Not exactly dull but never interesting either, Resident Evil: Extinction is the third installment in the video-game-derived series of films starring Milla Jovovich as Alice, a superhuman warrior fighting zombie hordes.

The movie’s fake-out opening reveals that the sinister Umbrella corporation (represented by the evil Dr Isaacs, played by Iain Glen, a recurring cast member) is testing clones of Alice, hoping to use immunities in her blood to develop a vaccine to control the infection.

This is a dumb but intriguing germ of an idea. But it predictably takes a back seat to endless scenes of Alice and other returning actors (including Oded Fehr and Mike Epps) moving toward and through a buried Las Vegas while mowing down zombies with blades, guns and a truck fitted with a cow-catcher.

The director, Russell Mulcahy (Highlander), pulls off a few decent set pieces, including attacks by skinless dogs and Hitchcock-inspired clouds of glassy-eyed undead crows. But they have no weight because there’s no characterisation or emotion, just slick mayhem.

The movie wasn’t screened for critics, but that seems less a tacit admission of a dip in quality than of the fact that all the films are just noisy time killers, about as engrossing as watching someone else play a video game.

Matt Zoller Seitz (The New York Times)

Sorry, too trite for Tagore

When you try to recreate Rabindranath Tagore on screen, you have to meet certain expectations. First, his look and presence. Chirosakha He... has the most insipid and wimpish Rabindranath possible. Sayandeep proves that only droopy eyes, long hair and a beard do not a Rabindranath make.

Exploring the relationship between Rabindranath and his sister-in-law Kadambari Debi was a brave idea, but director Bandana Mukhopadhyay spoils the show with amateurish treatment and weak casting. Though nothing much is known about the relationship, Mukhopadhyay slots it into the poet-muse frame — by far the most popular theory.

But her portrayal is simplistic and bland. She also makes a failed attempt to weave in undercurrents — sexual in nature — between the two.

Chirosakha suffers mainly from the lack of intensity between the two main characters. There is no trace of their irresistible attraction and deep emotional bond — you can’t help thinking of (and wishing for) Madhabi and Soumitra in Ray’s Charulata, a veiled reference to the Rabindranath-Kadambari chapter.

Sayandeep frets, fumes and sulks like a lost boy when Kadambari lies in her death bed (she consumes poison from depression and loneliness), while Deepanjana looks artificial, with nothing of that intrigue which made her a dream woman.

Among others, Roopa delivers a controlled performance as the sympathetic Soudamini. The one who really leaves a mark is Tom Alter, as the tender but helpless British physician attending to Kadambari.

A period drama needs more research and care in costumes and props, especially when it’s about the Jorasanko Tagore family. Chirosakha is littered with fashion faux pas — from the hairdo, the outfits, the wigs... to the sets. Everything smacks of a dowdy, tasteless household. But the scene that takes the bakery is Rabindranath and Kadambari serenading in a Nalban-like park with springs spouting around stumps of manicured shrubs. Only Bappi Lahiri’s music is soothing.