A screen-filling spread of comic-book covers clue us in at the outset -- those of us, anyhow, who were unacquainted with the series of British "graphic novels" from Fleetway Publications -- as to the provenance of the titular superhero, a test-tube lawman in the anarchic Third Millennium, with as rigid a code of justice, not to mention as rigid a physique, as our own Robocop. In fact Stallone's overinflated body, even when relieved of the gold-plated shoulder pads and cantaloupe-sized codpiece, looks as though it belongs on the toy-store shelf alongside G.I. Joe; it hardly looks fit for any honest physical activity. (Though of course it grinds into high gear for that shot that must be stipulated in the contract for every Stallone film: running in slow-motion directly toward the camera and away from a flowering fireball.) What unfolds after the comic-book prologue -- filmed, fittingly enough, in a British studio by a British director, Danny Cannon -- is self-consciously and self-mockingly comicky. Everything about the tone of the movie is light and lampoonish. Yet everything about the packaging is heavy, lavish, overscaled: this is a comic book with the weight of Webster's Third New International Dictionary. Armand Assante, Rob Schneider, Diane Lane. (1995) — Duncan Shepherd