Pundits have estimated the American box office intake for 2002 to be about $9 billion. $9 billion. One can almost see the Dr. Evils of Hollywood wringing their hands as the “ll” of “billion” rolls off their serpentine tongues.

Mind you, this figure is merely the domestic gross. That’s $9 billion in profit before “Spider-Man” becomes “Hombre de Araña” and gets shipped abroad. $9 billion before Peter Jackson and company decide whether to make six or seven DVD editions of “The Two Towers.” $9 billion despite George Lucas not getting the hint after “The Phantom Menace.”

The reasons for 2002’s gross gross are nearly innumerable, not the least of which being a glut of great popcorn-flicks combined with ever-increasing ticket prices. Indeed, the day when moviegoers will think nothing of forking over a $10 bill for admission is not far off.

With this in mind, I recently prepared for my annual day-long trek through the hallowed halls of the local multiplex. “Day-long!” you might exclaim, “Is West Point having an Andy Warhol film festival?” Nay, my befuddled reader.

You see, I decided some time back (I believe it was after having shelled out $7.50 for “End of Days” and “American Pie” in the same week) that Hollywood owed me one. It was at about this time I mastered the art of theatre-hopping. And what better way to take in the cream of the award-season crop then to take them in all at once?

“Chicago”

The first in what is sure to be a long line of movie-musicals seeking to capitalize on the upstart success of “Moulin Rouge!,” Madison-native Rob Marshall’s interpretation of this classic tale is an appropriately lusty love letter to the divine decadence of the Jazz Age.

Renée Zellweger (“Bridget Jones’s Diary”) and her pouty baby-face are perfect as Roxie Hart, a would-be starlet who murders her illicit lover and ends up center-stage in the most sensationalized trial of the young century. Roxie finds a rival in reigning stage diva Velma Kelly (Catherine Zeta-Jones, “Traffic”), especially after stealing her publicity, her adoring fanbase and her glib lawyer, Billy Flynn (Richard Gere, “Unfaithful”).

Despite Gere and Zeta-Jones’ forced histrionics, the film is still a blast, due in large part to pleasantly surprising supporting performances from Queen “I-only-had-two-beers” Latifah and John C. “Who-knew-Chest-Rockwell-could-sing?” Reilly.

Still, “Chicago” left me with a slight burning sensation in the back of my mind — and it wasn’t because I hadn’t paid to see it. It is a little too tame when it should be vampy, too perfect where it should be flawed — like a cute girl who insists on wearing too much makeup.

“Chicago” turns down the volume on every element that made “Moulin Rouge!” so hedonistically revisionist, postmodern and, as an unfortunate result, divisive. The end product is inaudible to those seeking a revolution from the genre but pitch perfect for aspiring showgirls, old folks and Academy voters.

Grade: B

Tom Cruise and Steven Spielberg reportedly dropped everything to get their hands on this astonishing debut from writer/director Joe Carnahan, and it’s easy to see why from the film’s kinetic opening sequence.

Jason Patric (“Sleepers”) plays a rogue Detroit narcotics agent reassigned to head the flummoxing investigation of a slain undercover officer. He is paired with Henry Oak (Ray Liotta, “Blow”), another misfit cop interested more in pinning the blame on some black sheep rather than finding the real killer.

Carnahan expertly deconstructs his seemingly cookie-cutter whodunit by alternating flashbacks with gritty location drama soaked in the bleak ambiance of back-alleys and crackhouses and populated by Detroit baddies that make Eminem look like Donny Osmond.

“Narc” is ostensibly “Law & Order” with cuss words up until the film’s bravura final sequence, one that disposes of any “good cop/bad cop” triteness in order to flesh out the ways in which drug abuse, conscience and lawlessness affect us no matter what side of the law you’re on.

Grade: A/B

“Adaptation”

Charlie Kaufman’s meta-meta-meta-movie “Adaptation,” the screenwriter’s audacious pseudo-sequel to his equally-audacious “Being John Malkovich,” is self-indulgent and presumptuous — and he’d be the first one to agree. In fact, he does so over and over again throughout the film, and that’s sort of the point.

“Adaptation” follows the self-deprecatory Kaufman (Nicolas Cage, “Windtalkers”) as he struggles to adapt Susan Orlean’s “The Orchid Thief” into a screenplay. His writer’s block is not at all aided by his hack brother Donald (played with uncharacteristic comedic verve by Cage in the dual role), especially after he inserts himself into his adaptation of the screenplay, which we’re watching, which he’s trying to write at the same time as it unfolds …

For all its intellectual posturings and rib-nudging, Kaufman always manages to ground his story in the yearnings and passion of his characters while exploring the power of the creative process. By the third act, however, he has wrapped himself in such a thick cloak of double-entendre and self-references that his Tati-cum-Altman sensibilities run the risk of alienating any spectator not versed in the language of Hollywood cliché.

Thankfully though, Kaufman is again guided by the steady hand of director Spike Jonze, who seamlessly unravels his enigmatic toils and makes Charlie’s in-jokes and insecurities our own.

Grade: A

“About Schmidt”

Peering over his antediluvian reading glasses, Warren Schmidt (Jack Nicholson, “As Good As It Gets”) adjusts his frumpy sweater vest before pouring his heart out in a letter to his sponsored “foster child” Ndugu. The shot is a typical one in “About Schmidt,” a bittersweet character study from “Election” writer/director Alexander Payne.

Payne wrings as much as he can from every one of these shots; the problem is that there’s just too many of them.

Nicholson completely absorbs himself in the role of a newly retired career yes-man whose wife suddenly dies, affording him the opportunity to head out on a cross-country trip of self-discovery. Desperately clawing for some sense of self-worth and purpose, he attempts to break up the marriage of his daughter to a do-nothing waterbed salesman.

Payne offers a refreshingly ambivalent take on Midwestern life (sans the schmaltz characteristic of Hollywood efforts), due in large part to what will surely rank among the finest performances of Nicholson’s career. But Payne’s deliberate direction begins to test our sympathy for Schmidt, and, in the end, it has become that much more difficult to care about a man who measures his moral victories one failure at time.

Grade: B