The movie is very much the same: a gimmicky thriller propped up by genre conventions set in congealing industrial grime by ''The Silence of the Lambs'' and, especially, ''Seven.'' As in that film, it's always raining a diseased, urban drizzle, and somewhere in a deserted steam tunnel, a crazed serial killer is offing victims in ways that seem more designed for baroque camera angles than to assuage any particular psychological kinks.
So what do you get for your $3.50? A few horrific death tableaux, Angelina Jolie's jolly pout as the street cop who becomes Lincoln's eyes and ears on the outside, and a killer who, for all the fiendishly knotty clues he strews about, turns out to be a whiny little snit. Oh yes -- and a performance from Washington that lacks body in every respect.
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