The Invention of Love (2000)

Male writers are all so predictable. Put any one of them worth the weight of his balls in charge of scripting his own life story and he will cast himself in the role of consummate lady layer, able to snag stray trim with the cock of a brow and move on with no emotional loss. The woman-obsessed novelist at the core of The Invention of Love (2000) has no trouble landing in sheets of lust, but his ego and well-being are continually tangling in the bedding. How else to explain a man (he is a writer, of course) who allows the safety zone of an affair with a married woman to be invaded by the unsettling passions of a troubled and troubling prostitute?