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Catwoman

Directed by Pitof

Written by John Brancato,

Michael Ferris, John Rogers,

Theresa Rebeck

Starring Halle Berry, Sharon Stone, Benjamin Bratt

Classification: PG

Rating: ½ star

It's nearly a full hour into Catwoman before the "outfit" makes an appearance, and I won't lie to you: Call me biased, but the sight of Halle Berry shoe-horned into black leather -- skin-tight pants, skimpy bra, pointy-ear accessories -- is not at all disagreeable. Savour it guys and gals alike, because every odorous frame before and after that sight can be safely consigned to the litter box. By my crude math, the bottom line is a picture boasting a $90-million price tag and one fetching outfit -- move over Valentino, that's some awfully haute couture.

Now when it comes to comic books all dressed up in celluloid -- and our pop culture is coming to little else -- the standards aren't exactly demanding. Good is always preferable, of course, but so-bad-it's-good is definitely acceptable. What's not, what's an unforgivable sin, is blandness. And when even the blandness gets butchered, well, call it a hanging offence and round up a posse.

As for the culprits, let's begin with the committee, the gang of four, that pummelled some guiltless keyboard and dreamed it was a script. I stake no claim to expertise in the lineage of feline femmes but, if recollection serves, the genus enjoys a walk on the wild side and displays a certain flair for things villainous. In fact, my distinct memory (curvaceously shaped to resemble Michelle Pfeiffer) is that catwomen have been put on this earth to make life hell for batmen. But our committee members, it seems, have a different idea: Apparently afraid for their furniture, they've gone out and declawed the poor creature.

Her freshly varnished back story goes something like this: The girl has a new alias, Patience; a new residence, some unnamed metropolis; and a new job, toiling in the art department of a cosmetics company. Not just any old L'Oréal place, but one that's about to unload on a world of unsuspecting women an anti-aging cream with some unfortunate side effects. Cut to anguished cry of mad scientist: "I can't live with turning people into monsters". But the committee can. They've turned Sharon Stone, as the company's former cover girl, into an aging beauty fighting her own battle with Father Time. Spoiler alert: She isn't fighting fair.

Now back to Patience who, in the fine tradition of every hero with a prefix, is a mousy little thing until the metamorphosis kicks in. Dying one day, she awakens the next with a sudden yen for sushi, an uncanny ability to land on her feet, and an unfortunate propensity for hokey wordplay -- "purrrfect," "cat got your tongue," all that ha-ha stuff. Oh, and one other enhancement: With her resurrected self comes a reborn fashion sense. So bring on the outfit, and bring it on fast. You see, no outfit, no movie -- or did I make that point already?

All this is well and fine, but what does our costumed kitty do with her prodigious powers? Nothing too bad, I assure you. Actually, nothing much good either: She demonstrates an impressive slam-dunking skill on the basketball court; she saves a kid from tumbling off a faulty Ferris wheel; she waylays a couple of jewel thieves, then returns the jewels to their rightful owner; and she allegedly brings a whole new sexual energy to her hitherto tepid romance with Benjamin Bratt. I say allegedly, because their making out is damn hard to make out -- frankly, you'd have to be Owlman to see it. Then there's the climactic set-to with Stone, a generational battle of the beauties flashing their respective outfits. In Sharon's defence, it must be conceded that the playing field isn't really level -- a lovely pant suit, however well-tailored, just ain't no match for leather and a whip.

That leaves our posse, in dogged pursuit of the cat makers, with one last villain to corral: The French director known only as Pitof, a man whose talent appears to extend no further than his name. Dipping into the budget's expensive bag of computer-generated effects, he's managed to create an entire digitalized city that has all the allure of an underground parking garage. And his action, it's cluttered; his editing, it's confused. The result: blandness butchered, hamburger chopped, kitty littered.

A postscript: Reports have it that Berry is hoping to become the first black American woman to successfully "open" a summer blockbuster. Maybe so, but I credit her with loftier motives. Surely, and bravely, she's putting herself to the George Clooney test. If his career can withstand that Batman, then hers can endure this Catwoman. After all, isn't that the true mark of any bona fide movie star -- the ability to survive a trial-by-turkey?

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