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THE WOMEN The witty and wise 1939 screen version of The Women, based on Clare Booth Luce's play and helmed by "woman's director" George Cukor, has been unfortunately refashioned as a Sex and the City wanna-be, in the process losing all the smoldering conflicts and zesty support system of its classic predecessor. In that version, Norma Shearer's angelic society woman had to decide whether to stay married to a husband who dared to dally with Joan Crawford's skanky shopgirl. With nary a male in sight but an all-female-cast to die for (Rosalind Russell, Paulette Goddard and Joan Fontaine were also part of the ensemble), the picture began with a playful title sequence (each character was juxtaposed with her animal kingdom counterpart, from innocent doe to wise owl to sly fox) and went on to examine females as complicated beings forced to simultaneously respond to social duties, potentially duplicitous acquaintances, and the demands of their own independent hearts. Predictably, this new version opens with a nod toward modern materialism (a woman mentally catalogues each item in a department store with an inner computer not unlike the Terminator's) and then proceeds to offer contemporary stereotypes rather than memorable individuals. Here, everything has been smoothed out to the point of tepidity: Eva Mendes (as the hubby-swiper) is merely naughty where Crawford was lethal, while Russell's role as a backstabbing "frenemy" has been transformed into Annette Bening's tough-yet-tender magazine editor. Meanwhile, Meg Ryan (as the jilted spouse) doesn't stray too far from her established screen persona, while Jada Pinkett Smith's casting in a worthless role (cut it, and the movie doesn't change at all) demonstrates that writer-director Diane English was more interested in covering all demographics (black and lesbian, in the case of Smith and her character) than in making any salient points about 21st-century girl power. **

Current Releases

DEATH RACE Look, there's nothing wrong with producing cinematic trash as long as it delivers, but Death Race, like most of director Paul W.S. Anderson's pictures, is about as much fun as having two flat tires during rush hour traffic. Yet it's not like Anderson didn't start with a reasonably sturdy foundation: The original film, 1975's Death Race 2000, is trashy fun, a campy Roger Corman satire with David Carradine and Sylvester Stallone as rival drivers in a nationally broadcast sport where the purpose (along with taking out fellow speed racers) is to run over as many people as possible. In typical Corman fashion, this cult item even made some sociopolitical statements amid all the carnage; this Race, on the other hand, is so thematically tired that in a few months, it will be impossible to separate it in the mind from other junky action flicks. Here, the hero is Jensen Ames (Jason Statham), a working joe who's falsely accused of murdering his wife and sent to a maximum-security prison, where the best drivers compete for their freedom in a three-day demolition derby that's televised to over 50 million Americans. On the track, Jensen's arch-nemesis is Machine Gun Joe (Tyrese Gibson); off the track, it's the sadistic Warden Hennessey (Joan Allen, WTF?). The most interesting aspect of this stupid and obnoxious film? It's set in 2012, when our present Bush-driven economy finally collapses, crime is running too rampant to control, and this country has basically gone to hell. Reading between the lines, does that mean this movie is predicting that John McCain (aka the bearer of Bush's third term) will win come November? *1/2

ELEGY Eloquent and understated, Elegy is an adaptation of Philip Roth's The Dying Animal, and it shares some similarities to 2003's fine filmization of Roth's The Human Stain. Both movies focus on the relationship between a worldly college professor and a beautiful younger woman, but Elegy is even more memorable than its woefully underrated predecessor. Its central character is David Kepesh (Ben Kingsley), an English professor who avoids emotional attachments by partaking in one-night stands with nubile students. David becomes involved with Cuban-American student Consuela Castillo (Penelope Cruz), but this time, there's a difference: There appears to exist a real affinity between this aged instructor and this woman who's three decades his junior. But David, incapable of dealing with his feelings, almost sabotages the relationship from the start. The character of the aging intellectual becoming involved with a younger woman is hardly an original one, but between the sensitive direction by Isabel Coixet – and how interesting to see a female ably tackling material by an author who's repeatedly had to fight charges of misogyny – the smart screenplay by ace scripter Nicholas Meyer (who also adapted The Human Stain), and the terrific performance by Kingsley, David Kepesh emerges as one of the most complex and fully realized screen characters of the season. As for Cruz, she's a revelation in this role. It's a given that she's always been wonderful in Spanish-language films and wooden in English-language ones, but on the heels of her scene-stealing work in Vicky Cristina Barcelona, she seems to have finally broken through the language barrier. ***1/2

THE HOUSE BUNNY According to the Internet Movie Database, Playboy founder Hugh Hefner has appeared as himself in over 150 movies, TV shows and video productions, including episodes of Laverne & Shirley, The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, and Sex and the City. Personally, I don't think he'll ever top his cameo in the Roman Empire segment of Mel Brooks' History of the World: Part I, but he does enjoys more screen time in The House Bunny. The 82-year-old Hef serves as a father figure of sorts to Shelley Darlingson (Anna Faris), a Playboy Bunny who lives at his legendary mansion. But right after her 27th birthday (59 in Bunny years, she's told), she's kicked out of the house, although it's not long before she finds herself with a new gig: serving as a house mother to the socially awkward girls from the Zeta Alpha Zeta sorority. Soon, she's instructing them on how to attract boys while they're teaching her how to depend on more than just her looks. This was co-written by the same women (Karen McCullah Lutz and Kirsten Smith) who penned Legally Blonde, and their roots are clearly showing. This is basically an inferior version of that Reese Witherspoon hit, and it isn't even up to the standards of Amanda Bynes' similarly plotted Sydney White. But Faris, a talented comedienne, strikes the proper airhead notes, and Lutz and Smith take care to feed her some funny lines now and then. Incidentally, Hefner was 27 – the same age as Shelley in the movie – when the first issue of Playboy (featuring Marilyn Monroe as the centerfold) hit the streets. Apparently, 27 is 59 in Bunny years, but, considering the man's still-swinging ways, 82 is 27 in Hef years. **

STAR WARS: THE CLONE WARS Pop quiz, hotshot. Which line of dialogue does not appear in a Star Wars movie? A) "May the Force be with you." B) "Join me, and together we can rule the galaxy as father and son." C) "So this is how liberty dies, with thunderous applause." D) "Does sweet'um want some num-nums?" I wish I could say that the correct answer is D), but all four lines appear in one installment or another, with that atrocious final snippet appearing in this animated eyesore. The early word was that only Star Wars fanatics would enjoy this addition to the franchise, but that's grossly inaccurate: As someone who was 11 years old when the original film hit theaters back in 1977 and thus has always considered it a rite-of-passage milestone, I was nauseated upon stumbling out of George Lucas' latest sorry attempt to squeeze every last penny out of this franchise. Set in the period between Attack of the Clones and Revenge of the Sith, this focuses on the war that helped the evil Empire take over the galaxy. The plot concerns the efforts of Anakin Skywalker and his sassy apprentice, a teen named Ahsoka Tano (Lucasfilm, meet the Disney Channel), to rescue Jabba the Hutt's kidnapped baby boy (nicknamed "Stinky") from Count Dooku and his posse. What sort of nonsense is this? The CGI animation, which director Dave Filoni states was inspired by both Japanese anime and Thunderbirds' puppets, is harsh on the eyes and proves to be aesthetically unpleasing. A couple of action sequences manage to elevate this out of the realm of utter despair, but for the most part, this is curdled cinema that even the fans will upchuck. *1/2

TRAITOR Tackling terrorism on screen is a dicey proposition, often resulting in a push-pull dynamic of trying to make an entertaining crowd-pleaser that nevertheless can't forget its civic duty to present its ugly subject matter in an honest and illuminating light. Traitor tries for that line drive right down the middle and, consequently, ends up as a middle-of-the-road movie. Don Cheadle (who also co-produced) stars as Samir Horn, born of an American mother and a Sudanese father. Understandably haunted by the childhood memory of watching Pop blown up by a car bomb, the Muslim-American Samir is now an international arms dealer who becomes mixed up with a fanatical Middle Eastern outfit plotting the usual death and destruction against American civilians. With his quick-tempered partner Max Archer (Neal McDonough) in tow, FBI agent Roy Clayton (Guy Pearce) chases Samir across the globe with all the zeal of Inspector Javert hoofing it after Jean Valjean, not realizing there's more to his quarry than he initially believes. Operating from a story he co-wrote with Steve Martin, director Jeffrey Nachmanoff works hard to present Samir Horn as what most Americans will consider that most outrageous of characters: a sympathetic terrorist. It's a risky approach aided by Cheadle's understated performance, but it's rendered null and void by a twist that largely turns this into a standard thriller. Still, the film is overall more thoughtful than jingoistic, even if it does little to advance audience understanding of the War on Terror and its multi-tentacled morality plays. **1/2

TROPIC THUNDER The opening salvo of Tropic Thunder reps perhaps the funniest 10 minutes I've encountered in a movie theater this year – that's good news in that it kicks the picture off on a high note and bad news in that it instantly raises concerns that the remaining 95 minutes won't come close to touching this raucous beginning. But the best news is that the movie manages to keep the laughs hurtling forward for its entire running time, no small feat in an era in which many comedies lose steam by the final reel. Ben Stiller stars as Tugg Speedman, a macho action star whose one attempt at an awards-bait title, the resounding flop Simple Jack, has largely derailed his career. Jack Black plays Jeff Portnoy, a comedian known for vulgar blockbusters (up next: The Fatties, Fart 2). And Robert Downey Jr. essays the role of Kirk Lazarus, a five-time Academy Award-winning actor. All three, plus rap star Alpa Chino (Brandon T. Jackson) and screen newcomer Kevin Sandusky (Jay Baruchel), are in Vietnam shooting the war movie to end all war movies. After finding themselves lost in the jungle, they become the targets of heavily armed locals who don't take kindly to what they mistakenly believe to be DEA agents searching for their heroin factory. Rude and crude, Tropic Thunder displays minimal mercy toward its targets, yet even its gross-out gags display a manic ingenuity far removed from the one-note crudeness found in your typical Will Ferrell vehicle. All the performances are inspired (including Tom Cruise in a change-of-pace part), yet top acting honors go to Downey, who between this and Iron Man is having a helluva summer. ***1/2

VICKY CRISTINA BARCELONA A menage a trois between the Olympic-worthy team of Scarlett Johansson, Javier Bardem and Penelope Cruz is one of the various expressions of intimacy found in Vicky Cristina Barcelona, but viewers shouldn't expect to see explicitness on the order of, say, Shortbus or Henry & June. After all, Woody Allen is the auteur, and he's always been more interested in exposing the intricacies of the heart than the pleasures of the flesh. Yet therein lies the major problem: He's basically told a tale that depends heavily on carnal knowledge, and the soft-pedaling of the harsher aspects make this feel, well, as if it were made by a 72-year-old filmmaker who's stepped outside his comfort zone. Johansson and Rebecca Hall play Americans vacationing in the Spanish city when they're propositioned by a sensual artist (Bardem) to join him for a weekend of wine and sex. Both women do succumb to his charms (albeit at different points), only to find matters growing more complicated once his fiery ex-wife (Cruz, stealing the show) re-enters his life. The movie stumbles over itself while bringing fresh life to several issues, among them the ability of one's artistic impulses to be awakened by a foreign culture; our need for familial security versus our desire for hedonistic experimentation; and the viewpoint that sex in itself need not be a shallow vice but rather a passageway into deeper understanding between people. The notions presented are worthy of discussion, but I just wish Allen had given them more of a chance to be heard. Instead, there's a reticence about the film that stops even the most interesting scenarios short. **1/2