INTIMATE STRANGERS

R , 105 mins.

The French director Patrice Leconte has carved a strange and welcome cinematic niche for himself as a cartographer of the human heart’s more remote byways. In movies as disparate as “Monsieur Hire” (1989), “The Hairdresser’s Husband” (1990), “Ridicule” (1996), and “The Widow of Saint-Pierre” (2000), Mr. Leconte meticulously probed the lives of characters distinguished as much by vulnerability as by passion, his overt sympathy for their plights a hallmark of his filmmaking.

With “Confidences trop intimes” (“Intimate Strangers,” R, 105 mins.), the director once more focuses on two would-be strangers thrust suddenly and forcefully into an intimate relationship. And as in his last film, “The Man on the Train,”Mr. Leconte once more pays overt homage to Hitchcock. This movie opens with Bernard Herrmann-like music that seemingly impels a distressed woman toward – what? – a psychiatrist’s office, it turns out.

There Anna (Sandrine Bonnaire) tentatively tells Dr. Monnier of her marital problems. He listens patiently until she ends the visit abruptly, making another appointment before rushing off. But unfortunately Anna’s agitation has betrayed her: The office she entered wasn’t Dr. Moonier, but rather that of his neighbor William Faber (Fabrice Luchini), a fussy tax attorney with relationship problems of his own.

William can hardly believe his good luck: a beautiful woman unburdens herself to him, asking only that he sympathize with her travails and occasionally offer counsel – what man could resist? (On the other hand, what woman wouldn’t give her right arm for a guy who listens as patiently as William does?) Naturally, William can’t keep the ruse going indefinitely. Hitchcock would be fascinated by the way this deception falls apart. Mr. Leconte is far more interested in the relationship that develops between the two, both before and after her discovery of the truth.

Like her older colleagues Isabelle Huppert and Isabelle Adjani, Ms. Bonnaire has the power to dominate the screen even when she is not meant to be conventionally beautiful. Here it is impossible not to feel for Anna. Mr. Luchini has the more difficult role, yet he makes the taciturn William fascinatingly enigmatic. He says little; more often he just looks, saying more with a glance than most other actors would with pages of dialogue.

THUNDERBIRDS

PG , 87 mins.

Before minute seven of “Thunderbirds” we have seen an exploding computergenerated oil station, an intricately blinking control panel in the cockpit of a computer-generated airplane/spaceship, and an animated credit sequence that includes many primary colors (presumably computer-generated).

The first sign of a pulse appears in the form of Alan Tracy (Brady Corbet), an ordinary prep-schooler who looks like he just emerged from an ‘N Sync video, is the youngest sibling in a family of privately contracted world-savers. His father (Mr. Paxton) and brothers, known to the world as the Thunderbirds, have rescued the planet many times over. But young Alan has yet to gain the respect.

But when the senior Thunderbirds are duped by a villain who calls himself the Hood (Ben Kingsley), Alan rises to the challenge. With the help of his nerdy sidekick Fermat (Soren Fulton) and blossoming love interest Tintin (Vanessa Anne Hudgens), Alan learns of the Hood’s plan for world domination, evades his dim-witted henchman (later attacked by computer-generated bees), infiltrates his lair, rescues Fermat’s stuttering scientist father, and challenges the Hood to a final showdown. Guess how it turns out.

“Thunderbirds” plays like an episode of a teen-oriented television program from the Fox Family network, drawn out to 90 minutes. The comparison is appropriate consid ering the film’s origin as a 1960s television show and its director, Jonathan Frakes, who will never outlive his stint as Commander William T. Riker on “Star Trek: The Next Generation.” But even “Star Trek” movies fill their campy sci-fi universe with actual characters; “Thunderbirds” makes its statement using lasers, hair gel, and sets that look like they came free with a Happy Meal.

That said, every 6-year-old in the theater laughed and screamed the entire time – providing hope that Mr. Paxton will retain a healthy fan base for years to come.

FESTIVAL EXPRESS

R , 88 mins.

In June 1970, Ken Walker and Thor Eaton put on a music festival all throughout Canada. The acts included The Grateful Dead, Janis Joplin, and the Band, among many others. The groups trained across the country, stopping for concerts in Toronto, Calgary, and Winnipeg.

Bob Smeaton’s new documentary, “Festival Express,” is split between a concert film and behind-the-scenes footage of the ongoing party onboard the title locomotive. I tend to find concert films a little trying – watching singers on a movie screen is just not the same as seeing them live, but Mr. Smeaton (“The Beatles Anthology”) has deftly edited the performances, interviews, and excellent archived footage of jam sessions that make up the film.

The documentary is slow at times. There’s no real conflict (other than a fan riot early in the film) and some of the interviews are unintentionally funny (Mr. Walker proudly informs us that he insisted on “good sandwiches! Not spam!” for the bands onboard the train). But the tedious sections are balanced with clever and funny anecdotes about the tour, and engrossing candid clips of the musicians involved.

Of all the performances, Ms. Joplin’s is by far the most powerful. Here, only three months away from her death, she performs with such intensity and passion that, even secondhand, she’s worth the price of admission all by herself.

TRANSFIXED

R , 91 mins .

‘Transfixed” is such a muddled, disorganized, confusing mess of a movie that it isn’t even called “Transfixed.” The press material says that’s what it’s called, but the English title as it appears in the movie itself is “Gender Bias.” This gaffe, alas, is only the least of its problems.

This stark and ridiculous French film concerns (Robinson Stevenin), a pre-op transsexual who for no reason whatsoever becomes the main suspect in a series of transvestite/transsexual murders. When informed that Bo couldn’t possibly be the killer, the lead detective first declares “These perverts can do anything!” and then continues to investigate Bo. That’s good police work.

Another subplot features Bo’s obsession with his sexually ambiguous neighbor, Johnny (Stephane Metzger). It’s a little one-sided: Johnny sets Bo up to be mercilessly beaten by a group of thugs in one scene; in another scene he breaks Bo’s arm; later on, he attempts to rape Bo. This, however, does not stop Bo from going back for more whenever possible. Eventually we learn that Bo was sexually abused by his father; this may account for his need to get involved in and sustain abusive relationships. But who cares, really?

Francis Girod’s film tries awfully hard to be Hitchockian – even the score is Hermannesque, but this is a dull, silly, overdone movie. My interest was piqued only fleetingly, when I began to suspect that the killer shares the same tailor with Keyser Soze. The most positive reaction one could possibly have here is one of indifference.

– E. G.