Cassandra’s Dream, Woody Allen’s third film shot during his extended stay in England, is a noose-tightening thriller of concentrated power. One of the few directors in Hollywood still making overtly moral tales, Allen seems obsessively fixated on the workings of chance, fate, and destiny in a world he perceives to be cruel and chaotic. The film feels swift, almost rushed, as though the workaholic Allen were trying to speed through the proceedings so he could move on to the next project. (He averages about one movie per year.) Less of a downer than Match Point, whose fatalistic storyline felt like posturing, the film proves that Allen has the courage to follow his frightened worldview to its logical conclusion. The weight of sin hangs heavily in the air, but this time, he doesn’t let the characters off the hook.

Cloverfield is that happy accident—a witty monster movie. Thetropes are stale (skyscraper-sized amphibious creature runs amok inNYC), but the presentation is fresh (story told through the lens of asingle video camera). The credited director, Matt Reeves, displays acruel showmanship, destroying members of his tiny cast just as soon aswe get to know them. Social commentary is wisely kept to a minimum(nothing spoils a Saturday matinee like a Sunday sermon), although thesight of buildings crumbling to dust will seem horribly familiar to anyinhabitant of the 21st century. In this respect, the movie resembles anightmare with an unshakable context.

Mad Money, a comic caper about three disparate, desperate womenwho plot to pocket cruddy currency scheduled for destruction, is like afemale Ocean's Eleven,without the Soderbergh glitz. Surprisingly watchable, it draws itscharm from the chemistry between its three larcenous ladies (DianeKeaton the spoiled rich gal, now facing bankruptcy; Queen Latifah thestruggling single mom; and Katie Holmes, the bubble-headedtrailer-dweller). Fluffy, but forgettable.