The difference of one letter -- "s" rather than "r" -- marks rather than masks the difference between a remake and a sequel. In the cumbersome quarter-hour prologue, the original Zorro (Anthony Hopkins -- and what's the use of a mask when you're the only man in Old California who speaks with a Welsh accent?) sees his wife shot dead, his baby daughter abducted and adopted by his arch enemy, and himself locked away in a crowded dungeon for the next twenty years. When he eventually escapes, with his reflexes as nifty as ever, he passes along everything he knows, plus his mask, to the younger brother of Joaquin Murieta -- a legend in his own right, and in historical fact still very much alive after the date of his demise here. The protégé (the narcissistic Antonio Banderas: "Zorro," he addresses his watery reflection, "you look better than ever") is a lowborn bandido who in no time at all is crossing swords with the best of them, buckling every swash in sight, and dancing a hot tango with the refined daughter of his mentor, although he still takes time, too, for a harmless comic pratfall when convenient. The tedium never lets up, and the improbability mounts. With Catherine Zeta-Jones, Stuart Wilson, Matt Lescher; directed by Martin Campbell. (1998) — Duncan Shepherd
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