The key word in "guilty pleasure" is "pleasure." A movie like Underworld is supposed to stimulate the senses, not abuse them. All the right ingredients are present: hot young actors Kate Beckinsale and Scott Speedman, a nifty plot, a bunch of ambiguous pseudo-villains, blood, gore, awesome sword-work, a tight shiny black cat-suit...
Unfortunately, the makers of this vampires-versus-werewolves flick seem to equate pleasure with sadomasochism. The head-splitting gratuitous noise, darting camerawork and other abrasive nonsense are best left for the made-for-TV schlock you can see without bothering to leave your dorm room. The story had so much luscious, voluptuous big-screen potential that the film's dreary shadows, washed-out colors and lackluster scenery proved intensely disappointing. Show us a little more of Scott Speedman's bare chest! Throw some color onto Kate Beckinsale's face!
It's too bad director Len Wiseman manipulates his crew with the skill of a fifteen-year-old virgin. Its promises squandered by sheer clumsiness, Underworld is like the climax that never hits home. Watching is like endless stimulation with no actual pleasure. By the end, I felt tired, awkward and achy, and my only real thoughts were on the homework I could have done instead.
That's not worth a trip to the cinema, Kate Beckinsale's rip-worthy leather bodice notwithstanding.
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