In theaters

XXX: STATE OF THE UNION, directed by Lee Tamahori, written by Simon Kinberg, 101 minutes, rated PG-13.

Early on in Lee Tamahori’s aggressively bad, but wholly amusing “XXX: State of the Union,” audiences learn the sad news that the original XXX, Xander Cage (Vin Diesel), has bit the big one in Bora Bora.

What did him in? A natural response might be that he got tripped up in that flashy pimp coat of his and broke his neck. Some will wonder whether he was poisoned by one too many XXX tattoos.

Whatever the reason, the producers are too bored to answer. Eager to pacify audiences while Diesel changes diapers in “The Pacifier,” they have moved on, offering up a new XXX in Darius Stone, played here by Ice Cube in a role that’s something of a departure from his recent “Barbershop” movies.

Taking a cue from Diesel, Cube plays the part of Stone as if the weight of the world rested on his face, which is pinched into the tightest of scowls. But then it has to be, doesn’t it? After all, according to Augustus Gibbons (Samuel L. Jackson), the National Security agent who recruits Stone to save the president of the United States (Peter Strauss) from certain death by his evil secretary of defense, Gen. Octavius Deckert (Willem Dafoe), this new XXX must be more dangerous than the last XXX.

They’ve found that person in Stone, an imprisoned Navy SEAL who enjoys his own hip-hop soundtrack whenever he’s onscreen and who holds the record for the highest dive in SEAL history – 250 feet. Impressive? Absolutely. But then everything about Stone is impressive.

With panache, he breaks out of prison and into his brave new world of fists, chop shops and guns. With bravado, he goes after Deckert, hijacking tanks, driving cars at 220 mph, and chasing speeding trains without breaking a sweat.

During the course of the film, he even gets his former girlfriend Lola (Nona Gaye) to put the bling back into his bang. She does so, too, in spite of the fact that Lola looks two implants away from being a man.

Still, it’s all good, regardless of the fact that “State of the Union” is currently getting slammed by the majority of critics, who apparently wanted the movie to exist on a higher plane. Sorry, but they missed the point. This is video game moviemaking that doesn’t want to be taken seriously, a parody of the action-espionage genre designed to offer reprehensible dialogue, impossible stunts, an ongoing air of absurdity. If done well, there’s fun to be had in that. As such, there’s fun to be had here.

Grade: B

On video and DVD

THE PHANTOM OF THE OPERA, directed by Joel Schumacher, written by Andrew Lloyd Webber and Schumacher, 143 minutes, rated PG-13.

It had to happen – people were clamoring for it to happen – so here it is, the music of the trite.

Joel Schumacher’s decadent, unabashedly over-the-top movie version of Andrew Lloyd Webber’s equally audacious “The Phantom of the Opera” is now reverberating like a cowbell through video stores.

Predictably, the film is a ripe, molten bodice-ripper that features sets so heroically lavish, they often do the movie a favor, detracting from the muddy lip-synching, Webber’s intrusive, repetitious score, and the awkward way the characters weave in and out of song and dialogue – often midsentence.

Beginning in 1919 but set mostly in 1870, the film follows the mysterious phantom of the Paris Opera Populaire (Gerard Butler), a disfigured cellar dweller who covets beautiful young Christine (Emmy Rossum) through a glass darkly, though she doesn’t know it.

A talented soprano, Christine is on the verge of falling in love with the wealthy Vicomte Raoul de Chigny (Patrick Wilson) when the Phantom decides to make a pest of himself. He kidnaps Christine, drops a chandelier on an audience, murders men at will, beats his chest with brio – and, in the process, helps to make Christine a star. He would be perfect in World Wrestling Entertainment.

Throughout, the performances are as uneven as the music. Butler’s Phantom looks good behind the mask, but his voice can’t soar into the stratosphere asked of it. Rossum possesses the sort of presence that suggests she will do well in better movies. Less promising is Wilson, who is too dull to ignite a fire with Rossum, and Miranda Richardson as Madame Giry, who is saddled with the sort of thick, rubbery old-age makeup that looks as if they dipped her face in pancake batter and decided to call it good.

That said, you have to hand it to Minnie Driver as the Italian diva, Carlotta. In an effort to give the movie a measure of life, Driver throws herself to the wolves with the sort of raw, jumpy performance that would have suggested counseling is in her future if it weren’t obvious she was having so much fun. Her approach to the material is just right. Why try to be sane in a production so obviously insane? Here, she exists purely to mince, pout, scream, claw. Some will be grateful for the effort.

Grade: C

Christopher Smith is the Bangor Daily News film critic. His reviews appear Mondays and Fridays in Style, and are archived at Rotten

Tomatoes.com. He may be reached at BDNFilm1@aol.com.