THE panic room is the priest's hole of the post-September 11 generation of Americans. A secret chamber with all mod surveillance and survival cons, it is all the rage in paranoid New York.

When newly-divorced Meg Attman (Jodie Foster) moves into her huge New York brownstone, her only problems should be her diabetic daughter Sarah (Kristen Stewart) and doing something about the glistening green walls and appallingly dim lighting (director David Fincher reprising the sickly darkness he brought to Seven and Fight Club).

However, on their very first night, three intruders break in, expecting the place to be empty as they go about their search for a stash left by the previous owner. Forest Whitaker, Dwight Yoakam and Jared Lato play the kind of argumentative crooks beloved of Quentin Tarantino but closer in cartoon spirit to the bungling hoods of 101 Dalmatians and the Home Alone movies.

By way of contrast to their deadpanning interplay, the resourceful Foster is as stern as her glasses albeit she is wearing a tight-fitting vest, Nikita style, to maintain male interest. Meanwhile young Stewart looks like an anaemic Macaulay Culkin (I spent much of the movie mistakenly thinking she was a boy).

With an eye to impressing the ghost of Alfred Hitchcock, Fincher directs with visual flair, the camera diving down stairs and through keyholes with an unnecessary but enjoyable flourish, and he keeps the tension cranked up to ensure his hi-tech cat-and-mouse thriller lasts the slick if workaday course.

Updated: 09:17 Friday, May 03, 2002