Bassett's breakthrough role was Tina Turner in the biopic What's Love Got To Do With It. No such thing registered in the original blurbs for Strange Days, in the papers, TV spots or partying Web site. The only face you really saw belonged to an ill-kempt Ralph Fiennes, unrecognizable as the Schindler of Schindler's List (or the head Nazi, I can never remember which), his previous starring role. The movie was initially pushed as a James Cameron film, since Cameron had produced and co-written the project. Funny how this dystopic near-futuristic thriller slowly turned into a Kathryn Bigelow film, acknowledging the director for a bit, and then -- after it did so badly at the box office -- became labeled as the Angela Bassett vehicle no one went to see, rather than Ralph Fiennes' failure. Go figure.

I had originally thought, "Gee whiz, there's some cab driver in this movie for about two seconds who looks just like Angela Bassett, but it can't be. They would've mentioned her, right?" Was I wrong!

Yet Angela Bassett isn't just in this movie, she isn't merely all over this movie, she doesn't just carry this movie in the sense of being the best thing in it. She literally carries the movie on her back the entire way. This film would grind to a halt every five minutes if her character didn't pop up, braids flying, and save the nominal hero's sorry ass -- again.

Strange Days is indeed a strange, intriguing, infuriating experience; a romantic fantasy adventure flick with something of a social conscience -- when it's not exploiting serious social problems of present-day America for plot points.

All of the black faces in this film are either from the ranks of the servant class (including chauffer Angela), street hoods, space-filling extras, or dead. The filmmakers try to compensate by giving Bassett everything. She's a black Superwoman who wears the best clothes, protects the hero, saves LA, catches the racist bad guys (for awhile), and looks even more glamorous *after* she's been worked over by a half-dozen guys in riot gear.

Q: Where's

Angela's leg?

Somewhere in this film is an odd kind of erotica, buried under the overt snuff-porn sequences that are so crucial to its written scenario. Fiennes' character is a wet dream for all those hetero chicks who keep buying self-help books about the Peter Pan Syndrome, to no avail. Sure he's a loser; but he's so pure and noble about not being able to get on with the rest of his life. He's so helplessly addicted to the presence and attention of females. And he's so good with kids!

So Bassett drags him from the clutches of nasty bodyguards and rogue cops, takes him home, puts him to bed, and what does he want next? A backrub! So she gives it to him! You'd think she'd hold him under the kitchen faucet with one hand and give him a sponge bath with the other if it wasn't so obvious he's not a baby anymore.

And her reward at the end? Why his renewed love -- and a nice, bloody New Year's kiss and hug -- because she did everything she could to wake him out of his walking stupor, and win him back. Oh, man, talk about the dangers of virtual reality...