shared credit between Tim Firth, who created Neville’s Island, and is also behind Blackball in the cinemas this month, and Juliette Towhidi, about whom nothing more is known.

That said, the script is, however, a little too simplistic, and perhaps takes our intelligence as too low. Just as one can see some of the jokes coming, and can predict the future of Penelope Wilton’s character, one can tell when someone is saying what they shouldn’t be to whom they shouldn’t. Yet that is a minor quibble, as Calendar Girls remains a great film.

Whether one can urge people to go to the cinema for it is a small point to consider; it is 108 minutes but has enough laughs (or other emotional impact) per reel to make it worth your money. It is widescreen too, should that be a consideration, and uses it well, as scenes of tai-chi trying on the moors above “Knapeley” provide some key scenes. However a most peculiar screen credit for a charity chicken man (or something), who most definitely does *not* appear, means there seems to be one or more WI scenes saved over for the DVD, which is of course evil.

However, let not these quibbles put you off. Here is a display of fine acting talent, as actresses bond and have a great time providing us with a great time. It deserves to be flooding a multiplex near you, if perhaps is a little too light to be spreading throughout the art-house cinemas, it deserves all the jingoistic praise and acting gongs the British cinema industry will give it, and it deserves as close to five stars from theediscerning as makes no difference. It even (nearly) deserves the clapping heard from the old dears in the preview audience, which is a rarity in itself.

Some people think theediscerning strange for having more than appreciation of the older woman; the humour, brightness and surprising abandon the best of them tend to offer are all on display here, and theediscerning hopes he and repeat viewings of Calendar Girls will develop into a long-standing relationship.

Calendar Girls is released this week of writing (the first in September 2003) in the UK, and will roll across the world for the rest of the year. It’s a 12A, for some reason, possibly for the sub-Saving Grace drug reference. Perhaps some old people *do* think a glimpse of Helen Mirren’s feminine attributes are too much for the youngsters…