One of the toughest jobs for the critic is commenting on the middling picture, a movie you can't rave about and you can't rip it a new one either. Underworld is one of these types of movies, a slick fantasy project part-Matrix and part-Vampire Slayer. Cinecultist supposes what would have thrilled us more is if there had been even an iota of self-referential verve found in either of those other projects. This made us start thinking such existential questions as, "Can we really appreciate genre flicks any more? Is there a place for sentiment that's entirely earnest?" But then we kicked ourselves and said, to our friend MD so you don't think CC talks to herself as she walks out of movies, "hey, it's just a freaking Hollywood flick meant to have at least two more sequels!" Here's what we know: Kate Beckinsale looks great. We should all wear that much leather all the time, if we've got the thighs to handle it. The vampires and werewolves are properly scary. The blood flows enough so that even the jaded Cinecultist whinced and turned away. But sadly, it just doesn't feel like enough to love this movie.