Movie review by Greg Carlson

Early in Ang Lee’s sorrowful, mannered, and dismal “Hulk,” Marvel comics mastermind Stan Lee and 1970s TV Hulk Lou Ferrigno walk out of a building as security guards. The older audience members chuckle in recognition of the nifty cameo, but the fleeting bit turns out to be nothing more than a sore reminder that the green behemoth’s original incarnations in page-bound pen and ink and series television were way more fun and interesting than anything the new big screen version has to offer. Lee, the wonderful director of terrific movies like “Sense and Sensibility,” “The Ice Storm,” and “Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon,” seems at first like the ideal person to tackle a large budget “event” film like “Hulk.” Surprisingly, he’s not the man for the job.

Lee and longtime collaborator James Schamus opted to update Stan Lee and Jack Kirby’s 1962 comic as a dreary Oedipal pity-party, unwisely focusing large segments of the film on the repressed memories of not one, but two, major characters. The filmmakers clearly glom on to the big green one’s most obvious literary and popular culture precedents, referencing the Freudian dualism of “Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde,” the man-interfering-with-God themes of the “Frankenstein” mythology, and the beauty and the beast angle from “King Kong.” The results are as ugly as the all-digital brute cobbled together out of pixels by visual effects supervisor Dennis Muren and his team.

Weirdly, director Lee takes his sweet time before delivering a healthy dose of what ticket-holders paid to see – it’s almost as if he is taunting us with a sense of self-importance that nearly screams out: “You must take this seriously! I am dealing with big emotional issues!” No matter how hard he tries, however, the retooled origin story creeps along at a snail’s pace, and is interminably boring to boot. Aussie Eric Bana plays Bruce Banner as a gutless, defeated also-ran (I loved how he had already been dumped by hottie labmate Betty Ross before the action of the movie even begins), leaving baddie-daddy Nick Nolte to devour scenery long before he morphs into the ghoulish entity resembling Hulk foe the Absorbing Man.

The hardest pill for fans to swallow, though, is that the Hulk himself is psychologically emasculated (which calls to mind the old joke about how during his transformations, all of Banner’s clothes rip away from his body except for his trousers). Rather than run the risk of doing any real damage, the script makes certain that the furious colossus crumples up mostly government property. And in keeping with the kiddie-cartoon covenants, the occupants of tanks that are tossed several miles by the raging titan always emerge to let us know that everyone aboard is unhurt.

Ultimately distracting is Lee’s choice to clutter up the frames with multiple split screens. Clearly, the intention was to evoke the multi-paneled comic book page, but the technique reveals itself as just another irksome contrivance, distracting when the film calls for more subtlety. Many of the lengthy dialogue exchanges – and there are more than enough to last for two or three more “Hulk” movies – are presented almost entirely in close-up, resulting in a suffocating, claustrophobic screen. Sure, the movie is going to make a small fortune, but many fans will be left weeping as much and as often as Jennifer Connelly’s Betty Ross.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

A dreadful, pitiful, and totally pointless exercise in humiliation, the cloddish follow-up to the Farrelly Brothers 1994 smash hit “Dumb and Dumber” – made back when Jim Carrey was focused on being funny instead of gunning for “serious” acting awards – falls flat from start to finish. With virtually zero decent laughs, “Dumb and Dumberer: When Harry Met Lloyd” is an unworthy successor to the original on every level. Granted, not everyone raved about the first “Dumb and Dumber” – more than a few critical doomsayers lamented the end of civilization as we knew it, moaning as they enumerated the high quotient of gags revolving around snot and diarrhea.

Those same critics might wish to take back some of their barbs upon seeing the hell-spawned “prequel” that now languishes on screens nationwide. Despite the movie’s Rhode Island setting, virtually required in Farrelly Brothers movies, “Dumb and Dumberer” has no connection to any of the principal creative staff who worked on the film’s forerunner. Appearing to have sold out to the lowest bidder, Peter and Bobby certainly cannot be pleased with what has become of their creations. Writer Robert Brenner and director and co-writer Troy Miller have failed to understand the most basic property of life in the Farrelly’s world: maintaining genuine warmth toward the characters, no matter the severity of their afflictions.

Worse yet, the new script pathetically tries to ape many of the first movie’s plot devices. You’ll feel déjà vu when a lousy fantasy sequence takes us inside the dimly-lit mind of Lloyd (Eric Christian Olsen, nearly going into overdrive trying to live up to Carrey’s take on the role), or when Harry (Derek Richardson, bombing in the Jeff Daniels part) has a major bathroom mishap. Or when the pair’s friendship is nearly destroyed when a girl comes between them. And on and on.

If nothing else, the Farrelly Brothers proved that being able to effectively make light of extremely stupid people is no mean feat. Director Miller never once strikes a winning note, saddled as he is with a stupendously lame sub-plot that explores the treacherous plan of high school principal Eugene Levy using Harry and Lloyd to garner funding for a “special needs” program. Levy, who is often the highlight in comedies without the comedy, is paired with Cheri Oteri as his lunch lady/mistress, and nary a chuckle is generated between the two.

Weirdly, only Bob Saget, as the father of Harry and Lloyd’s object of affection, seems to understand that he is standing on cinematic quicksand, and he spits out his lines with just the right amount of venom to let the audience know that he is painfully aware that he is doing time in one of the most god-awful movies to come along in decades. The other cast members are negligible, utterly failing to resonate more than two minutes after the merciful conclusion. Luis Guzman, as Lloyd’s dad and Mimi Rogers, as Harry’s mom are given absolutely nothing to do, and it’s a shame considering that they might have been able to salvage something out of this mess if they had been given half a chance.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

In a way, it’s too bad that Vin Diesel, whose nearly instant stardom was based in large part on his performance in the original “The Fast and the Furious,” decided to opt out of the inevitable sequel. “A Man Apart,” which Diesel selected instead of “2 Fast 2 Furious” laid an egg critically and commercially, and the once touted “thespian” is quickly losing some of his box office luster. Yep, Diesel could have used “2 Fast 2 Furious,” and the movie sure could have used him. As it is, though, the follow-up manages to get by on the appeal of its pedal-to-the-metal driving sequences and the candy-colored rainbow of hot rods showcased attractively in its sunny Florida setting.

If one were to scrutinize the “2 Fast 2 Furious” story, by Michael Brandt, Derek Haas, and Gary Scott Thompson – and it is not advisable to do so – you might discover that the screenwriters have developed something that resembles a video game more than it does a movie. Characters spit out clipped one-liners in tidy sentences that seem like a bother amidst all the rocket-paced car chases. When the plot occasionally requires behavior approximating other films and television shows, “2 Fast 2 Furious” cribs more from “Miami Vice,” and “Smokey and the Bandit” than from “Bullitt” and “The French Connection.”

Very few of the original personnel returned for the second lap, but wooden Paul Walker (who must be genuinely glad just to be in any movie) picks up where he left off as former LAPD undercover officer Brian O’Connor. For those who kept score on the first film, O’Connor upheld the code of honor in buddy movies instead of his sworn duties as a cop, letting Vin Diesel’s Dominic Toretto escape following about a hundred minutes of some serious homo-erotic bonding. Now O’Connor whiles away his time in the Sunshine State, street-racing a silver and blue Nissan Skyline GTR with enough power to make hyperspace with the flip of a switch.

Apparently, the FBI doesn’t mind that O’Connor engages in a highly illegal and dangerous hobby, or that he was bounced off the force for aiding and abetting his one-time target. The feds just want him to saddle up for a tour of duty designed to bring down a powerful gangster named Carter Verone (ably, sleazily played by Cole Hauser – who has a real future if he sticks with this kind of role). Natch, our hero agrees, and insists on working with childhood pal and ex-con Roman Pearce (Tyrese, having a grand old time) in order to get the job done.

The rest of the movie essentially takes care of itself, with monster smash-ups and dizzying, 120 mph sprints consuming the majority of the running time. Leftover moments are devoted to O’Connor’s dangerous infatuation with gorgeous undercover agent Monica Fuentes (Eva Mendes), who has infiltrated Verone’s operation. Curiously, director John Singleton (a long way from “Boyz N the Hood”) chooses to downplay the sexuality virtually to the point of banishing it altogether. If you didn’t know any better, you might think that O’Connor was still carrying a torch for Toretto.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

According to “Wrong Turn,” another predictable entry in the long-stale teen horror genre, West Virginia is the sort of place where generations upon generations of inbreeding has led to a family of anti-social cannibals out to devour any traveler hapless enough to wander through the state’s rural back roads.  Despite protestations by West Virginia Division of Tourism officials, as well as Governor Bob Wise, who opined of the movie “I think it’s trash,” creepy, shack-dwelling hillbillies apparently translate to financial success – especially when mayhem and misadventure are added to the mix.

“Wrong Turn” begins with young med student Chris (Desmond Harrington) en route to a crucial job interview in Raleigh, North Carolina.  Tooling along in his vintage Mustang, everything is peachy until a major highway back-up blocks his path.  Unwisely opting to take a dirt road “short cut,” Chris accidentally collides with a parked SUV (the smash-up, incidentally, is very well-staged), completely disabling his car.  Occupied by a quintet of attractive young campers, including stoner-couple Evan (Kevin Zegers) and Francine (Lindy Booth), freshly engaged Scott (Jeremy Sisto) and Carly (Emmanuelle Chriqui), and the gloomy, recently – and rather conveniently – dumped Jessie (Eliza Dushku), the SUV had been deliberately sabotaged courtesy of barbed wire stretched across the road.

That’s a bad sign, especially when cell phones don’t work and the nearest gas station is a good hike.  Naturally, the kids decide to split up, with Evan and Francine staying behind to watch the vehicles.  As soon as the others are out of earshot, the unfazed pair decides to indulge their libidinous urges.  Splitting up and sex are a literal magnet for homicidal crazies, and before you can say “disembowelment” the movie is off and running – and running, and running.

Fortunately, director Rob Schmidt knows how to build suspense – even when the outcomes of Alan McElroy’s script can be guessed well in advance.  “Wrong Turn” plays like an amalgam of “The Texas Chainsaw Massacre,” “The Hills Have Eyes,” and “Deliverance” (which is name-checked by Sisto’s wise-cracking character) albeit with increased action and much more photogenic victims.  One extended set piece, a nighttime cat-and-mouse chase that takes place high above the forest floor, is nearly worth the price of admission.  Scrambling up trunks and negotiating skinny branches like high-wire daredevils, the protagonists must stay just steps ahead of an ax-wielding marauder.  This scene, as well as a few others, transcend the typical expectations of the horror movie by virtue of their imagination and visual flair.

The downfall of the movie, however, comes ironically at the hand of special-effects wizard and co-producer Stan Winston.  Characters with monikers like Three Finger, Saw Tooth, and One Eye are unquestionably scarier when left in the shadows and to the imagination.  Winston should know, with all of his experience and skill, that less is more, but apparently he could not resist whipping up large batches of latex appliances and gruesome dentures.  Unseen, the cackling ghouls are genuinely spooky.  Out where we can view them clearly, the results are disappointing and anything but frightening.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

As a teenage coming-of-age comedy, “Bend It Like Beckham” is sturdy and reliable, with a conclusion so foreseeable you will likely telegraph it from the opening scenes. Tried and true tropes are firmly in place: a wedding, a love triangle, a passion for something your parents just don’t understand, and a handful of white lies and misunderstandings to keep things chugging along. Despite the movie’s formulaic familiarity, however, director Gurinder Chadha (“ Bhaji on the Beach,” “What’s Cooking?”) has heart to spare, as well as a terrific way with the young actors in her charge.

Jesminder (Parminder Nagra, top-notch all the way) – Jess, for short – loves to play football (soccer, to Yanks), despite the pressure for her to focus on the traditions her Indian family holds dear. Older sis Pinky (Archie Panjabi) is set to be married, and mama Bhamra (Shaheen Khan) insists that Jess learn to cook a traditional meal, find a nice boy, and follow her older sibling to the altar. Jess, however, has little time to think about aloo gobi and potential suitors. She wants only one thing: to bend it like Beckham, that is, put a soccer ball in the net with all the skill of Great Britain’s most famous athlete.

David Beckham, who makes only a fleeting appearance in the movie, is to Brits now what Michael Jordan was to basketball fans in the prime of his career: a superb player with enough natural talent to match his many commercial endorsements. Because Americans in general are not exactly recognized for a wild passion for soccer, Becks is known to some folks over here simply as the husband of Posh Spice. England, however, is a different matter. Like thousands of other young kids, Jess decorates her bedroom as a sort of shrine to Beckham, much to the consternation of her parents, who refer to the footballer as “that bald man.”

Jess is spotted in the park one day by Jules (Keira Knightley), another football-mad young woman who plays for a local club called the Hounslow Harriers. Impressed with Jess’ footwork, Jules recruits her to play on the team. Coached by a handsome Irishman named Joe (Jonathan Rhys-Meyers, more likable than he has ever appeared on-screen), the Harriers welcome Jess to their fold, and quickly began to win plenty of games. All the while, Jess keeps her newfound glory hidden from her protective family. You can bet that her deceit will catch up with her sooner rather than later, but getting there is half the fun.

Both Nagra and Knightley manage to exuberantly and convincingly convey a fervent keenness for football, and director Chadha realizes some of her most visually accomplished work during the scenes in which soccer is being competitively played. The supporting cast is also excellent – particularly Rhys-Meyers and Bollywood veteran Anupam Kher, who appears as the stern but patient father of Jess. Chadha also makes time for activities off the playing field, and the staging of Pinky’s nuptials is a delight to both eye and ear, rivaling “Monsoon Wedding” in its colorful energy.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

It’s easy, sometimes, to forget that David Gordon Green is still a young man in his late 20s. “All the Real Girls” is only his second feature, following the haunting “George Washington,” but it resonates with a careful, unhurried patience that few filmmakers of Green’s generation are likely to be able to demonstrate to an audience, even if they wanted to. While Green is certainly not the first film school attendee to gulp down extra helpings of Terrence Malick en route to the development of a directorial style, he is undoubtedly one of the best. Both “George Washington” and “All the Real Girls” construct tiny universes out of their small, North Carolina milltowns that border on the astonishing in their authenticity.

While “George Washington” dealt with the tragedy attending the accidental death of a child, “All the Real Girls” dissects the heady confusion that swirls around falling in and out of love. Paul (Paul Schneider, who also co-wrote the story with director Green) is a directionless kid who has managed to bed every available young woman in the area – more than twenty by his count – despite the fact that he still lives with his mother. Noel (Zooey Deschanel) is the virginal 18-year-old sister of Paul’s best pal Tip (Shea Wingham, rocking an impressive pompadour).

If you think you can guess with some certainty the sorts of things that will happen next, you would probably be right. But Green is not interested in machine-tooling some kind of contrived revelation or unexpected shock. In his own quietly contemplative manner, he wants to see how his characters will behave under the most usual of circumstances. Respecting the regular, commonplace ordinariness of daily life, Green uncovers both happiness and sadness in the most mundane details of typical conversations. As a screenwriter, Green almost effortlessly taps in to the weird emptiness of the way in which we communicate.

Most of the movie is spent dealing with the intense emotions experienced by Noel and Paul as they draw closer to one another, but many of the supporting cast members are expertly incorporated by the director. Danny McBride is hilarious as Bust-Ass, the sort of person who knows he won’t be any girl’s first choice but hangs in there so he can take advantage on the rebound. The always compelling Patricia Clarkson is wonderful as Paul’s mom, a professional clown who entertains at birthday parties and children’s hospital wards. As Tip, Shea Wingham gets to play one of the best scenes in the entire film, as he discusses fatherhood with Paul.

There is no mistaking, however, that the movie really belongs to Deschanel and Schneider, who share a death-grip on the disorientation and punch-drunk bewilderment that attends falling hard in love. Deschanel, in particular, shows off a deeply convincing vulnerability that lights up the screen. She understands perfectly the irony of how Noel yearns to become more experienced, even as Paul cherishes her innocence as an opportunity for a new beginning. At one point, Noel explains to Paul that, in a dream, she was so happy she invented peanut butter. On paper, this sounds more than a little ridiculous. On screen, Deschanel makes it work.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

“Laurel Canyon” could have been a really good movie.  Writer-director Lisa Cholodenko, whose “High Art” covered some of the same thematic territory, has the right cast, the right setting, and the right crew – especially in cinematographer Wally Pfister, nearly as masterful here as he was in “Insomnia.”  The problem is, Cholodenko provides a tempting set-up and then plays it far too safe when the time comes to really deliver a wallop.  A Valley Girl herself, Cholodenko has an unblurred, almost crystalline lucidity about the bewildering strangeness of greater Los Angeles – a locale that is as much a state of mind as a physical address.

Christian Bale (sporting an almost impossibly bad hairdo) and Kate Beckinsale both tackle American accents as Sam and Alex, a pair of Harvard Medical School graduates who relocate to L.A. from Cambridge.  The uptight, straitlaced Sam has arranged to crash temporarily at his mother’s Laurel Canyon spread while she retreats to her Malibu beach house.  The problem is, mother Jane, a prolific and somewhat legendary record producer (bookshelves are cluttered with photos of her with Joni Mitchell, David Bowie, and Bruce Springsteen), has split with her latest beau, and he is holed up in the beach house while Jane toils away with a young band in her home studio.

Reluctantly, Sam agrees to share the space, but insists that Alex look for a place to rent while he puts in long hours at the hospital.  Alex’s enthusiasm for new digs quickly wanes when she is sucked in to Jane’s carefree orbit of sex, drugs, and rock and roll.  Abandoning her doctoral dissertation on the reproductive habits of fruit flies, Alex spends more and more time smoking weed, consuming tofu steaks, and lounging around the pool with the musicians.  Meanwhile, at the clinic, Sam’s head is turned by a gorgeous fellow resident (Natascha McElhone) who seems more than eager to seduce him.

There is an unfortunate obviousness about the way in which Sam and Alex drift away from each other, and worse yet, Cholodenko offers zero edge when exploring the sexual transgressions that endanger Alex and Sam’s relationship.  Beckinsale’s Alex seems tame, restrained, and closed off even when she is supposed to be at her most reckless and adventuresome.  As Sam, Bale expertly conveys the aura of a son whose entire childhood was damaged by his irresponsible mom, but short of a pair of acutely focused scenes, the audience is expected to take his bottled-up rage almost for granted.

The film’s saving grace is the superb performance by Frances McDormand as Jane.  Running circles around her young counterparts, McDormand adds another bulls-eye to her remarkable filmography.  McDormand understands that Jane is a woman who pursued, and largely accomplished, her life-dreams with an urgency and sense of mission that few people ever experience, even though she might have been hurt a few times along the way.  Sam resents her for this, but the audience certainly doesn’t: Jane’s good humor and dauntless spirit always trumps her son’s mopey brooding.  Too bad we didn’t get to spend more time with her.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

The good news is that the weakest thing about “X2: X-Men United” is its limp title, another one of those shorthand sequel acronyms bestowed apparently for the benefit of the attention-span challenged or the near-illiterate (see: “T2,” “T3,” MiB 2,” MI:2,” etc.).  Marquee notwithstanding, director Bryan Singer proved the last time out that he was clearly the man for the job – a smart storyteller with an occasionally stunning sense of visual grandeur, and more importantly, deep and abiding affection for the source material.  The consensus among fans was that, for the most part, he got it right.

On the colorful page, one of the hallmarks of Marvel Comics is a preoccupation with brooding, depressed heroes plagued with problems not easily overcome by their awesome powers.  Singer lavished attention on this detail in the first “X-Men,” and healthy doses of the same themes attended both “Spider-Man” and “Daredevil” (the jury is still out on the yet-to-be-released Hulk movie – Ang Lee is a proven director, but that artificial-looking CG in the preview is drawing muffled snickers and shocked gasps).  With its recurring motifs of genocide, oppression, and estrangement, the “X-Men” series manages to strike a timely chord.

“X2” opens with a spectacular set-piece that introduces us to blue-skinned, fork-tailed teleporter Nightcrawler (Alan Cumming) as he demonstrates how effortlessly he can endanger anyone, even the President of the United States of America.  The reasons for Nightcrawler’s attack on the Oval Office are revealed in time, but suffice it to say that influential people want plenty of ammunition for their initiative to marginalize mutants by drafting legislation that would erode equal rights and privileges (downright eerie how closely the Mutant Registration Act mirrors the real-life Patriot Act).  Fortunately, any semblance of plot is quickly relegated to the background, as Singer rotates the concerns of the movie toward its unique inhabitants.

In addition to the original line-up, “X2” adds Nightcrawler, Iceman (Shawn Ashmore), Pyro (Aaron Stanford), Deathstrike (Kelly Hu), and a handful of other characters who might figure more prominently in additional installments of the story.  Once the required presentations are made, the balance of the movie is spread out among old favorites like Wolverine (Hugh Jackman, very trenchant), who digs deeper into his past in order to piece together gaps in his memory.  Once again, some characters fade into the background: Halle Berry’s Storm isn’t given much more to do than the first time around, and Cyclops (James Marsden) is only trotted out when the plot absolutely demands his presence.

Patrick Stewart and Ian McKellen are as good as ever playing rivals Professor X and Magneto.  Villains always get to have more fun, though, and it is McKellen who relishes every droll bon mot in his re-teaming with sexy shapeshifter Mystique (Rebecca Romijn-Stamos, who makes the most of her more expanded role).  The inveterate Brian Cox is also greatly appreciated as a mysterious military man with ties to Wolverine.  While this sizable ensemble presents Singer with a formidable obstacle in the allotment of equal screen time, the director adroitly sketches in just enough for each participant to come alive.  It will be interesting to see where he takes us next time.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Cons and capers can make for terrific screen entertainment. From “The Sting” to “The Grifters,” “Paper Moon” to “Catch Me If You Can,” scam artists at work on the fringes of respectable society fire the imaginations of us regular folk who only dream about being clever enough to fix the ultimate haul. Even recent movies like “Heist,” “Ocean’s 11” and “The Score” demonstrate that high-stakes gamesmanship isn’t likely to disappear from the cinema any time soon. Director James Foley’s “Confidence” is another, lesser entry in the genre, but it is not without its beguilements.

“Confidence” stars the perpetually hoarse Edward Burns as master swindler Jake Vig, a career crook with a practically superhuman aptitude for separating suckers from their money. Working with a seasoned team of role-players, Vig accidentally cheats a major Los Angeles crimelord known as “The King” out of a rather substantial sum. Under the threat of unspeakable harm to his person, Vig agrees to restore the King’s cash by hatching a major con involving an elaborate series of perfectly-timed deceptions that promise to net him five million bucks. Better yet, the loot will be pilfered from one of the King’s most despised arch-rivals.

Foley, whose resume includes the film version of David Mamet’s “Glengarry Glen Ross,” has both the necessary experience for this kind of material and the visual gusto to breathe colorful life into the blue neon signs and rain-slicked streets of the L.A. underworld. Foley’s vision is only compromised by the lackluster scripting of Doug Jung, who comes close, but never quite pushes the story into a place that would distinguish “Confidence” from movies with similar agendas. Despite its carefully orchestrated double and triple crosses, the movie exudes an air of familiarity along the lines of “been there, done that.”

Edward Burns’ poseur-cool and somnambulistic presence desperately necessitate a hearty supporting cast, and on this count “Confidence” delivers. The sensational, often overlooked Paul Giamatti sprinkles in enough comic relief to give the movie a pulse where it is most needed, and Rachel Weisz is so good it is a shame her smooth-operating pickpocket is lamentably underutilized (but then, what do you expect when testosterone levels are so high, women are literally called “skirts”?). Donal Logue, along with the indispensable Luis Guzman, turn up as a pair of cops on the take, and Andy Garcia is ideal as the mysterious fed pursuing Vig and his crew.

In the role of Winston “The King” King, however, Dustin Hoffman upstages leading man Burns in every scene in which he appears. Hoffman’s role is not much more than a glorified cameo, but the veteran puts on a clinic for his young co-stars. Affecting an amorphous, indeterminate sexuality (you’re never quite certain, but King seems to enjoy hitting on both genders in equal measure), Hoffman is a livewire, chewing gum with zeal and peering out at the world from behind a pair of librarian’s eyeglasses. Aside from Giamatti, Hoffman is the only actor in the movie who understands that this is the sort of stuff that is not meant to be taken seriously. By the time the trigger is pulled on the last hustle, you find yourself wishing you had seen less Vig, more King.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

For a few years now, horror fans have eagerly awaited the release of rock-auteur Rob Zombie’s feature-filmmaking debut, the colorfully titled “House of 1000 Corpses.” Originally prepared for Universal Studios (a shrewd move considering the parade of references, visual and otherwise, to Zombie’s beloved, classic Universal horror film cycle), the movie was completed in 2000 and then dumped, apparently because its content was expected to earn it a rating of NC-17. Following a flirtation with MGM, the movie finally limps into theatres under the aegis of the less fearful Lion’s Gate. Unfortunately, “Corpses” was decidedly not worth the wait.

Zombie, who boasts an encyclopedic knowledge of 20th century trash, horror, and exploitation culture as well as a keenly developed visual sensibility honed while making a series of clever music videos, seems at first an ideal candidate to resurrect the flagging fright genre. For the first half hour or so, “Corpses” even holds the promise of being able to deliver the kind of experience deserving of a “Famous Monsters of Filmland” cover story. Too soon, however, it becomes painfully apparent that Zombie is a much better visual stylist than he is a writer, as one tired cliché after another rears up to insult the audience. The only “shock” here is the realization that Zombie’s imagination has painful limitations.

If “Corpses” artfully explores Zombie’s predilection for drive-in movies, circus sideshows, 16mm bondage loops, and late night TV horror show hosts, its story borrows too heavily from Tobe Hooper’s landmark “The Texas Chainsaw Massacre” and its first sequel. A quartet of young adults runs out of gas (natch) during a rainstorm (ditto) on Halloween 1977. The travelers locate the service station of one Captain Spaulding (perfectly played by veteran freakshow Sid Haig), and while no explanation is given for the Marx Brothers reference, the crafty entrepreneur invites the two couples to partake in his Grand Guignol dark ride, a biographical homage to sadists and killers like Albert Fish, Lizzie Borden, Ed Gein, and the fictional Dr. Satan, a psychopath lynched for his unauthorized operations at a local hospital.

Surprisingly, the kids make it out of Spaulding’s roadside museum without a scratch, but unwisely pick up sexy hitchhiker Baby (Sheri Moon, very good in her feature debut), who invites everyone back to her neglected, decaying, ramshackle homestead. Greeted by the voluptuous horror of Karen Black as Mother Firefly, the waylaid innocents are soon introduced to the rest of the family, a gallery of revolting malefactors ready to systematically victimize the sitting targets with every conceivable excruciating torture and humiliation. At this point, “Corpses” immediately begins to rot, as one boring contrivance after another merely provides opportunity for unrelenting abuse and gore, devoid of anything resembling wit or skill.

“Corpses” expires with very little to recommend it to even the die-hard horror fanatic. While Zombie stages some intriguing and disturbing scenes (including an inspired lip-synch of Baby crooning “I Want to Be Loved By You” and the execution of a cop in a grisly, time-suspended tableau), his screenplay fails him at every turn. Zombie enthusiasts are likely to enjoy the music (composed by Zombie and Scott Humphrey), which includes the bizarre pairing of the director and Lionel Richie on a souped-up remake of “Brick House.” Those who find little to like in the necromancer’s tunes, however, will be equally hard-pressed to discover anything redeemable in the movie itself.