Movie review by Greg Carlson

Given the end result, 20th Century Fox might have saved plenty of time and energy had it merely dusted off the ill-fated 1994 version of “Fantastic Four” and slipped that into theatres this week. Widely bootlegged, Oley Sassone’s low-budget disaster has kept FF fans’ hopes alive for a decade that a lavish, major studio treatment of the legendary Marvel Comics superhero team would erase the memory of a colossally inept misfire. No such luck. Tim Story’s splashy version, crammed with special effects, flops hard. The new “Fantastic Four” has the texture and vibe of a corny television series, and considering the backgrounds of its actors, it will play much better on the small screen than the large one.

Tinkering with the mythology that hardcore fans cherish as sacred text, the Mark Frost and Michael France script sends the quartet of future champions into space along with soon-to-be nemesis Victor Von Doom (Julian McMahon), who has agreed to finance the mission in exchange for a wicked cut of the potential spoils. Reed Richards (Ioan Gruffudd), Sue Storm (Jessica Alba), Johnny Storm (Chris Evans), and Ben Grimm (Michael Chiklis) abort the odyssey following a cosmic tempest that blasts the space station with radiation. Upon their return to terra firma, the gang discovers that they have been blessed – or cursed – with superhuman powers.

At one end of the spectrum is the flashy Johnny, whose ability to combust into flames (and eventually fly) triggers his understanding that shouting “Flame On!” will, contrary to expectations, serve as a magnet to gorgeous young women. At the other end is Ben, whose appearance takes on the external properties of a collection of orange rocks. In one jaw-dropping demonstration of the film’s foolishness, Ben’s fiancée rejects him by placing her engagement ring on the ground immediately following an unprecedented act of heroism and self-sacrifice on his part. Apparently to some people looks really matter.

Johnny’s sister Sue turns invisible – especially when her emotions get the better of her. Reed discovers he can stretch his body like rubber, which comes in handy when he needs to reach a roll of toilet paper across the hall. Story spends so much time explaining the origins of the group members, nothing of interest is left over for the development of the narrative. Victor, whose vanity leads him to don an iron mask as Dr. Doom, is so underplayed by McMahon (in a performance that often calls to mind Kevin Spacey), the dull villain feels like an afterthought.

Arguably the only thing the movie has going for it is the devil-may-care attitude of Evans’ Human Torch. Endowed with a head full of air and insouciance to spare, Johnny provides just the tiniest bit of relief from the dreadful, thudding mechanics that lurch and sputter to keep the film moving. Story might like to think that the movie has its tongue planted in cheek, but the audience spends more time laughing at the film than with it. Alba, who has become every fanboy’s dream girl following her gyrations in “Sin City,” has yet to prove she can really carry a movie, and the dialogue in “Fantastic Four” doesn’t do her any favors. Chiklis struggles mightily against the layers of prosthetics that only serve to bury him, and Gruffudd is thoroughly forgettable as Richards. There is little doubt that the filmmakers were betting on “Fantastic Four” as a franchise, but here is hoping that we don’t see the Baxter Building for at least another ten years.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Loosely based on a popular novel by Diana Wynne Jones, “Howl’s Moving Castle” is the latest Hayao Miyazaki feature to manage a wide theatrical release in America. Not since Walt Disney’s golden age has a particular style of storytelling been so indelibly identified with a unique and beloved animation auteur. Rightly or wrongly (according to many of his fans), Miyazaki invites regular comparison to Disney, and the parallel is apt, considering the simultaneous awe and frustration aroused by both masters. “Howl’s Moving Castle” certainly ranks with Miyazaki’s finest films, and despite the often crude dubbing from Japanese to English, the movie should be enjoyed on the big screen.

Taking place in a fantasy realm that evokes aspects of Great Britain as well as other Western European locales, “Howl’s Moving Castle” presents a war-torn kingdom crippled by punishing air raids. Miyazaki’s well-known pacifism might be the movie’s most consistent theme, and the spectacle of gigantic ships raining down bombs hauntingly recalls WW II-era newsreels. Despite the hostilities, a teenage milliner named Sophie (voiced by Emily Mortimer and Jean Simmons) runs afoul of a seemingly wicked witch (Lauren Bacall), who transforms the beautiful youngster into a stooped nonagenarian. Initially seeking an end to her curse, Sophie becomes the housekeeper of Howl (Christian Bale), a vain, brooding wizard.

Howl dwells inside an incredible invention. Perched atop a set of mechanical legs that resemble the feet of a chicken, Howl’s castle is a triumph of design. Equally inviting and foreboding, the castle seems cobbled together out of scrap pieces of metal, glass, and wood. Inside, the dimensions often suggest a homespun domesticity, just as the exterior can bring to mind a cloudbank fashioned of steel and rivets. The cherry on this keep’s sundae is a color-coded dial that allows its operator the magical ability to open the door and suddenly arrive in any number of different locations.

Once Sophie takes up residence inside the ambulatory manse, her aging-curse takes a backseat to several other stories, not all of them particularly satisfying. Miyazaki’s films often bobble the ball when it comes to narrative coherence, and younger viewers (along with plenty of older ones) will have a difficult time sorting out exactly what is supposed to be important. Miyazaki’s vision, however, is so stunning, it is easy to forgive the inconsistencies that confuse the primary events as they unfold. It is a shame that more is not done with Sophie’s dilemma, considering the depth of potential commentary on the positives and negatives of growing old.

Miyazaki die-hards and purists will elect to purchase the DVD with the original Japanese soundtrack, and it is little wonder given some of the awkward voiceovers in the American version. While Bacall and Simmons are almost always right on the money, Christian Bale occasionally overdoes it (adopting tones not unlike his weird, robotic Batman voice). The biggest deficit is Billy Crystal as Calcifer, a fire demon who serves as a sort of pilot and furnace in the moving castle. Crystal shows off more than is necessary, and his spin on the character lacks a great deal of Miyazaki’s usually delicate touch. To be fair, Miyazaki did not direct the voice acting in the English language version of “Howl’s Moving Castle.” The filmmaker’s visuals, so wondrous and so fabulous, have no trouble stealing the show.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

While there are plenty of things to say about George Romero’s legendary horror franchise, new entry “Land of the Dead” disappoints more than it delights. Almost forty years after the director’s masterpiece “Night of the Living Dead” rewrote the cinematic bible on the ins and outs of flesh-eating ghouls, Romero has yet to top the unsettling vibe of his 1968 classic. While many Romero devotees argue on behalf of the macabre satire of “Dawn of the Dead” (1978), “Night” is still the most powerful, its low-budget look enhancing the foreboding feeling that this sort of nightmare could actually take place. “Land of the Dead” does not measure up to the other movies in the series, but it offers enough gore and almost enough humor to satisfy the hardest of the hardcore Romero fan-base.

Following an intense opening credit sequence, “Land of the Dead” quickly sketches out the political and physical territory of present day zombie-human relations, which are predictably poor. Only the well-heeled have managed to secure relative safety inside the razor wire of Fiddler’s Green, a community led by greasy businessman Kaufman (Dennis Hopper, in a nicely twitchy, nose-picking performance). Outside in Uniontown, the less fortunate struggle to make ends meet, while yet another social class composed of citizen-soldiers moves back and forth across the moat that separates them from the undead in order to blast out the brains of the dangerous animated corpses.

Among the warriors are Riley (Simon Baker), a matter-of-fact veteran looking to hang up his rifle, Riley’s sidekick Charlie (Robert Joy), the angry Cholo (John Leguizamo), and tough, assertive Slack (Asia Argento). Tooling around on “Mad Max”-esque motorcycles and in a steel-plated, missile-launching behemoth called Dead Reckoning, the mercenaries take turns with zombies in the role of predator and prey. While most of the zombies are distinguished only by their occupation-identifying attire (a well-loved genre hallmark) – butcher, cheerleader, clown, priest, ballplayer, etc. – a former mechanic/gas station attendant named Big Daddy (Eugene Clark) stands out. Struggling to participate in the normal routine of his former life, Big Daddy shuffles around looking for cars to fill with fuel.

Functioning at a higher level than most of the other meat puppets, Big Daddy turns out to be a rather resourceful corpse. Crudely organizing nearby zombies into a functional mob, Big Daddy teaches his fellow cadavers how to use weapons, an evolutionary quantum leap that poses serious problems for the not-yet-departed. Romero has a great deal of fun building sympathy for his lumbering stiffs, and his apocalyptic vision offers glimpses of the grotesque ways in which people have turned zombie-killing into grisly carnival amusements. The filmmaker’s almost sly critique of segregation and class division is too thin to hold up to much scrutiny, but Romero deserves some credit for trying.

The film’s special effects are superb, if the sight of rotting flesh and decomposing features doesn’t turn your stomach. Greg Nicotero, Howard Berger, and their talented team from KNB EFX Group have created arguably the most phenomenal zombie makeup designs to date. Beyond the grim visages, however, the film’s modest budget prevents Romero from fully realizing the upper limits of his profound imagination. Hopefully, “Land of the Dead” will meet with enough success at the box office to merit another installment. It would be something to see what Romero could do with more substantial capital at his disposal.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Chris Nolan, an inspired choice to revamp the flagging cash machine that D.C. Comics has tapped for nearly seven decades in one form or another, makes sure that his Batman is as serious as seeing your parents murdered. Solidly built, admirable, and occasionally enjoyable, “Batman Begins” spends so much time taking itself seriously that it bogs down under the weight of its own oversimplified pop psychology. Batman is a resilient character (consider the graduated scale that includes Adam West’s 1960s cheekiness and Frank Miller’s gritty Dark Knight), and Christian Bale’s committed performance manages to write a new chapter for at least the movie incarnations of the famous caped crusader.

Wisely starting over with a nearly clean slate, Nolan lavishes considerable time and attention on Bruce Wayne’s tragic back-story. Comic book hero origin mythology almost always purchases a solid first act, and this time the young billionaire rejects his privilege for a soul-searching tour of duty in remote corners of the globe. Landing in Asia (with Iceland standing in as the actual shooting location), Wayne undergoes arduous martial arts training with the deadly League of Shadows, led by the mysterious Ra’s al Ghul (Ken Watanabe) and Henri Ducard (Liam Neeson, once again channeling his “Star Wars”-style mentor role). The script, penned by Nolan with David Goyer, reveals its first major weakness, pummeling the audience with endless discussion about fear (why it is important, how it can be addressed, harnessed, and conquered, etc.) that seemingly peppers every other line of dialogue.

The film is decidedly more interesting once Wayne returns to Gotham and decides to fight criminals, vigilante-style, in the guise of his newly hatched nocturnal alter-ego. With the help of loyal valet Alfred (Michael Caine, making it look easy) and Wayne Industries tech expert Lucius Fox (Morgan Freeman, also making it look easy), Bruce/Batman puts the rest of the well-known puzzle together: the cape, the cowl, the utility belt, the Bat Cave, and the Batmobile are all given just enough spin by Nolan to feel fresh. Soon enough, Batman crosses paths with childhood crush Rachel Dawes (Katie Holmes), now an assistant district attorney, cop Jim Gordon (Gary Oldman), who seems like the last honest man on the force, and Dr. Jonathan Crane (Cillian Murphy), a psychiatrist who moonlights as the fiendish Scarecrow.

More than enough snoozy plotting about an attempt to destroy the city with chemical agents in the water supply sets up the final act pyrotechnics, and frankly, Nolan can usually be counted on to avoid this kind of stuff in favor of subtler, smarter choices. “Batman Begins” is, however, a summertime super hero flick, and it’s a sight better than other comic book translations helmed by acclaimed directors (see: “Hulk”). In terms of physical action, Nolan also shoots far too few masters, and the closeness of the photography makes it impossible to tell exactly what is going on in the fight and action scenes.

“Batman Begins” tags on an epilogue that sets up the sequel and the sequel’s central villain (fans certainly won’t need more than a single guess). Hopefully, the next movie will allow for an even deeper examination of Bruce Wayne, the person. In “Batman Begins,” Nolan offers any number of promising suggestions that we will get to see Wayne struggling with his role as Gotham’s most prominent citizen, but most of the time, the screenplay quickly resorts to the troubled character’s disdain – and near contempt – for his out-of-costume, public persona. And despite the fact that nobody in town seems to make the connection that Batman starts cracking skulls at exactly the same time Bruce Wayne returns after a lengthy hiatus, the secret identity dialectic could be child’s play for someone with Nolan’s talent.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Several reviews of “Mr. and Mrs. Smith” relate the film to Ernst Lubitsch’s masterpiece “Trouble in Paradise,” and the comparison – while decidedly unfavorable toward the newer movie – is more than apt. Fans of the 1932 classic will certainly wonder if writer Simon Kinberg studied the brilliant scene in which two expert thieves seduce one another during a showcase of mutually spectacular pick-pocket skills; a similar sequence shows up in “Mr. and Mrs. Smith,” minus the deft, light-fingered touch that was Lubitsch’s signature. Of course, the characters Mr. and Mrs. Smith are world-class assassins, which provides the filmmakers with an opportunity to crank up the action at the expense of witty, sophisticated dialogue. Had the movie borrowed more from “Trouble in Paradise,” it might have been on to something.

Director Doug Liman, whose clever handling of energetic material in “Go” and “The Bourne Identity” proved that he could skillfully integrate brains and bullets, coasts by this time on the effortless charisma generated by topliners Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie. The marquee players have been catnip to the tabloids of late, which will undoubtedly heat up the box office receipts – at least initially. It’s too bad the movie is not as scorching as its leading duo. As it is, viewers have to settle for a toned-down PG-13 rumpus that emphasizes cartoonish violence, when the movie would have been significantly better had it focused on the trickier sexual politics attending the wild central conceit.

Well-documented as the subject of Kinberg’s master’s thesis at Columbia, the premise of “Mr. and Mrs. Smith” would have us believe that this impossibly good looking couple, married for at least a half decade, have been able to keep their parallel livelihoods as contract killers secret from one another. The preposterousness of the situation hints at a rich subtext exploring the strains of routine and the perils of blocked intimacy, but “Mr. and Mrs. Smith” largely ignores its opportunities to say something about marriage. It turns out to be much easier to muzzle the talk and break out the machine guns instead.

There is no question Pitt and Jolie have appeal to spare, and one certainly expects that they will dominate the show, but “Mr. and Mrs. Smith” fails to develop any other important characters (sidekicks Kerry Washington and Vince Vaughn, doing his cute “Swingers” riff for the umpteenth time, barely register), which leaves the second half of the film desperately empty. Following a terrific knock-down melee in which the Smiths destroy their beautiful home en route to some tantalizing make-up sex, the movie settles for the commonplace sight of big-ticket car chases and shoot-outs.

With all this talent coming together, “Mr. and Mrs. Smith” should have resisted playing to the lowest common denominator. At the beginning and end of the movie, Pitt and Jolie are posed in a two-shot, directly facing the audience. As each partner responds to questions, Liman’s coy, therapy session set-up hints at a hipper, sexier movie than the one we get when the Smiths aren’t visiting with their counselor (nicely voiced off-screen by William Fichtner). These scenes are worth so much more than the third-act pyrotechnics that stand-in for what passes as plot. “Mr. and Mrs. Smith” is worth seeing, but one gets the feeling that underneath the hype, it’s just another big budget movie far too dependent on special effects and razzle-dazzle.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Director Catherine Hardwicke’s follow-up to her edgy “Thirteen,” “Lords of Dogtown” covers similar territory in its depiction of angst-ridden young people struggling with issues large and small. A fictionalized re-imagining of the rise and fall of Venice Beach’s legendary Zephyr skateboard team, “Lords” already enjoyed big screen success in Stacy Peralta’s 2001 documentary “Dogtown and Z-Boys” – not incidentally a much stronger film. While Peralta’s movie did a better job of profiling the personalities of the skaters, Hardwicke (working from a script by Peralta) settles in on the key trio: chronicler Peralta, flashy Tony Alva, and troubled Jay Adams. Ultimately too conventional to accurately account for the seismic pop-culture shock spawned by the Z-Boys, “Lords of Dogtown” is just intriguing enough to merit a look.

Like Peralta’s original, “Lords of Dogtown” traces the birth of skateboard culture to the Pacific Ocean Park pier, where hardcore surfers formed a tightly-knit group of friends committed to the “locals only” philosophy. Led by Zephyr surf shop owner Skip Engblom (colorfully portrayed by Heath Ledger in a performance that immediately calls to mind Val Kilmer as Jim Morrison in “The Doors”), a gang of younger wannabes latches on to the dubious role model in what proves to be an interestingly symbiotic relationship. With the introduction of urethane wheels, which enable the skaters to emulate surfer moves on asphalt, Engblom launches a competitive team – along with a plan to sell skateboards with the Zephyr logo to kids who want to imitate the radical youngsters in Engblom’s somewhat elite company.

What follows is a fairly standard series of scenes that recounts the history of street skating at ground zero. Southern California’s mid-70s water shortage opened up a concrete ocean of drained swimming pools, and the Z-Boys were quick to invent and perfect the jaw-dropping moves that are now familiar to millions of kids. Hardwicke manages to recreate much of the electrifying awe that accompanied the very first sightings of Tony Alva (Victor Rasuk) going vertical over the lip of the bowl, and many other well-known photographs by Craig Stecyk and Glen E. Friedman are also lovingly, faithfully reproduced.

The skating is much better than the melodramatic renderings of the central characters’ personal lives, which all end up reduced to recognizable screen tropes. As Jay Adams, Emile Hirsch leaves the strongest impression. Adams was never able to ride his board to commercial success (both Peralta and Alva quickly capitalized on their skills, despite the fact that Adams was every bit their equal on a deck), and his story arc hints at the frustration and pain he experienced, even as it mostly sidesteps his substance abuse problems. Perhaps erring on the side of modesty, screenwriter Peralta has himself portrayed by beautiful, golden-haired John Robinson as a pretty square, straight shooter. Despite Robinson’s pleasantness, Peralta fails to give himself anything approaching complexity.

Alva’s role is just as underdeveloped, despite Rasuk’s best efforts to mimic the famous pro’s penchant for fast cars and attractive young women. Nikki Reed teams again with Hardwicke, playing Alva’s sexy sister, who ends up as one of the points in a love triangle with Peralta and Adams. Compared to the version of history presented in “Dogtown and Z-Boys,” “Lords of Dogtown” applies a nostalgic gloss, concocting composite characters and ignoring several influential figures. As a summer diversion and with the help of a great soundtrack, however, the movie often capitalizes on its youthful energy. That said, it would be criminal to see “Lords” without taking in “Dogtown and Z-Boys” as a companion piece.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

A politically charged documentary that joins several recent entries in criticizing the current Bush administration, “Enron: The Smartest Guys in the Room” manages to be simultaneously entertaining and enraging. Bringing to life the book by “Fortune” magazine writers Bethany McLean and Peter Elkind, director Alex Gibney builds his movie around articulate talking heads, the clever counterpoint of stock footage, and damning, Enron-produced corporate video. The result is a jaw-dropping expose of financial and moral bankruptcy.

While its central characters are too shuddersome to merit comparison to figures in Greek tragedy, the movie details a colossal exercise in the worst possible hubris. Enron founder Ken Lay (“Kenny Boy” to George W. Bush) teams with oily Ivy Leaguer Jeffrey Skilling to run an energy company that exploits so many legal loopholes, one wonders why the government bothers to regulate these business behemoths at all. Along with numbers wizard Andrew Fastow, Lay and Skilling made voodoo out of the ridiculous practice called “mark-to-market,” which allowed Enron to report potential future earnings as current profits. While their stock price indicated nothing but blue skies, the company was in actuality hemorrhaging cash and spiraling into unimaginable debt.

Of course, this did not stop the top dogs from pocketing millions on their personal stock options, even as the rank and file invested in retirement funds that would quickly turn out to be worthless. The story of Enron, which is sadly familiar to so many people, is a David and Goliath tale without a happy ending. It is difficult to say whether Lay and friends were truly evil, but the movie provides more than enough evidence to suggest that Enron’s top executives ought to be locked up for a long time. The film directly links California’s energy crisis (which led to Schwarzenegger’s successful bid to recall Gray Davis and seize the governorship) to Enron, and the audio of traders salivating over how much money they stand to make sickens the stomach.

As a director, Gibney is at his best when he reminds us that greed thrives on co-dependency. Rather than point out that Enron’s bookkeeping was a clear case of the Emperor’s New Clothes, the whole gamut of participants – from traders to reporters to accounting firms – happily congratulated the company even when logic suggested that things were more than a little off. Whistle-blower Sherron Watkins is interviewed, but strangely, the movie doesn’t spend enough time with her to make her out to be a hero. She is, however, a reminder of sanity and reason – something nonexistent at the company’s highest echelon.

Actor Peter Coyote narrates the film, and his slightly arch tone adds the perfect amount of principled superiority to the story. The facts justify this kind of attitude: Skilling refused any responsibility for his actions, walking away from Enron with millions of dollars and the knowledge that the walls were closing in. Following his departure, Lay has the disgusting temerity to compare “attacks” on Enron to September 11, 2001. One thing the movie overlooks is the behind-the-scenes relationship of Skilling and Lay. It would have been intriguing to know whether and to what extent the pair plotted separately or together. Even so, “Enron: The Smartest Guys in the Room” offers more than enough food for thought.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

A spectacularly narcissistic vanity project, “Beyond the Sea” was overshadowed by several other recent biopics when first released, most notably “Ray,” for which Jamie Foxx won a Best Actor Academy Award. Kevin Spacey, who plays pop crooner Bobby Darin with a look on his face indicating that he thought he might win another Oscar, miscalculated both his own and Darin’s current popularity with audiences. Staged as a weird meta-memoir, in which pre-teen and adult versions of Darin occupy the screen at the same time as well as converse and sing with each other, “Beyond the Sea” is nothing if not compellingly strange.

Much has been made about Spacey’s age-inappropriate unsuitability to play someone who died at 37. Considering the fact that he is not only the movie’s star, but the director, the credited co-screenwriter, one of the producers, and performs Darin’s vocals as well, it goes without saying that he is darn well going to do whatever he wishes to do with this story. Spacey shamelessly molds the film to deflect expected criticism, providing a laundry list of obsessive choices which include kicking things off with “Mack the Knife” and addressing both the issue of his maturity and his receding hairline.

Despite the attempt to spice things up with a slightly unorthodox approach to the recounting of how things “really” happened (or didn’t), “Beyond the Sea” is hamstrung by the same complaints that hobble virtually every biographical film: the tendency to provide a series of greatest hits in a reductive glossing-over of a life. Most, but certainly not all of Darin’s dossier is covered, including the childhood bout with rheumatic fever that weakened his heart, the initial climb up the pop charts with “Splish Splash,” the desire to compete with Sinatra, and the less than fairytale marriage to teen movie princess Sandra Dee.

Spacey builds his Darin as a well-oiled show-biz machine racing against the clock that is so observably symbolized by his bad ticker. Certainly the strong suit of “Beyond the Sea” is the generous smattering of Darin classics, navigated mostly with aplomb by a fearless Spacey. Of course, many Darin fans will only be reminded of how much they miss the real thing, but Spacey can be commended for the results of his single-minded fixation when it comes to the tunes. Sometimes, the garish staging pushes the numbers into camp, but it must be said that the music is the one thing that emerges from the film with little damage.

The same cannot be said for Spacey’s costars, who seem to be included largely for ornamentation. Almost giving new meaning to the term supporting players, talented vets like John Goodman, Bob Hoskins, and Brenda Blethyn all perform characters whose function seems to be to fawn over every move Darin makes, and Kate Bosworth, as Dee, is so poorly utilized she makes her work in “Blue Crush” seem like a virtual Actor’s Studio clinic. It doesn’t help that Spacey and Bosworth are separated in age by nearly a quarter of a century; the inevitable deflowering scene, which involves a giant sword and a slimy Darin speech about the Knights of the Round Table, boggles the mind. Is “Beyond the Sea” so bad it’s good? It is difficult to say, but that scene at least screams yes and yes and yes.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

After languishing on the shelf for two years, “Mindhunters” finally limps into theatres just ahead of “Star Wars: Episode III,” virtually guaranteeing a quick box office death and an even speedier trip to the DVD afterlife. It is likely that “Mindhunters” will fare better in the home rental market anyway, given its lurid subject matter, its B-list cast, and the track record of its over-the-top director Renny Harlin. A strident psychological thriller in the vein of Thomas Harris on a bad day, “Mindhunters” extends Hollywood’s flirtation with the FBI profiler. Boasting a strange merger of gruesome and elaborate death sequences that defy plausibility and a tendency to overthink even the most ridiculous scenarios, “Mindhunters” will entertain only those folks who appreciate Harlin’s “so bad it’s occasionally mediocre” camp.

Borrowing liberally from Agatha Christie’s “Ten Little Indians,” “Mindhunters” deposits a handsome class of Quantico trainees on a fictional island where they will pit their skills against each other in pursuit of a fabricated killer called the Puppeteer. Given the twisted predilections of mentor Jake Harris (Val Kilmer, kooky), the trainees are already on edge when they arrive, and sure enough, one of them is immediately offed in spectacular fashion. The remaining would-be agents scramble to figure out the whodunit, but the script never satisfactorily entertains the notion that Harris himself could be pulling the strings.

Shaken by the death of one of their own, the students close ranks and shift their brains into overdrive. Mysterious clues begin to show up, indicating a time sensitive pattern to the killer’s plan. True to form, the trainees begin to drop like flies, leaving those remaining to begin pointing fingers at each other. Compounding tensions is the presence of outsider Gabe Jensen (LL Cool J), a cop invited along to observe the exercises. Suspicion immediately falls to him, but given the obviousness of his status as an interloper, and his heroic efforts to save the group, he doesn’t register as a legitimate suspect.

In its defense, “Mindhunters” stages imaginatively grisly deaths for its victims, and director Harlin relishes the opportunity to show off each nasty demise – even when employing laughably horrendous CGI. Harlin also keeps the film chugging along at a rapid clip, which certainly helps hide its deficiencies in logic. The industrial setting, filled with crumbling, empty buildings laced with all kinds of pipes and tanks, makes an ideal playground for this kind of nonsense. Some viewers will cringe at cinematographer Robert Gantz’s sickly green palette, but the desaturated look occasionally assists the anxiousness of the proceedings.

With the exception of LL Cool J, Kilmer, and Christian Slater, none of the cast members has enjoyed extraordinary fame. Kathryn Morris, who appears on “Cold Case,” has the largest role, but “Mindhunters” is not exactly the kind of movie that one associates with stellar acting. Jonny Lee Miller tries out a shaky accent. Patricia Velasquez, as the only other female profiler beside Morris, suffers the indignity of lathering up Slater in a gratuitous shower scene. Eion Bailey does his finest Jason Patrick impersonation. Confined to a wheelchair, Clifton Collins, Jr. is nearly as twitchy as his drug dealer in “The Rules of Attraction.” Will Kemp, who appeared in “Van Helsing,” scarcely registers this time out. None of the acting is poor – that distinction largely belongs to sections of Wayne Kramer and Kevin Brodbin’s script. Even so, “Mindhunters” offers enough cheap thrills to make it worth seeing on a rainy day.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Bearing almost no resemblance to the 1953 Vincent Price film that inspired it, the new “House of Wax” should please genre fans looking for elaborate makeup effects that capitalize on a multitude of macabre and sadistic depictions of mayhem and bloodletting. Sticking close to the formula in which a maniac cuts a group of mostly moronic teens down to the last one or two standing, “House of Wax” has just enough ghoulish humor to keep it from melting. First-time helmer Jaume Collet-Serra deserves credit for keeping things fairly interesting, and even manages to stage a few genuinely memorable set-pieces along the way to a predictable conclusion. Rest assured, “House of Wax” is strictly for folks who get a kick out of titles like “Wrong Turn,” “Cabin Fever,” and the recent remake of “The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.” Everybody else should stay far, far away.

A half-dozen kids take a detour on the way to a sporting event and end up near Ambrose, Louisiana, a cobwebby backwater that seems to have missed the memo about the 21st century. The movie theatre loops “Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?” and a filling station and a church appear to host the only signs of life in town. Of the remaining buildings, an imposing Art Deco museum (with signage matching the film’s title) serves as a reminder of the hamlet’s better days. Production designer Graham “Grace” Walker and wax body supervisor Jason Baird deserve mention for their impressive work, which rises above the usual slasher flick fare.

The six youngsters include twins Carly and Nick (played by Elisha Cuthbert and Chad Michael Murray), Carly’s boyfriend Wade (Jared Padalecki), Nick’s buddy Dalton (Jon Abrahams), and libidinous couple Blake (Robert Ri’chard) and Paige (Paris Hilton). Certainly the appearance of overexposed celebrity Hilton will draw a few curiosity seekers, but one of the movie’s biggest surprises is that the heiress isn’t completely abominable as an actor. Hilton’s presence also merits a handful of jokes at her own expense, including a wink and a nod to her sex tape scandal.

Thematically, “House of Wax” trots out a twins motif, pitting Carly and Nick against psycho siblings Bo and Vincent (both played by Brian Van Holt). Screenwriters Chad Hayes and Carey W. Hayes, also twins, hopefully draw lightly on their own experiences, as Bo and Vincent are a gruesome twosome. While sadistic Bo sticks with snipping off a victim’s finger and super-gluing someone’s mouth shut, Vincent’s methods are more mechanically involved. Like a deadly spider, he drenches his still breathing prey in hot wax, ultimately sculpting them into eerie, hair-raising imitations of life. The effects are often disgustingly remarkable, and the museum’s parlor, filled with unmoving figures, will inspire unpleasant dreams for some.

At times, “House of Wax” teeters precariously on the edge of overcompensating for its formula-bound genre customs (whenever convenient, we learn more than we really need to about Vincent and Bo). The clumsy exposition, however, doesn’t compare with the inexplicable choices made by the characters: harassing the locals by smashing out a headlight, discovering a huge pit of rotting roadkill, splitting up, breaking into ominous buildings, accepting rides from strangers, etc. – which play like a laundry list of things to avoid when in peril. Needless to say, these are the very things that make slasher movies tick, and the target demographic for “House of Wax” is not likely to complain.