Kids' stuff by way of Marvel Comics. It has some amusing notions: that aliens from space are just another species of immigrant, gainfully employed all across the country in human shells (some of the more recognizable ones: Sylvester Stallone, Anthony Robbins, Dionne Warwick); that they are closely monitored by a sub rosa division of the INS, whose funding derives from patents on confiscated alien technologies (microwave ovens, Velcro, liposuction). But that sort of thing is strictly throwaway. There is no follow-through, no development. There is not even a burlesque sense of urgency over the imminent destruction of the planet at the hands (or legs) of an extraterrestrial cockroach inside the sagging skin of Vincent D'Onofrio. That very free-and-easiness, fast-and-looseness, might have been more of a source of charm if it were not betrayed by the grimly and compliantly overblown production. The general impression, far from charming, is of something glib, smug, silver-spoonish, fat-cattish, and lazy. Tommy Lee Jones, Will Smith, Linda Fiorentino, Rip Torn; directed by Barry Sonnenfeld. (1997) — Duncan Shepherd
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