The embodiment, the epitome, the acme of the "franchise picture," one of those brass rings that studio executives like to stack up on their lances. So perfect a one, in truth, that it would make more sense to cover the movie in the financial pages than in the entertainment ones. A recitation of components, amenities, selling points could reasonably take the place of a review. Both Will Smith and, after half an hour, Tommy Lee Jones are back, albeit with roles reversed -- Smith the blasé veteran, Jones the bemused novice -- until the latter's elective "neuralization" can be undone and his memory restored. Rip Torn and Tony Shalhoub are back as well, if that matters to anyone, along with director Barry Sonnenfeld and composer (but of course) Danny Elfman, whose surname seems to entitle him to a monopoly on such projects. There are also Lara Flynn Boyle as an extraterrestrial femme fatale, a quorum of computer-generated creatures of no particular originality (a giant worm who crawled over from Dune, etc.), and a wisecracking dog who speaks in the voice of a cartoon gangster. Gags are cranked out the way McDonald's cranks out hamburgers, indistinguishable from and interchangeable with their predecessors. That the movie runs barely eighty minutes (minus its closing credits) could likely be seen, in that light, as a Smart Business Practice tantamount to shaving an ounce off every Quarter-Pounder. As a work of creative imagination, on the other hand, it is pretty close to a total cheat. (2002) — Duncan Shepherd
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