In theaters

THE NINTH GATE. Directed by Roman Polanski. Written by Polanski, Enrique Urbizu and John Brownjohn, based on the novel “El Club Dumas” by Artur Perez-Reverte. Running time: 133 minutes. Rated R.

Satanic librarians unite!

Finally, at long last, Hollywood is serving that underdog of all niche markets with Roman Polanski’s “The Ninth Gate,” a film that gives devil-worshipping bibliophiles real reason to fall from grace.

This latest from Polanski, his first film since 1994’s “Death and the Maiden,” features Johnny Depp as a scurrilous rare-book dealer who hooks up with billionaire Boris Balkan (Frank Langella), a cool piece of work who’s interested in authenticating his copy of “The Nine Gates of the Kingdom of Shadows,” a 17th century satanic text whose engravings allegedly hold the power of hauling the devil straight out of the pits of hell.

Issuing Depp a check, Balkan sends the man overseas to Europe, where he not only hunts down and studies the text’s two remaining copies, but also comes upon a flying nude Euromodel (Polanski’s wife, Emmanuelle Seigner), the fiery death of a wheelchair-bound baroness, and a swanky hooded orgy ripped straight out of Stanley Kubrick’s “Eyes Wide Shut.”

In fact, it’s at this orgy that Polanski has his most fun in a film without much fun: He blatantly stages the scene to look like Kubrick’s — rows of burning candles, naked people milling about in shimmering cowls, the location a posh mansion — and then snubs his nose at it in a way that’s so funny, and so surprising, it won’t be revealed here.

“The Ninth Gate” has none of the same depth and energy of Polanski’s best films (“Rosemary’s Baby,” “Tess,” “Chinatown”), has nothing new or interesting to say about the occult Polanski has courted for years, and features an ending that’s the anti-Christ of all anti-climaxes, but it nevertheless moves in its own groove. There are moments when Polanski reveals his greatness — the way a room is lit, a scene is cut, the stage is stacked — but those moments are too fleeting, leaving the viewer only with a mildly satisfying whole. Grade: C+

ANGELA’S ASHES. Directed by Alan Parker. Written by Parker and Laura Jones, based on the book by Frank McCourt. Running time: 145 minutes. Rated R.

Bringing a popular book to screen is no enviable task — just ask Clint Eastwood, whose terminally bloated, botched, meandering adaptation of John Berendt’s “Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil” ranks among one of the worst, most damning adaptations in recent memory.

At first glance, the problem seems simple. If the director misses what made the story work so well within the pages of a book, all is lost. But when you’re dealing with a book as rich and as complexly layered as Frank McCourt’s “Angela’s Ashes,” which chronicled McCourt’s hellish Irish childhood, the problem deepens.

Certainly director Alan Parker (“Evita,” “Mississippi Burning,” “The Commitments”) knew this. Each person comes to a book with his or her own experiences; in a hard-luck memoir such as “Ashes,” they connect in ways that are fiercely personal. Thus, Parker’s job of translating becomes something of a crap shoot — which stories to tell? Which tone to strike? Which nuance will best galvanize the work and resonate not only with fans of the book, but also with those being introduced to McCourt’s story for the first time?

Visually, Parker has triumphed — with all of its gorgeously photographed mud, sweat, alcohol-soaked tears, vomit, dead children and filth, “Ashes” is the best-looking cinematic cesspool going. But the tone is wrong. The humor is missing. Unlike McCourt, who claims he survived this wasteland because of his wryness and wit, Parker can’t believe anyone could survive it … and so he films 145 minutes of mostly humorless hardships.

The good news here is that those hardships can be riveting, especially since they are underscored with pitch-perfect performances from Emily Watson as Angela, Robert Carlyle as Malachy Sr., and the three talented young actors who portray Frank as he ages: Joe Breen, Ciaran Owens and Michael Legge.

Indeed, just as McCourt’s book was lifted by the lyricism of its stories, Parker’s film is lifted by the power of its performances. Grade: B-

Christopher Smith’s reviews appear each Monday and Thursday in the NEWS, each Tuesday and Thursday on “NEWS CENTER 5:30 Today” and “NEWS CENTER Tonight,” and each Saturday and Sunday on NEWS CENTER’s statewide “Morning Report.”