ALLAH MADE ME FUNNY

1/2 out of four stars

Unrated by the MPAA.

Lagoon.

No, he didn't. This TV-style comedy concert showcases the flimsy talents of Azhar Usman, Bryant "Preacher" Moss and Mohammad Amer. Haven't heard of them? There's a reason. Hack jokes about crazy families and getting funny looks on airline flights aren't all that mirthy. Allah made Dave Chappelle funny, guys. Deal with it.

COLIN COVERT

A GIRL CUT IN TWO

★★★ out of four stars

Unrated by the MPAA, adult themes and violence. In French with English subtitles.

Theater: Uptown.

That grand old cynic Claude Chabrol has not mellowed with age, thank goodness. Going on 80, he's still unsentimental about lust, money and the lust for money, and as hardboiled as a 10-minute egg. The luminous Ludivine Sagnier ("The Swimming Pool") plays a French TV weathergirl whose fresh-faced charm attracts two unsuitable suitors.

One is a libertine author (Francois Berleand), married and old enough to be her grandfather. He's a sensualist who introduces her to sordid pleasures at a creepy gentleman's club; we never see what happens, but Chabrol makes us imagine the worst. And our heroine loves it. Bored and unsettled by the ingenue's ardor, he leaves her to a spoiled young pharmaceuticals heir (Benoit Magimel) who woos her partly to spite the egocentric old writer. Magimel is terrific, a cabaret sketch of a pampered oligarch who drives as if the streets were a bumper-car arena and goes nutty with frustration when the girl doesn't capitulate immediately.

Chabrol is a past master at visual storytelling and a stiletto wit. Whenever Sagnier struts around the TV studio, the lecherous older men who run the place can't keep their hands off. She's like a youth elixir. Berleand, who looks like an old friar who has forgotten his rosary beads, is intriguingly nasty as a lover thrilled to despoil innocence but restless once it's been sullied. The film carries Sagnier through an advantageous marriage that proves to be a nightmare, and a surreal "healing" climax worthy of Luis Buñuel. The girl, who has been flummoxed by her bad luck all along, wises up. Her moment of epiphany is like the punch line to an elaborate, well-told dirty joke.

COLIN COVERT

BEVERLY HILLS CHIHUAHUA

★ 1/2 out of four stars; Rating: PG, mild thematic elements

Those savvy market research-readers at Disney have discovered that kids love Chihuahuas, especially talking ones. Thus, they decreed that "Beverly Hills Chihuahua" take one of the little bug-eyed rats on an incredible journey from her chic life in Beverly Hills to the dog fights of Mexico, with a side trip into the land of Chihuahua, where wild lap dogs yap and dance, never to tremble in fear of being stepped on again.

A who's who of Hispanic voice talent, from George Lopez and Andy Garcia to Placido Domingo, lends this too-chatty, too-plot-driven chew toy from the director of "Scooby-Doo" just enough Spanglish flavor to go over.

Drew Barrymore provides the winsome voice of Chloe, the pampered pooch of a makeup mogul (Jamie Lee Curtis). She barely notices the landscaper's pup, Papi (Lopez), who stops digging holes and rolling in filth long enough to swoon, "mi corazon."

Chloe is put into the hands of irresponsible dog-sitter Rachel (Piper Perabo), who drags her down to Baja, where Chloe's pricey collar and pedigree attract the attention of dog-nappers who see her as grist for their illegal dog-fighting business. Chloe falls in with mutts, strays and a cruise ship rat (Cheech Marin), is rescued by a battle-scarred German shepherd (Garcia) and pursued by a Doberman (Edward James Olmos).

Lopez gets most of the laughs, barking through Papi's enthusiasm for the search with vintage one-liners -- "We're Mexi-CANS, not Mexi-can'ts!" But the biggest giggles come with the entrance of the great tenor Señor Domingo, whose screen time is far too short to make the movie more than it is.

If "Chihuahua" is no "Babe" or "Charlotte's Web," at least it's in the "Alvin and the Chipmunks" ballpark. Just remember, nobody went to the pet store and grabbed a chipmunk on the way home after that one.

ROGER MOORE. ORLANDO SENTINEL