Mindhunters: Critic Reviews

The revelations bring no more satisfaction than consulting an answer key.

Mindhunters is a quintessential Renny Harlin film: a big, dumb, loud action movie.

A contrived, unpleasant and very drawn-out affair.

Evidently, these young FBI geniuses were just on a collective undercover assignment to infiltrate the Melrose Avenue club scene, because their disguise consists of half-grown (or half-ungrown) beards, shaggy hair, [and] insouciant wisecracking attitudes.

Corny? Oh, yeah. But it's also reasonably good fun.

The movie can't even have campy fun with the foolishness in Wayne Kramer and Kevin Brodbin's script.

In an era of wall-to-wall CSI, Mindhunters' ghoulish forensic hubbub not only feels tiring but hopelessly redundant.

The murderer may not be obvious because the script breaks every law of probability, and 'ridiculous' is too mild a word to apply to the deaths.

You'd think these agents' training would kick in, that they'd analyze the situation, deduce who is behind the killings and put a plan in place to stop it. You'd be wrong. They panic like ants after their hill has been stepped on.

On the way to its finale, there's plenty of mayhem to keep you guessing.

The mystery, when it is solved, is both arbitrary and explained at great length. The killer gives a speech justifying his actions, which is scant comfort for those already dead.

Mark my words: Mindhunters will do for psycho-thrillers what Showgirls did for stripper movies.

Mindhunters has the dumbest whodunit thriller plot and the least plausible moves of any film I can think of.

The movie's title, I guess, alludes to the student profilers' ability to put themselves in the mind-set of a murderer. In this witless exercise, however, Mindhunters more accurately suggests that all parties concerned have lost theirs.

Profilers are supposed to outsmart their foes. But the only brains in evidence are the ones oozing out of head wounds.

No one with any kind of mind should waste it on this film.

Primarily, the film is an exercise in stupidity. You don't have to be an Einstein for it to insult your intelligence.

The illogic of the situation is so extreme that the final confrontation plays like an afterthought.

The cinematic equivalent of a corpse left out to rot.

[Miller's accent] isn't Sir Michael Caine in Hurry Sundown bad -- still the worst Southern accent ever attempted by a future Oscar winner and knight. But it's awful enough to call attention to itself in the middle of a movie smothered in awfulness.

It didn't take much mental power to come up with the plot.

There is something inherently mindless and preposterously silly about the whole exercise.

It's not hard to see why this movie lingered on Dimension's shelves for long.

The picture is not without its occasional cheap thrills, which should prove to be more cost-effective in the form of a video store rental.