Spielberg. Dinosaurs. What more need be said? You get what you expect. Or in blurb-ese: "It delivers the goods." But it nowhere exceeds or confounds expectations. The premise, from the Michael Crichton novel, is essentially that of Crichton's Westworld with dinosaurs in lieu of robots: amusement park gone haywire. And the kind of sensation peddled in it, like the kind in the same director's Jaws, is the rudimentary fear of sharp objects. Or more accurately, graphically, and literal-mindedly, fear of being punctured, severed, minced by same: My, what big teeth you have, Grandma! (Fear of blunt objects, or fear of being swiped, stomped, scrunched by same, hardly enters into it.) It is a sensation long on bodily discomfort, short on wonder -- a questionable balance in a movie that bridges the sixty-five-million-year gap between man and dinosaur. With Sam Neill, Laura Dern, Jeff Goldblum, and Richard Attenborough. (1993) — Scott Marks
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