Hollywood continues to feed off fear. If the sun is not threatening to singe the earth, it is some aliens. And when the world does get a respite from them, there is always some deadly virus, unstoppable, incurable! The world – read America – is facing the same old threat all over again in this Will Smith film where the lead actor is worth a second look, the film barely so even for a single visit.

Backed by some wonderful publicity, the film arrives with a trainload of expectations. Unfortunately, only Smith seems able and willing to carry this science-fiction saga forward.

Here director Francis Lawrence relates the story of a military scientist who, as the tagline also says, is “the last man on earth”. And he is not alone though the virus might have infected or eliminated millions. But where are the rest? The scientist’s radio messages asking for any survivors and offering free board and lodging go unanswered. Yes, there are the victims waiting for him to make that one fatal mistake which would prevent him from making the drug that would reverse the killer effects of the virus. It is a race against time: one man against monsters, one cure for humanity.

Anyone who has seen even a handful of sci-fi films is likely to know the winner of this race against time. Where Lawrence lets his audiences down is in the slow, real slow, pace of the film. The futuristic film set in New York takes too long to evolve. The action comes only in bursts, leaving the ever reliable Smith to play the saviour again.

The film is short on details too: where is Smith’s family? Conveniently sent away, as if the man could anticipate the virus attack? And who operates the radio services used to send out messages of help? Some more survivors there? Likely, of course, but Lawrence does not care to explain. For him the only survivor is the scientist’s German shepherd around whom he spins many ignoble scenes: the one about the dog being attacked by plague-carrying dogs is particularly appalling.

Based on Richard Matheson’s classic, the film offers only a momentary scare. Otherwise it peters out from one predictable chase to another, from one experiment to the final denouement.

Not for those with a nose for novelty. Smith might already be something of a legend for many, but this film is worthy of a space only near the leg-end!

Indians love to laugh. Indians are also said to abide by family values. So Indians should love director Andy Fickman’s “The Game Plan”, a film that talks of dad-kid bonding, and leaves an epistle of the good old values behind. Well, unfortunately, the film is too U.S.-centric to appeal to an average cinemagoer in these parts. It tries too hard too often to barely skim the surface, never to go deeper into the issue.

So you have a film that is good to watch in parts but falls short at the end. The while is not greater than the sum of the parts. Which is sad considering here was an opportunity to really score a few points at the box office. The big sharks are not out this week, and little bees could have made merry. But that was not to be as Fickman’s story of a sporting hero does not have the wheels to take it to the destination.

The premise is interesting. Dwayne Johnson, he of spontaneous smiles and a perfectly malleable face, has a visitor: there is an eight-year-old girl at his home claiming to be his daughter! The girl – Madison Pettis – has the basics all covered: the birth certificate, the school report card and the like all mention him as her father.

Her long divorced mom is away in Africa – another sign of Hollywood’s stereotypes: When you cannot think of a godforsaken land, think Africa! So the kiddo has to be with her dad, whom she had never met or seen before! The strange union against the backdrop of sports gives the director a fine chance to show some dad-kid bonding, appeal to the viewers that in every tough body there is a tender heart.

A bit clichéd, a bit amusing, “The Game Plan” won’t hurt if you watch it for a while. Expecting nice, take-home cinema? Sorry, you are at the wrong place!

The best thing about Aanand L. Rai’s “Hitchcockian thriller” is it is not long. In an industry where directors/editors often find themselves too possessive of their products to cut or edit them, Rai’s film at around 90 minutes is a novelty: a rare example of dispassionate work. In the film’s brevity lies its viewers’ respite.

One look at the film and you wish Rai were a bit passionate too! The film has such a familiar look to it that if you have watched half a dozen films of the genre, you would fancy sitting in the director’s chair to put together this cut-copy-paste saga.

The film might be short in duration but it drags, and drags, often leaving the viewers wondering if they have come to watch a non-drama, non-happening affair? Or a whodunit with four talented actors, each of whom is trying hard to carve out his or her niche?

Too bad for them Rai lets everybody down. His hold over his show weak, the film suffers from too much sameness: it is consistently mediocre. It begins and ends on the same note: two men – Jimmy Sheirgill and Kay Kay Menon – meet aboard a train. Trapped in unhappy marriages, they are saddled with partners you won’t want to be a companion to: Menon’s wife – the desperately under-utilised Sonali Kulkarni in a lustreless role – cannot overcome the loss of her son fifteen years ago. And Sheirgill’s wife – Nandana with a peculiar accent – runs the family but is a practitioner of open-ended marriage. Oh, by the way, Menon is studious, predictable and boring while Sheirgill as a struggling writer never gives you a line that would make you believe that one day he would make the cut!

The men want to get rid of their wives. But how? That is the only line of substance in an otherwise completely moth-eaten film. It has neither the momentum necessary for a thriller nor the attention to fine detail necessary for a film to grow gradually on the viewers. And it has stars who cannot sell a hundred tickets between them at the box office.

Then there is a cinematographer who seems to believe that to keep the viewers inside the auditorium he must not let his camera experience any sunshine either.

There is a dark, gloomy look to the film that makes you want to run out, breathe in fresh air, sing a song, tap your toes.

Talking of a song, there is a saving grace in the film! A nice, soothing song with Javed Akhtar’s lyrics. That is, however, too little compensation for relentless tedium. Yes, Rai’s may not be the Indianised version of several Hollywood offerings, but it comes close. Sorry, but “Strangers” is the kind of film you wish you had not watched with your best friend. Or even a nodding acquaintance. Let “Strangers” be.