A scientist with an out-of-control passion for sharks? Sounds like a third-rate Batman (or Aquaman) bad guy, but Rob Stewart is such a person, and even those outside the documentary film-fest bubble may have heard of this stirring, alarming nonfiction feature Sharkwater. In it, the oceanographer - who brings the disarmingly boyish disposition (and gorgeous U/W imagery) of one of those young surfer dudes from Step Into Liquid - defends the shark. In more ways than one.

Aye, the creatures are predators, one of the most successfully evolved vertebrates on the planet. Evolution, ye old Intelligent Designer, hasn't altered shark anatomy since pre-dinosaur days, and the fish occupy a vital ecological niche. But thanks to Peter Benchley (who, before his death, recanted his portrayal of the fish in Jaws), Steven Spielberg and other huckster-storytellers gave the shark an unfair movie-monster rep (and there was a well-circulated documentary of the 1970s I'd dearly like to see, Blue Water, White Death, that also contributed). No, sharks do not mindlessly attack humans all the time, Stewart says. The truly carnivorous shark species prefer fish and seals. When they do bite swimmers, their fearsome teeth are inefficient. More people are killed by tigers every year than sharks.

People killing sharks is a different story. Lately, shark slaughter in astounding numbers is one thing the Chinese and Taiwanese can agree upon; it seems that shark fins - though flavorless - have become a prestige ingredient in Oriental meals, whole international Mafia/triad smuggling ops springing up to cultivate tons of the valuable fins (also peddling "shark cartilage" as a bogus Asian miracle cancer cure). Even distant shark waters off South America are unsafe, as fisherman and banana-republic governments delve into shark-finning with all the lawless greed of their illustrious cocaine industry. A half-hour into Sharkwater, Stewart's narrative turns from Cousteau odyssey of sharks and breathtaking seascapes (the school of hammerheads is outstanding) into a muckraking document of political corruption and poaching. And some unrestrained, one-sided melodrama (and MTV editing tricks) on the filmmaker's part to piledrive his message: Practically no one was looking out for these animals as third-world mouth-breathers ruthlessly exterminated them.

I'm always worried eco-activists will alienate the public as their message confuses urgency with shrill, unnecessary guilt-tripping. Sharkwater has a real twist on the ponytailed-stereotype of the "environmentalist," as Rob Stewart rides with fellow shark-sympathizer Paul Watson, a seagoing activist who's practically a modern Captain Nemo. Watson pilots a tricked-up ship with nasty ramming gear and weapons; dude literally sends fishing/whaling craft to the bottom. If there's anything that will make Greenpeace boosters out of the Red Staters and NASCAR fans, it's Watson's Sea Shepherd, full of angry white folk, making open war on scruffy, jibbering, dark-skinned foreigners in fishing scows. That's some really loaded imagery. If Watson looked more like one of this film's passing villains, Baywatch-handsome Australian celebrity shark-killer Vic Hislop, the Sea Shepherd would need to aim its water cannon on the groupies fighting to get aboard. One imagines a separate documentary on Watson waiting to be made - possibly by Werner Herzog as a follow-up to Grizzly Man.

Meanwhile, Sharkwater, for all its emotional manipulation, provides many morsels of fish-food for thought, and nets you the umpteenth reason to boycott that plastic Chinese crap from WalTarget HyperDiscountMart. - Charles Cassady Jr.

Sharkwater: 9:35 p.m. Saturday, Feb. 9 and 7 p.m. Sunday, Feb. 10, Cleveland Institute of Art Cinematheque, 11141 East Blvd., Cleveland, 216-421-7450, cia.edu.

Strange Wilderness

Adam Sandler's production company Happy Madison issued this comedy stinker, evidently on a dare. Title is the name of a long-running low-budget wildlife show, inherited by a young dolt (Steve Zahn) from his late father. Threatened with cancellation, the jerk and his crew of obnoxious potheads take off on a trek to look for Bigfoot (no, it's not a mockumentary, if you were wondering). Mr. Foot's presence is so fleeting he at least keeps his dignity; same cannot be said for guest stars such as Ernest Borgnine and Robert Patrick, and most of the gags are as funny as roadkill. Humor centers on sex, drugs, dicks, dicks-with-drugs, and psycho Vietnam veterans; combine that with ugly cinematography and the fictitious crew's quaint use of 16mm cameras and gear and you've got a movie that, if it were shot in New Jersey instead of LA for a 30th of the budget, might be something from the Troma vaults circa 1981-1984. At least it answers the question how bad a script can be that even Rob Schneider can't be enticed toward it. - CC

Steep

Extreme skiers are a singular bunch. They talk about mountains as if they're human. They ride helicopters up to the tops of peaks so high, they're practically outside the stratosphere. And then they jump off cliffs and race to the bottom at something like 50 miles per hour. It's an adrenaline rush and then some. Some make it to the bottom, and some don't. But it's all part of the thrill. Mark Obenhaus' documentary about the nascent sport captures the drama of these death-defying downhill daredevils in all their incredible glory. Much like a Warren Miller movie, Steep has plenty of shots of skiers making unbelievable descents. But unlike a Warren Miller movie, Steep actually has a narrative to it.

The movie commences with some background. While extreme skiing's exact origin can't be pinpointed, it's likely to have started with a guy named Bill Briggs, who Obenhaus tracked down and interviewed for the purpose of this film. One day, the skier decided to climb to the top of the Grand Teton and ski down its face. His climbing buddies who were supposed to help him carve a trail chickened out when they got to the top and saw how steep the drop off was. Not Briggs. He took to the mountain like a champ, steered clear of an avalanche that would have taken his life and made it down to the bottom. And on that day, extreme skiing was born.

The Europeans took to it first, making the dangerous French Alps into a playground of sorts. Then, Americans started trying the stunts out on their own turf, only to be escorted off the mountain by authorities fearing lawsuits. So they went to Alaska (where the rules seemingly don't apply) and hosted an annual extreme skiing competition. It helped popularize the sport, which now finds some daring skiers even strapping parachutes onto their backs as they plunge over cliffs so steep they can't be skied. As amazing as the footage in this film might be, the movie loses its trajectory a bit toward the end and is bound to appeal only to outdoor enthusiasts, even though many of the skiers wax quite eloquently about matters of life and death (as well they should, given their predilections for danger). - Jeff Niesel

Opens Friday at Solon Cinemas, 6185 Enterprise Pkwy., Solon, 440-564-2034, clevelandcinemas.com.

The Eye

This film is a so-so American remake of the superior 2002 Pang Brothers ghost flick of the same name. After having her sight restored through a cornea transplant, concert violinist Sydney Wells (pretty but vacuous Jessica Alba) begins seeing, uh, dead people. Determined to get to the bottom of her creepy new visions, Sydney travels to Mexico with hunky doc Alessandro Nivola in the hopes of learning more about the origins of her donor. French directing duo David Moreau and Xavier Palud do a reasonably slick job of duplicating many of the original film's horror set pieces, but their version lacks the resonance and stylish frisson that made the Pangs' scarefest so hauntingly memorable. While the 2002 Eye hatched three sequels, it's doubtful whether this merely serviceable retread will inspire any future installments. As Sydney's hand-wringing elder sis, the great Parker Posey is wasted in a nothing role. - Milan Paurich