Action buffs will have a fine time with the spray of bullets, shattering glass, and pyrotechnic silliness that makes up the bulk of Assault on Precinct 13. Updated from the little-known cops-and-robbers classic John Carpenter made in 1976 (two years before he made his name with Halloween), this high-concept thriller is mostly a lowbrow kill-fest, and is very happy with itself for being so efficient in both categories. A decrepit police station on its last night before retirement-New Year's Eve, no less-plays unexpected home to a gang of criminals who become snowbound in the basement lockup. Another mysterious gang of people who stealthily gather in the blizzard outside want one of the particularly nasty criminals (Laurence Fishburne) dead, and they'll take the rest of the precinct down too, by golly. The odd lot of characters trapped inside include a burned-out sergeant (Ethan Hawke), a sexpot secretary (post-Sopranos Drea de Matteo), an even sexier police psychologist (Maria Bello), and various other good guys and bad guys who variously go down in blazes of guts, glory, bullets, and fire. Hawke and Fishburne are opposite sides of the coin: the law, and the bathroom scale. Their need to partner in order to survive the guns outside is the movie's moral conflict, and both actors chew on Precinct 13's peeling walls and scuffed floors to drive the point home every chance they get. Obvious filmmaking fakery abounds in everything from the irksome snowstorm, frequent gunshots to the head, and a shadowy forest that conveniently presents itself in an industrial section of Detroit for the climactic showdown. No matter, this Assault is for non-thinkers who want blood and gunpowder, with no messy slowdowns for logic, please. -Ted Fry.

It's important to note that Spike Lee's drama is not titled Son of Sam. Summer of Sam doesn't chronicle the killer as much as the times: the blistering hot summer of 1977 when the Big Apple's psyche was taken hostage by the lone gunman. We spot the killer (Michael Badalucco) in his mad ramblings but the film centres on two friends from the Bronx: Vinny and Ritchie (John Leguizamo and Adrien Brody). Vinny and his wife, Dionna (Mira Sorvino), bury a bad marriage (he cheats at a drop of a hat) in the disco halls of the area. Ritchie returns to the neighbourhood sporting punk hair, punk clothes and a British accent that immediately infuriates the neighbourhood boys oozing far too much testosterone. Cops, local mob leaders and the guys on the street all have ideas who the killer is: everyone from neighbourhood loners to Reggie Jackson (in the midst of World Series heroism) are on their misguided lists of suspects. When the film looks at how the citizens faced the fearful times, Lee scores with his energetic camerawork and pop soundtrack. Yet the film is banal in its domestic dramatics, taking large detours into Vinny's home sex life (stagnant) and Ritchie's extracurricular activities. One of the marriage arguments-though real and well acted-is so long and cliché-ridden you wonder if someone fell asleep in the editing booth. Add the point-blank killings and non-stop vulgarity and you have Lee's most unpleasant film. [+]

Cate Blanchett blazes through The Missing, a new Western directed by Ron Howard (A Beautiful Mind, Apollo 13). The camera truly loves the planes of her face; even dusty and bedraggled, she radiates star power-which is good, because The Missing needs it. When her daughter is kidnapped by renegade Indians, Maggie Gilkeson (Blanchett) is forced to turn to her estranged father (Tommy Lee Jones, Men in Black, The Fugitive), a man who abandoned her as a child to join an Indian tribe. Together, they pursue a malignant brujo (or witch), who sells young girls in Mexico. The Missing features solid supporting performances from Evan Rachel Wood, Eric Schweig, Aaron Eckhart, Val Kilmer, and feisty young Jenna Boyd as Maggie's youngest daughter Dot, who refuses to be left behind. Despite the cast and some gorgeous cinematography, though, The Missing never finds its stride. -Bret Fetzer.

This original version of The Getaway better than the 1994 remake starring Kim Basinger and husband Alec Baldwin, but this 1972 thriller relies too heavily on the low-key star power of Steve McQueen and Ali MacGraw, and the stylish violence of director Sam Peckinpah, reduced here to a mechanical echo of his former glory. McQueen plays a bank robber whose wife (MacGraw) makes a deal with a Texas politician to have her husband released from prison in return for a percentage from their next big heist. But when the plan goes sour, the couple must flee to Mexico as fast as they can, with a variety of gun-wielding thugs on their trail. MacGraw was duly skewered at the time for her dubious acting ability, but the film still has a raw, unglamorous quality that lends a timeless spin to the familiar crooks-on-the-lam scenario. As always, Peckinpah rises to the occasion with some audacious scenes of action and suspense, including a memorable chase on a train that still grabs the viewer's attention. -Jeff Shannon.

William Friedkin's taut direction highlights The Hunted, a bloodsport thriller that works best without dialogue. It's a prime vehicle for co-stars Tommy Lee Jones and Benicio Del Toro, whose rugged screen personas are perfectly matched in a manhunt between a military assassin and the man who trained him to kill. Traumatised by atrocities in Kosovo four years earlier (the site of an action-packed prologue), Hallam (Del Toro) is seemingly psychotic and now killing in the forests of Oregon; Bonham (Jones) is lured out of retirement by a tenacious FBI agent (Connie Nielsen) to end Hallam's murder spree. The hackneyed plot is derivative to a fault (no surprise from the screenwriters of Collateral Damage), and the whole movie's a foregone conclusion, but Friedkin inspires fine work from his well-trained stars while exploring the ambiguity of Hallam's character. Lushly photographed by Caleb Deschanel, The Hunted is a survivalist's dream, militarily authentic and most effective when its primal instincts are cinematically expressed. -Jeff Shannon.

One of the overlooked films of the 1980s, perhaps because it is such a downbeat tale of an amoral family. Sean Penn plays a kid whose small-time criminal impulses are stoked to a new level when he falls in with his father (Christopher Walken), a vicious career criminal for whom no problem is so large that it can't be solved by a murder. At first exhilarated by the attention from his father (and the jobs he gives him to do), he gradually catches on to just what a bad guy Dad really is. But when he tries to extricate himself, he discovers that Dad now has him squarely in his sights. Penn is terrific in a role of emotional complexity, while Walken, king of the creeps, is positively frightening as this soft-spoken but highly lethal patriarch. -Marshall Fine.

Just about acceptable as an in-flight movie, High Crimes is a tad weak for the big-screen, though its amiable stars and typical plotting offer the comforts of familiarity for home viewing. Ashley Judd plays a high-end lawyer who specialises in brilliant defence of the guilty, while Morgan Freeman is a broken-down ex-drunk who specialises in court martials ("military justice is to justice what military music is to music"). When Judd's handyman husband (Jim Caviezel) is arrested by the FBI and indicted for a massacre carried out in El Salvador while he was serving as a marine, Judd gets over the fact that he has concealed his entire past and even his real name and rallies to fight the case, even if it means going up against the shadowy masters of a conspiracy to cover up what actually happened. The movie rattles through all the clichés: bugs in phones; cars that cruise ominously by; staged road accidents; night-time intrusions; mystery men who hand out clues in the supermarket; dubious polygraph results; appearing and disappearing witnesses; smugly brutal generals, brilliantly made points of law; fights in the interview room; multiple revelations; a media circus and a final tussle in a darkened, deserted house. Judd, one of the best screen actresses of her generation, needs to pick better scripts since her commitment to rubbish only makes her look silly, but Freeman has done enough of these walk-through parts to get by on charisma and the odd smart line. On the DVD: High Crimes on disc comes with a gaggle of featurettes: a chat with the author of the original novel, Joseph Finder, some making-of puffery about staging stunts and the working relationship of the stars, and interesting little bits with the technical advisors about the court martial system and how to beat a polygraph. Franklin contributes a commentary track with a lot of enthusiasm, which is a little more pleased with the end product than most viewers will be. -Kim Newman.

This thoroughly unpleasant thriller from the hands of Joel Schumacher (Batman and Robin) offers very little in its lurid tour of snuff films and the seedy pornographic underworld. A wooden Nicolas Cage stars as a private detective hired by a tycoon's widow, who discovers in her dead husband's safe some 8mm footage of a young girl being sexually abused and slaughtered. Cage's job is to determine the veracity of the film and to find out the girl's identity, whether she be alive or dead. What could have been a taut, nerve-jangling thriller is instead a lumbering, overwrought but underwritten tale of vigilante justice. Screenwriter Andrew Kevin Walker also penned the imaginative and compelling Seven but you wouldn't know it from this tired and monotonous script. Schumacher tries for echoes of both The Silence of the Lambs and Paul Schrader's Hardcore (which stars George C. Scott as a father trying to find his daughter in the seedy porn industry) but despite some slick camerawork, the film fails to draw the audience into either the mystery of the missing girl or Cage's supposed internal conflicts. It's not so much the unsavoury subject matter as it is the sloppy and unimaginative filmmaking that makes the movie unbearable. Of the entire cast only Joaquin Phoenix, as a charismatic goth boy who works at an adult book store, comes away with a memorable performance. -Mark Englehart.