Time Out says
Hard to muster a coherent reading of this confused dog’s dinner of a movie; harder still to suggest anyone try, it’s such seething tripe. Certainly, the film hashes together post-‘Ally McBeal’ filleted feminism with perfunctory pro-teenage blockbuster kicks, to the point of seemingly addressing career women as gormless pubescents – but just as galling are the film’s aesthetic evils. In no particular order: a hyperactive monkey on a sugar-rush appears to have got its mitts on the camera controls and cutting button; more monkeys with word-processors flirt just close enough with ‘Cat People’ references to remind you of the poetry they’re lacking; and the special effects are as plastic as the techno-fuzz sound track. Halle Berry makes a game, bum-proud supervixen (she’s laughable doing ditzy/frumpy, of course), until you remember Michelle Pfeiffer’s far classier package – but the story cramps Sharon Stone’s older-vamp act. You’re left with flashes of mis-spent promise: the feline mysticism; the cosmetics-industry intrigue; the idea of electrocuting Lambert Wilson’s unctious corporate cad.
Cast and crew