There are hundreds of thousands of companies in modern Tokyo, but only one Phantom Quest Corporation, a firm that specializes in exorcisms and troublesome spirits. Its founder and CEO is Ayaka Kisaragi, a red-haired klutz whose lipstick turns into an enchanted sword when she needs to dispatch vampires, demons, or ghosts. She's assisted by the exorcist Rokkon, the medium Madame Suimei, the innocent-looking Nanami, and Mamoru, a long-suffering computer whiz who tries to reconcile Ayaka's profligate spending with her limited income. The tone of Phantom Quest suggests Ghostbusters remade for Bette Midler-Ayaka drinks too much, oversleeps, and murders songs in karaoke settings, but she comes through in the end. Her tongue-in-cheek adventures juxtapose supernatural villains with slapstick comedy, much of it involving her put-upon beau, Detective Karino. In "Kiss of Fire," they defeat Count Dracula (whose coffin has been purchased as a novelty by a Japanese businessman) but trash Tokyo Tower in the process. The most satisfying of the four adventures is "Love Me Tender," in which the ghost of an archeologist tries to protect his former fiancée from beyond the grave. Possible sequels are hinted at in the DVD extras. Rated 13 and up for nudity, violence, sexual situations, and occasional profanity. -Charles Solomon.

Franklin J. Schaffner (Patton) directs this true story of Henri Charriere (better known as "Papillon" or "the butterfly"), a prisoner so determined to escape the notorious Devil's Island, he attempted it multiple times until he reached old age. Steve McQueen plays Charriere, and Dustin Hoffman is very good as the hero's anxious, defenseless friend. Based on Charriere's own memoir and uncompromisingly adapted by screenwriters Dalton Trumbo (Johnny Got His Gun) and Lorenzo Semple Jr. (Three Days of the Condor), the film is tough going (it is set, after all, on Devil's Island) but not gratuitously violent. There are sequences that stay with one for a long time, such as Papillon's brief stay at a leper colony and the long periods of starvation and solitary confinement he endures after each attempted flight. -Tom Keogh.

This interesting Belgian film from 1994 has a surface subject that might make a few guys wince: an 18th-century castrato, or castrated male opera singer. A superstar in Europe, Farinelli the vocalist-despite compromised equipment-gets his share of groupies and is showered with attention and gifts from rich patrons. Meanwhile, his brother-a so-so composer whose career and fortunes are inextricably linked to his sibling, as per their father's wishes-feels like a sham for enjoying the fruits of another's success. For director Gérard Corbiau, the real story is that of the forced bond between the two men, and their unspoken awareness that their separate destinies have been slowed by the arrangement. Corbiau gives us the best of two worlds: a costume drama with an unusual, even exotic, story line, and a tender, universal tale of real love. The opera sequences are a kick: the breathless crowds, Farinelli's hammy control over the drama, and his stunning castrato voice (manufactured by Corbiau via synthesized merger of male and female voices) and all make for great fun. -Tom Keogh.

Anyone who thinks everyone in the 1950s held marriage sacred hasn't seen We're Not Married, one of the more gleefully cynical snipes ever aimed at that fundamental institution. Five couples discover that their marriages aren't legal-Ginger Rogers and Fred Allen as a bickering pair of beloved radio personalities; Marilyn Monroe as a beauty contestant with her oppressed house-husband, David Wayne; Eve Arden and Paul Douglas as a chatty pair who've run out of conversation; Louis Calhern as a kindly tycoon married to gold-digging Zsa Zsa Gabor; and Eddie Bracken as a soldier who's just learned his not-quite-wife Mitzi Gaynor is pregnant. Into their lives comes a letter from the government revealing the truth about their unions, and suddenly everyone considers what their lives might be, if only. We're Not Married spins five variations on a theme, with smart, sly, and sardonic results. -Bret Fetzer.

Mary Harron's feature-which picked up a Special Jury Award at the 1996 Sundance Film Festival for lead actress and independent film mainstay Lili Taylor-is a highly suspect mishmash of golly-gee counterculture reconstruction and inflammatory agitprop. Harron re-creates the ultimately violent relationship of motor-mouth street freak writer-prostitute-lesbian-gun-wielding assailant Valerie Solanas (Taylor) and pop artist Andy Warhol (Jared Harris) in the late 1960s, which ended in Solanas's assault on Warhol for his charmingly noncommittal responses to her search for a patron. It's a great idea for a film, but I Shot Andy Warhol is truly at odds with itself. Harron's modular construction of the story-part naive reenactment of the instant-celebrity life at Warhol's studio, part celebration of Solanas's subversive ramblings, part investigation into the roots of her hyper-victimization at, apparently, the hands of all men-is ultimately a shell game that allows the writer-director to avoid taking a clear stand on Solanas's bizarro politics. The cast is the only draw here: besides indie-film queen Taylor, Jared Harris makes for a convincingly cagey Warhol. -Tom Keogh.