It would be hard to improve upon the judgment of the returning Marg Helgenberger character at one of the spilled-guts crime scenes: "This is awful. This is just awful." Natasha Henstridge, thanks to the miracle of cloning, is able to return, too, though this time she mostly leaves it to others to doff their clothes. And Michael Madsen is back as well, bored as ever. (When we first see him, he is staging a hostage-rescue demonstration at a hypothetical Hungarian embassy: director Peter Medak's "personal" tribute to his nation of birth.) Mykelti Williamson is an amiable new recruit, for whom it is only possible to feel sorry. The images of sausagelike lubricated body parts entering the orifices of other bodies and leaving behind a sticky residue on retraction are borderline pornographic. But, much as the ethnological documentaries of old, not to mention the Marlon Brando Mutiny on the Bounty, could breach the nudity barrier as long as the exposed bodies were dark-skinned, hardcore sex seems now to be fair game in a shopping-mall multiplex as long as it's a special effect. With Justin Lazard, George Dzundza, James Cromwell. (1998) — Duncan Shepherd
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