Synopsis:
Scott Bakula quantum leaps into the body of a detective. He can't leap out until he figures out who killed Jean Grey's magician husband.
Malcolm's insane theory to make the movie more fun to watch:
The entire episode is caused by Jean's psychic abilities operating on a subconscious level and perhaps rubbing off on people she's around for too long.
Review:
Clive Barker, the man with a voice so raspy that Egyptian mummies think he needs a drink of water, is responsible for both this book and film. The CG effects are dated as a mofo, but there's only one major sequence that relies on it.
My main problem with the plot is that you've got two dudes with nigh god-like powers that duke it out a couple times. They really can tap into magic and do fantastic shit.
You'd think they'd attract some powerful allies with that talent...
Nope. One of them has a posse of early 1980s disco rejects who become anything from a Vegas show performer to a mental patient to a fortune teller.
The other dude looks like a homeless guy from the Vegas strip and he commands a pack of yuppie followers plus one punk rock dude and a man I can only describe as the most hardcore musical theatre major ever. He weights approximately 95 pounds and his wardrobe consists of nothing but a leotard top with various types of skintight pants made of synthetic fabric trying to be snakeskin. His hand-to-hand combat skills rival Mr. T, for some reason. He doesn't so much beat people up as ... what's the right word, they get "served" I guess, is the closest thing. His finishing dance move is putting people in a headlock between his thighs, probably because he watched a lot of James Bond movies.
There are also a few character actors who'll make you say, "Oh, it's that dude." Anyhow, the climax of the movie seems somewhat lame. You're expecting a mega magic showdown but you get the equivalent of a one-hit fight followed by a few gunshots. It's fucking Vegas. Here's how the villain should have been handled.
Somewhere, there are automatic weapons and a flamethrower for sale or in some survivalist's basement. Gear the fuck up, gun him down, drop him in a vat of acid blessed by a few priests, lay waste to his abandoned compound out in the middle of fucking nowhere, burn that mother to the ground. You sure as hell don't just bury him and leave shit alone for a decade while his musical theatre minion systematically stalks the only people who know how to raise him from the dead.
The villain also feels. The. Need. To. Talk. Really. Really. Slowly. Before. Doing. Anything. It's like the Coach's Hotline from The Simpsons. You could put three shots into him using a muzzle loader at the rate he speaks. He makes Walter Cronkite sound like John Maschita (think Micro Machines).
Verdict:
Eh. Give it a 5 of 10.