A boldly literal interpretation of what was, at the time, sixty-year-old source material, Dick Tracy was dated before it had even commenced filming. In today's world, it's a painful reminder of what happens when badly misread cultural trends, aging showbiz producers and a full committee of writers collide on-screen.

Visually it's a day-glow disaster, combining recklessly outlandish wardrobe, distractingly obvious matte-painting backdrops, startlingly grotesque makeup effects and an odd mix of kids' primary colors with ink-black noir lighting. The cast is so stale, weak and one-dimensional throughout that not even an A-list staff of Hollywood's elite is able to play life preserver. Dustin Hoffman, James Caan and Al Pacino are lost amidst the flood of stilted dialog, Madonna sleepwalks through a rotten performance as, basically, herself, and Warren Beatty is so squeaky clean and unrelentingly straightforward in the leading role that it almost works on a purely satirical level.

Clearly someone, somewhere, saw the runaway success of Tim Burton's Batman around the corner and chose to grant a similar treatment to a character they recalled from the funny pages of their own youth, without stopping to consider if Tracy's story was as relevant and trans-generational as Bruce Wayne's. The splashy colors and simple, hackneyed plot make it a no-sell to adults, while the abundance of sex and violence also makes it tough to buy as a kid's movie. Genuinely awful from start to finish, I had to watch in three installments because it kept putting me to sleep.