The rest of the turgid two hours alternates between limb-lopping bloodbaths and regal subterfuge involving a twitchy John Malkovich and a headwear-bedecked Faye Dunaway. The film is a mush of distracting inaccuracies and anachronisms: the French speak unaccented English, the Brits are all cockneys, and when the intrepid Joan starts talking about voices in her head, one of her compatriots chuckles, "She's nuts!" And then, just as it seems the virgin warrior will never take to the stake, Dustin Hoffman shuffles forth as the personification of her conscience. Enduring this movie: now that's martyrdom.