At some level, inaccessible to the naked eye, this could be classified as a jailbreak thriller, but any family resemblance to the likes of Black Tuesday or The Concrete Jungle has been obliterated beneath the mask of spectacle -- the cosmetic surgery, the collagen injections, the earrings and nose studs, the glitter and gloss. It certainly is not a matter of the prison cell being unconventionally airborne: a transport plane of the U.S. Marshals Service, en route to a new maximum-security facility for incorrigibles. ("They somehow managed to get every creep and freak in the known universe on this one plane" -- every creep and freak, plus the nicest guy ever to do hard time, an ex-Army Ranger on his way home for the eighth birthday of the daughter he has never met.) No, it's a matter of the genre being a mere launching pad -- as any genre in the Nineties is apt to be -- for an aerodynamic assemblage of stunts and special effects (the irresistible cliché: the hero running in slow-motion toward the camera and away from a mushrooming fireball), of pink tints and pushy closeups, of squealing electric guitars and a thumping bass, of fight "choreography" and physical impossibilities, of oblivious jokes and comic-book dialogue ("Whaddya think I'm gonna do? I'm gonna save the fucking day"). It hardly matters in this kind of movie who gets plugged in as director or actors, but for the record: TV ad man Simon West in his feature directing debut; Nicolas Cage, John Cusack (good guys), John Malkovich, Ving Rhames (bad guys), Steve Buscemi (not such a bad guy when you get to know him). (1997) — Duncan Shepherd