CINEMA / John Lyttle on cinema

Former New Yorker movie critic, Pauline Kael, once said that even in the worst movie there was always something, a titbit, that redeemed the tedium; a hot song or an eccentric supporting role or a line about wombat sperm. As usual, the divine Pauline is no more than right. Indeed, one should like to pick up her ball and mince very quickly with it and suggest that a scoring system be instituted to alert movie-goers as to why they should attend a film that otherwise would be made to wander the streets calling out 'Unclean, unclean'. Take Bloodhounds of Broadway. It's a major bore but Madonna actually keeps her clothes on. Surely the public should be made aware of this miracle and be encouraged to rejoice? Imagine how ticket sales would have picked up if punters had known the Material Girl was going to - pardon the vulgarism - 'get her tits in'.

And what about The Hunger? This anaemic vampire flick haemorrhaged on screens everywhere, yet it contains not only the sight of Susan Sarandon and Catherine Deneuve engaged in lesbian sex - be still my boyish heart - but a scene in which David Bowie (above) is boldly inserted into a wooden crate and the lid closed for all time. Sarandon and Deneuve at it and Bowie in a box. You feel your time has not been entirely wasted.

So look out for Falling in Love (Meryl Streep doesn't do an accent), Deceived (Goldie Hawn skips that giggle), Mad Dog and Glory (Robert De Niro unveils his butt) and Mortal Thoughts, in which Demi Moore cuts Bruce Willis's throat. I'd call that money well spent.

(Photograph omitted)