U.S.A.

Thursday, 8:15 p.m., Saturday, 10:30 p.m.

The thumping, hard-sell, shotgun-blast-approach message of "The Bible and Gun Club" is not for those with delicate ears who thought David Mamet's "Glengarry Glen Ross" hard to take. Besides trash language there is the battery of gunshots and personal degradation.

They might consider this film to be for fans of masochism of the type touted by one of the dinosaur-age salesmen of the Bible and Gun Club Company who slam themselves from door to door pushing elaborate Bibles and lethal weapons as a package deal. Included in the package is radical racism and sexism most foul.

The salesmen are at the end of their line in almost every way and the company convention in Las Vegas, where the film climaxes, could demolish them.

The film, by Daniel J. Harris, is done in a pseudo-documentary fashion gone amok, and as such one can say that it is bold and brash or just balderdash. The film does deal with reality but does it in such an obvious way and at times so amateurishly it stretches believability too far and can be seen as pandering to its own finger-pointing.

One must bend to its stylization and credit the filmmaker for the intended message. However, I think the good ol' boys (as was the case with the Archie Bunkers) may just enjoy it all . . . a whole lot.

France

Saturday, 9:15 p.m., Sunday, 3:15 p.m.

After a few lackluster years, the French filmmakers are back with a string of gems, including Patrice Leconte's "Ridicule." It's a lush and ironic costume drama (think "Liaisons Dangereuses" and "The Madness of King George") with a surprisingly contemporary feel.

"Ridicule" is set in 1780 in the cynical court of Louis XVI, where wit was the measure of the man. Gregoire Ponceludon de Malavoy (Charles Berling), an engineer descended from provincial nobility, has come to plead with the king to finance the draining of the swamps on behalf of the peasants on his estate, who are dying from malaria and other diseases.

"Be witty, sharp, and malicious and you'll succeed," he is told upon arrival at the court. "Wit opens every door." And ridicule means a failure so devastating that it can drive a man to suicide.

Against his own principles, Gregoire joins the court at Versailles in playing at humiliating word games. Before long he has bested the best of them, the preening Abbot de Vilecourt (Bernard Giraudeau), and bedded Madame de Blayac, the powerful and seductive older woman (Fanny Ardant) who has the king's ear. But love plays havoc with his plans.

Gregoire is smitten with Mathilde (Judith Godreche), a rebellious young woman with a scientific bent (she invents an underwater diving suit). When she falls in love with Gregoire, she refuses to marry the wealthy older man who could finance her research. To win her, and fulfill his own altruistic side, Gregoire must risk . . . you guessed it . . . ridicule.

U.S.A.

Friday, 8:15 p.m., Saturday, 9:45 p.m.

Plodding over all too familiar territory in Brooklyn, "Layin' Low" retells the story of idling young men getting in the way of trouble and eventually getting struck down by it. As a comedy-drama this movie's streets aren't as mean as Martin Scorsese's, and the not-so-wise guys aren't as dopey as the "Bowery Boys," and since neither aspect is very sharply drawn, the movie is dulled by edgeless deja vu.

Trying to sharpen the image are Jeremy Privan as Jerry Muckler, a 33-year-old loafer (who does, however, make a mean meat loaf), and Frank John Hughes as Christy, Jerry's OTB-addicted pal (who, as tradition has it, appears to be a likely candidate for TB and other life-threatening stumbling blocks). And there is Louise Lasser as Jerry's mother and Marilyn Dobrin as his girlfriend, all performing well in this bad-news comedy, but most of the talk is too small and their work suffers.

Since Jerry Muckler maybe wants to be a writer, I assume the film is somewhat autobiographical; therefore, we get characters that were meaningful to the screenwriter-director, Danny Leiner, but to us they have the distance of "you had to be there," and others that are just too trite to intrigue. As is the progression of events: the drug deal gone wrong, the need to "lay low," and the eventual wrecking reckoning.

U.S.A.

Today, 4:15 p.m.; Friday, 6:30 p.m.

"Bastard Out of Carolina," the film version of Dorothy Allison's critically acclaimed novel about growing up poor in South Carolina in the 1950s, is stirring up controversy because it contains brutally realistic scenes of child abuse.

Ted Turner financed the made-for-television movie and gave Anjelica Huston her first chance to direct. He screened the final result and dropped it like a hot potato. Reports are that his wife, Jane Fonda, screamed when she watched certain scenes. Which begs the question, what did he expect? Didn't anyone at Turner Television read the script, or the book? Because "Bastard" is a faithful rendition, down to the first-person voice-over narrative by Laura Dern.

It stars a relatively restrained Jennifer Jason Leigh as Anney Boatwright, mother of the bastard of the title. Anney's illegitimate first daughter is dubbed "Bone" by her Uncle Earl, who looks at the newborn and says, "She ain't no bigger than a knuckle bone."

Twelve-year-old Jena Malone is heartbreaking as Bone. The love between mother and daughter is wide as the screen, which makes Daddy Glen, the sadistic man who marries Anney and comes between them, a villain par excellence. Ron Eldard plays the weak man who takes out his frustrations on his stepchild.

But no, this is not gratuitous violence. It's how it is for too many children today. Directed by an actress who understands the power of emotion. Played by an ensemble of women who show on their faces how generations have endured poverty, abuse, and the struggle to find love. Glenne Headley and Diana Scarwid are strong as Bone's aunts, as is Grace Zabriskie as the matriarch of the family who can tell there's something wrong with Daddy Glen with just one look.

U.S.A.

Thursday and Friday, 6 p.m.

"Mugshot" is a strange, and sometimes beautiful, film with many things going for it. It's a first film for its writer-director-editor-cinematographer, Matt Mahurin, and a rousing start.

There are a few too many twists and turns in the story line, which basically is about a scam, double scam, even triple scam. A white photographer out to do a story on Harlem finds himself in an abandoned loft with no memory, wearing blood-smeared clothes and one shoe. He is "befriended" by Rumor, a black man, also a photographer, who chronicles his own life and what he knows about Chris, his alter ego (whom he has dubbed "Joe"), in celluloid.

Early on, Rumor sets the tone when he sardonically says, "If it's not too much hassle for me, I'll get you back to your rightful owner."

It's a gripping tale, though sometimes confusing. Mr. Mahurin comes to film from music videos, traces of which are very much in evidence in this film. I'm not sure whether or not to take this film as seriously as it may have been meant. I did find it disturbing to hear street-smart talk from Rumor's baby sister, who sounds as if she is ripe for gang life at the tender age of eight or nine.

There are lovely shots of much of New York, but the film doesn't show Harlem in a loving light, focusing as it does on its grimiest aspects.

U.S.A.

Friday, 6:30 p.m.

Viewers be warned: In order to appreciate this low-key but visually exciting documentary, you need to have at least a rudimentary knowledge of the film's subject. In other words, "Philip Johnson: Diary of an Eccentric Architect" is not, heaven forbid, a run-of-the-mill educational documentary.

Significantly, what you need to know beforehand about the 90-year-old American architect is pretty much what Barbara Wolf has elected to omit from her film. Thus, for example, there is next to nothing about the skyscrapers that made him famous, and there is no hint of the various controversies surrounding the man - in regard, first of all, to his notorious flirtation with fascism.

Nor does the film grapple with such pertinent issues as the growing consensus among his peers that his work went into decline once he had abandoned the International Style of his mentor, Mies van der Rohe.

Not that I'm complaining about these omissions - far from it; what Ms. Wolf has given us is a deceptively simple film that takes us on a fascinating tour of Mr. Johnson's New Canaan, Conn., estate. Here, for the past 45 years, beginning with the widely publicized Glass House of 1949, he has been engaged in designing and building what might prove to be his most lasting works.

On the other hand, do these playful, idiosyncratic structures merely offer further evidence that Philip Johnson is, as has been charged, a decadent dilettante with no architectural style of his own? Even here, away from the concerns of a high-powered career, he is controversial.

What grounds this unpretentious, casually structured film is the footage showing us how the architect's final building was conceived and constructed. This is the structure that will serve as the Visitors Center when, after the architect's death, the estate is turned over to the National Trust for Historic Preservation.

Based on an abstract sculpture by Frank Stella, who appears briefly, it is the most extreme and daring building in the New Canaan complex. In vivid detail, Ms. Wolf's camera captures the excitement of creativity, providing the viewer with a rare glimpse of a work in progress, step by step.

As for Mr. Johnson, he emerges in this hour-long documentary as a man of awesome self-confidence. But above all, we sense his extraordinary energy, still at full throttle. Whatever his place in the history of contemporary architecture, he remains a force to be reckoned with.

U.S.A.

Friday, 11:30 a.m., Saturday, 1:30 p.m.

From all appearances, Eliza and her husband, Louis, seem to have a solid marriage: open communication, hot sex, he gets along with her parents. Yet one morning after Louis has gone to work, Eliza finds what looks suspiciously like a love letter written to him by one "Sandy."

The next thing you know, Eliza and her entire family, including her working-class parents (Pat McNamara, Ann Meara), her artsy sister, Jo (Parker Posey), and Jo's overeducated boyfriend, Carl (Liev Schreiber), pile into the family woody and head eastbound on the L.I.E. Part detectives, part support group, their mission improbable is to get to the bottom of this sudden domestic intrigue.

As the unlikely gaggle (otherwise known as a typical suburban family) hunts an elusive Louis down Manhattan canyons, they suffer through such indignities as a broken car heater, generic familial bickering, and the literary pretensions of novelist-construction worker Carl. All the while their lives smash into those of other squabblers and strivers . . . until they finally confront Louis, who by this time they've caught in a web of lies.

A kind of "After Hours" meets "All in the Family," this zany misadventure builds into a powerful and probing drama and ultimate testament to the thickness of blood versus water. While lampooning the publishing world and downtown scene (a venue Parker Posey, star of "Party Girl," inhabits so cozily on celluloid), this directorial debut also manages an uncomfortably familiar emotional intensity.

By casting the spouse in the role of possibly untrustworthy foreigner temporarily given refuge within the folds of the primary family, it also affirms family values in a way never intended by Newt Gingrich. Like most families, this one unravels in order to be stitched again.

U.S.A.

Sunday, 6 p.m.

Sensitive exploratory performances by Gena Rowlands, Marisa Tomei, and Gerard Depardieu in a "coming of age" script directed and co-written by Nick Cassavetes are an entertaining delight. The unique element is that without sentimentality or excess we experience the maturing of a woman in her late 50s whose children have finally left the coop.

Mildred (Gena Rowlands), whose son is married, whose daughter lives with her in a contentious relationship, is called upon by her battered neighbor, Monica (Marisa Tomei), to help care for her young son (Jake Lloyd).

In these roles both women reveal spirited and engaging personalities; Rowlands' benign, imaginative, and intelligent mother begins to blossom again with the care of taking duties - ball playing, storytelling, or teaching. Marisa Tomei reveals a tenacious woman whose mercurial behavior and vulgar mouth belie her instinctive intelligence and pragmatic optimism.

Each serves the other, with Monica reintroducing the widowed Mildred to the world of available men. All the performances, including that of the child actor, are believable and affecting without a moment of touchy-feely or cloying-clawing tension. Though overlong, neither the extended storyline nor an erratic and at times awkward score can seriously detract or spoil the strength of the theme, the joyful controlled performances, the talented direction, editing, and cinematography.

U.S.A.

Friday, 8:45 p.m.; Saturday, 6:45 p.m.

A provocative exploration of the lives of three L.A. cab drivers working for one cab service and competing by hustle or fist with all others. Without delving too deeply into the background of the men or their families we are shoved headfirst into their conflicted personalities, dreams, and delusions.

In the confrontations between customer and driver, the garish city, at least the seedy ugly part, is grotesquely revealed - angry, racist, and driven. Poverty is just part of the picture. The writer finds, even among the successful, only the despairing and disaffected.

Everything takes place within Christmas week and the maniacal L.A. Christmas decor is the illuminated backdrop. Unfortunately, awkward cuts and problematic lighting often detract from the intended effect.

The three leads give hard-edged performances of heightened yet credible characters and hold the audience to their individual tales. Another eye might have cut out repetitive incidents which too often turn intended dramatic detail into no more than a laundry list. Unlike Jim Jarmuch's film about taxi drivers and their customers, each a short story unto itself, these tales are roughly entwined by their owner's garage and marketplace.

Despite the need for a cut, Shoob does a remarkable job of scripting and directing clearly defined characters both phlegmatic and volatile - at a loss in an unforgiving city.

Fulfillment

Church is guilt. Food is guilt. Wouldn't it be easier if they had a combined menu so one could make a manageable decision about which burden to wrestle with?

Now that the holidays are said and done, I've observed something about my seasonal behavior. I didn't participate in a single religious event and I overate.

But I'm still eyeing that size eight Oscar de la Renta chartreuse bathing suit with hope, and, if I'm being honest, I'm still on a mission for spiritual fulfillment, which is what I'm addressing today.

Once A Catholic . . .

In my diet group, we always start off with goals, so if I think about my ideal religious experience, I guess it would be to click with the Unitarians. Fat-free church. No lipids. Option to work out, or not to work out. It's all good.

This would be the exact opposite of how I was raised. My religious upbringing was analogous to an Italian sausage appetizer, washed down with a glass of buy-it-by-the-gallon table wine, as the lasagna baked in a bed of ricotta cheese, the scent reaching down into my newly lined stomach. This was finished with an array of jumbo cannolis, and other puffed pastry demons.

I was Catholic. And what they say about once a Catholic, always a Catholic is true. My low-cal recipes are my rosary beads, and I'm always reminding myself, "Thou shalt not eat that doughnut whilst I remember the personal trainer bill this month."

Guilt-Free Diet

My friend, Elsie, is a Buddhist. Ha, now there's a crash diet for you. Just fast, my friend. Sure, no guilt, but as I pass out on the floor realizing how tedious the whole ordeal is, will Elsie revive me with promises to take me to Maxim's before I die? Because, honestly, I'm no damn saint, and the chances of me reaching enlightenment are slim to none, so why wonder?

And all those cults. Well, I can tell you now, there's no way I could engage in whatever on-the-sneak business they do. I mean, that is one big midnight, fatso-in-the-refrigerator-lights experience. Ben and Jerry. Ring Dings. Ho Hos, the big no-no's. Uh uh.

Reincarnation

Now, the Congregationalists, they're an interesting bunch. Their menu looks something like this: For a starter, we'll have the baby greens, with a lite lemon vinaigrette. Our entree this Sunday morning will be a roasted saffron chicken, finishing with a raspberry torte. There are a lot of Congregationalists at my spa and they seem well-balanced. I might give that a try.

But, thinking about Buddhism, there is that chance for reincarnation, so maybe the starvation is worth it. God knows I have my order placed in that department. I'd like to come back in a sleek body, no winking cellulose dimples, and where there is mush, I'd like it to be firm, like a nice hunk of Jarlsberg atop a roast beef sandwich.

Heather Won Tesoriero teaches language arts at the Ross School, where she is writer-in-residence. She has previously contributed to The Star.