The great director Alfred Hitchcock knew the secret to an incredible suspense movie. "Torture the women," he is reported as saying. And yes, in the films Psycho and The Birds, he most certainly did.

But one movie takes his lesson much too far. It's Stigmata, starring Patricia Arquette and Gabriel Byrne, and it delights in the physical torture of its female protagonist in ways almost unheard of in these politically charged '90s. So how does the film get away with it? Stigmata is the emulation of Christ's wounds, silly. There, it's all better.

Except, it's not. Stigmata's plot is derived (or perhaps I should say stolen) from a plethora of much better films, including the Exorcist. Poor Frankie Page (Arquette), catching the dubious honor of stigmata from a cursed rosary. Poor us, having to endure for an hour and a half as she's ripped apart by psychic whips, nails and thorns. Now that's entertainment.

The direction does little to help the viewer's plight. Rupert Wainwright, of Blank Check fame (Remember that one kiddies? Me neither...) evidently attended the MTV school of shooting. That is to say, he likes fast editing, insane color schemes and no sense of pacing what so ever. The movie doesn't have any kind of consistency, except the consistent feeling of wonder you'll receive as you try to figure out how a plot so simple could require such mental energy. I'll give you the answer: You're spending so much time guessing what drug Wainwright must have been on that you simply forget the movie has a plot. I kept expecting Billy Corgan, who wrote much of the film's music, to shimmy his little way through a scene or two. Dance for the fans, Billy! Hey, Stigmata has my vote for best new music video.

Wainwright and his editing crew can't even get the simple stuff right. Father Kiernan (Byrne) is praying. Close-up on Byrne's hands. Arquette says she's never seen him pray before. Close-up on Arquette. Snap back to Byrne. His hands are down, out of the frame. Back to Arquette, who I'm sure says one of her more witty lines, like: "[Just because you're a priest,] you're dead from the neck down?" Yeesh. Back to Byrne, whose hands are, amazingly, back to their exact, original placement in the frame, just like in the first shot. It's a miracle!

Actually, Byrne is a miracle, of sorts. His quiet, stoic presence saves the film, and his internal struggle concerning his role both as a Catholic and as a scientist marks the most interesting aspect of Stigmata. But as the movie pays little attention to his character, he can do little to help the movie as a whole. Will Father Kiernan save helpless Page from the "blessing" of stigmata? Who cares!? If there is to be love between the savior and the saved, it must ring true to the audience. Here, it does not.

Stigmata wants to be a relevant thriller, but does neither. Rather, it is a violent testament to what the movies really offer to the viewer as sacrifice: the female body.