The plotting comes from a Ruth Rendell novel, but its voyeurism, vivid sexuality, and pulpy fatalism are ideally suited to Almodovar's mischievous hothouse wit. The director responds with the most dynamic, indulgence-free staging of his career: The rococo Douglas Sirk flourishes have been replaced by a Don Siegel-style bluntness, augmented by the most voluptuous camera glides this side of primo De Palma. And hot? When the gorgeous leads, Liberto Rabal and Francesca Neri, merely stand in close proximity, they reduce the heavy-breathing cast of Wild Things to snuffling warthogs. Live Flesh reminds you what's been missing from all those pallid American neo-noir items glutting the market: the heat of deranging erotic obsession--i.e., live flesh.

The Players Club. Retro-nuevo blaxploitation from first-time writer-director Ice Cube, who has some flair for raunchy comedy. Too bad this is a drama. In this soggy old-school grindhouse flick, a single mom (newcomer LisaRaye) works her way through college doffing her duds at The Players Club, a third-rate strip joint. As written and acted, the women characters might as well be cardboard cutouts--except cardboard has more depth than the movie's conniving rape-bait cousin and the obligatory ELP (Evil Lesbian Predator). And somebody oughta tell Mr. Cube that heavy-mitted moralizing doesn't mix with pole dances.

But the club itself has its moments. It's a tawdry milieu out of inner-city folklore, populated with enough sleazy hustlers to stoke a Rudy Ray Moore slab, and the movie's pretty entertaining when it's hanging with the playas--especially the mushmouthed Staggerlee-wannabe owner (Bernie Mac) and his supercilious sidekick (A.J. Johnson). Whenever they're not onscreen, the movie plays like an afterschool special that sternly cautions against ho'ing--even as it fixes its beady eyes on the merchandise.

Species II. The lunkheaded original concerned a slithery alien whatsit that disguised itself as a butt-nekkid centerfold cutie so that it could mate (and mate and mate) with horny Earthlings--the sort of blatant strokebook premise that virtually guaranteed you'd bump into your minister while trying to sneak out. The twice-as-lunkheaded sequel offers more sex, more gore, and more aliens, here led by a male astronaut who gets infected coming back from Mars. This time around, the crassness of serving a second helping of such shamefaced drek humiliates everyone involved.

The original alien, Natasha Henstridge, is back: Where previously her lust was so undiscriminating that even Alfred Molina saw bareback action, her libido has now been extinguished by, I kid you not, force-fed reruns of The Dukes of Hazzard. (That'd do it for me.) Also back is troubleshooter Michael Madsen, whose performance is rather defiant in its couldn't-give-a-crap laziness.