Derivative does not even BEGIN to describe this picture. Deadfall takes a running leap over the hallowed ground of homage, jumps awkwardly from the springboard of pastiche, and lands smack in the cold cruel waters of obsequious fan-boy imitation. Virtually obsessed with film noir genre clichés, director Christopher Coppola (nephew of the other, talented Coppola) lingers over shots of lazy overhead fans and trails of smoke emanating from the femme fatale's lipstick-stained cigarette, when he should have devoted some time to airing out the stinky red herrings, in his own rotten screenplay.

From the moment that Michael Biehn accidentally "kills" his con-man father (James Coburn) in a sting operation, we just know in the pit of our stomachs that dad's set junior up for the THE BIG FALL. Clutching a tattered picture of his mother, Biehn hops a Greyhound to the west coast (even though he's just scored about thirty grand, go figure!) to look up his only surviving family member, an uncle he's never met... or even knew about, until going through dad's carefully planted earthly possessions. Now, the wheels of Machiavellian machination begin to turn in all their rusty glory, as "Uncle Lou" (Coburn, in a dual role — surprise/ yawn) initiates Biehn into his own con-gang.

Greasing said wheel is Sarah Trigger, a strawberry blonde in a B-cup nesting under Coburn's wing. Trigger bears a startling resemblance to Biehn's mother — only Biehn's too damned infatuated to realize two and two spells "set-up". Trigger ain't no Rita Hayworth, but when she falls topless into bed, your brain will be happily diverted from figuring out all the plot points ten minutes ahead of the cast.

The best thing about Deadfall is actually the worst thing in it — that being Nicolas Cage, in a performance of such pure unrestrained idiocy that it makes Huntz Hall seem like a model of decorum by comparison. Believing that he's being eased out of his second-in-command position in favor of Biehn, Cage generally waves his pistolero about without the slightest provocation, shouts ''fuck" a lot, rolls his eyes like Mantan Moreland, and whines like Droopy Dog with his teeth wired shut.  For devotees of bad cinema it's a "must-see" classic, but those who prefer their cured ham around the 25th of December may think otherwise. (Eventually Cage becomes so annoying that Biehn pushes his face into a vat of scalding french fry oil, a scene which I personally rewound six times just to make up for his gesticulating barrage.)

Cage is just one of a small army of well-known actors who slum their way through this needlessly convoluted mess. Far more entertaining than the actual film would have been to see to see Francis Coppola's response to his nephew's frantic phone call, begging him to pull a few strings for the supporting roles: "Well, Chris, Charlie Sheen missed the boat on The Color of Money, I'm sure he'd love ta play a pool hustler, and geez, Peter Fonda might help out.   Remember The Mod Squad and The Monkees? How 'bout Clarence Williams III and Mickey Dolenz? Of course, Talia's always free."

Slogging through 90 minutes of this pretentious drivel will turn even the most forgiving fans of hard-boiled crime fiction into a drooling gelatinous puddle. Practically the whole film looks like it was shot in a dark warehouse with sparse sets recycled from a porn flick; the dialogue is wrenchingly awful, and everyone from Biehn down to the PA's should be embarrassed by the very contamination of working on it. If you love true noir, wait until Romeo Is Bleeding sees a video release. In a word, Deadfall is dread-ful.