Lawrence Kasdan's Grand Canyon is as enigmatic as movies get. On the one hand, it's got a great cast, an ominous soundtrack, and Steve Martin burning through some of the best monologues on film ("All of life's riddles are answered in the movies!"). On the other hand, Kasdan's film is so hopeless and despairing that it's hard to ever properly embrace: In the space of two hours, Kasdan's characters get shot at, murdered, nearly carjacked, nearly seduced into adulterous affairs, shot for real, discover abandoned babies, and generally bemoan the horrors of modern life. Kasdan is intent on getting one point across and one only: America has gone to the dogs, as exemplified by the horrors of Los Angeles.

As a follow-up to The Big Chill, Grand Canyon is so hopeless that it's hard to like, but it is curiously a better-made film. Maybe it's Kevin Kline who keeps things imbued with a certain sense of carefree mirth, or perhaps it's Martin, whose rants sear the screen from edge to edge. Good stuff, if you can past all the bloodshed.