Young Libby Parsons (Ashley Judd) is happy as a clam, and why not? She's got a loving, successful husband (Bruce Greenwood), an adorable son, and an island home to die for. One morning, after a romantic sailing expedition with her husband, Libby finds herself covered in blood. Her husband's missing, the boat resembles a murder scene, and there's a knife on the deck. One might stop right there and call for help; Libby, however, takes matters--or, more specifically, the knife--into her own hands, and the moment she does, there's the Coast Guard. Faster than you can say frame-up, Libby's been charged with murder and jailed, with her young son stripped from her custody. It's all cut-and-dried, except for one thing: Libby's husband isn't dead, and she's about to track him down. And thanks to the US Constitution's "double jeopardy" rule, she can't be charged twice for his murder. Double Jeopardy has a singularly seductive revenge premise and, in Judd, one of the most seductive leading ladies to grace the silver screen in recent years. So then why does this thriller feel like it came from the bottom of the television movie barrel? Instead of taking a gritty, hard-boiled approach, the film plays up all of Libby's mushy emotions--tellingly, the director here is Bruce Beresford, whose best film, Driving Miss Daisy, is as far from thriller territory as you can get. No matter how stoically or deviously Judd plays her, Libby comes across as a soccer mom with a slight taste for blood. Only in a few scenes, specifically when she tracks her wily husband to his new identity in New Orleans, does Judd get to strut her stuff, stealing an evening gown and crashing his charity auction. Most of the time, though, this thriller offers only a smattering of suspense. Well, at least like Libby, the filmmakers can't be condemned twice for the same crime. With Tommy Lee Jones duplicating his Fugitive role, as Libby's conscientious parole officer. --Mark Englehart, Amazon.com

A soapy backstage melodrama originally produced for network broadcast, Double Platinum downplays showbiz verisimilitude to turn on the tears. With 60s soul queen Diana Ross and 90s pop princess Brandy sharing production credit as well as billing, this formulaic tearjerker focuses on its stars' dramatic chops more than their musical prowess, a choice that won't deter their respective audiences, even as it disappoints less partisan music fans who might have hoped for a stronger musical component.

Olivia King (Ross) is the former St. Louis housewife who abandoned her family for pop stardom, only to return 18 years later determined to meet, and reconcile with, her daughter, Kayla (Brandy), now nurturing her own footlight fantasies. But when the prodigal mom finally does reveal herself to the bright, feisty teen, Kayla is outraged and then hard-boiled. Olivia's offer to help the undeniably talented girl make industry contacts is accepted, with the bitter caveat that the superstar should abandon any hopes of a true maternal bond with her embittered daughter. The usually imperious Olivia meekly accepts those terms, while the secretly yearning Kayla keeps up her tough-cookie cover, but the plot telegraphs its ultimate destination, even as the tears flow.

Both stars acquit themselves well in the story's stormier clashes, and the emotional tug of the story is well engineered to soak hankies. Less credulous viewers will be hampered by the original songs--when Ross steps on-stage, her regal demeanour and flashy (if occasionally silly) gowns support her supposed status as a legend, but the utterly forgettable, generic songs she mouths deflate that image. That said, viewers less interested in the actual music than the glitzy idea of the two characters may well be content to wallow in the waterworks of a story that could as easily have been titled Divas: The Next Generation. --Sam Sutherland, Amazon.com