Starring Helen Hunt and Bill Paxton. Rated mature.

Now playing at the Capitol 6, Esplanade, Eagle Ridge, and others

Of course this Twister thing is some kind of a wild ride, an exuberant roller-coaster trip complete with manic highs and a sudden drop at the end, when the carny operator shoos you out of the way for the next crowd. Coming as it does from Steven Spielberg's production company, Speed director Jan De Bont, and blank-cheque writer Michael Crichton, you expected maybe Waiting for Godot?

The direction is surefooted, the pacing is expert, and the effects are (mostly) exhilarating. Too bad I can't remember a single line of dialogue. No one in this large cast of characters–every last one of them white–resembles a three-dimensional being, but that's where the miracle of casting reveals its blessings. Using a different part of her voice, and of her generally good-girlish persona, than we get from her ultra-urban Jamie Buchman on Mad About You, Helen Hunt more than earns having her name above the title as Jo Harding, an Oklahoma research scientist with a bug up her behind when it comes to tornadoes. Seems one whisked her pappy away, back in the '60s, and now she wants to kick a little meteorological butt. To that end, she has assembled a large crew of grad students and such, all as handy with a wisecrack as they are with a computer.

For some reason–we never get a hint–Jo's husband and storm-chasing partner, Bill (Apollo 13's quietly resourceful Bill Paxton), has dropped out of the game. When we first meet him, he's brought his new fianc?e, Melissa (Jami Gertz, making the best of a bad situation), along for a quick meeting to pick up the divorce papers. Then, quick as a funnel cloud can form on the horizon, the whole gang is off and running. By the time Twister is over, the Hardings and company will have survived every possible permutation of heavy weather that a cinematographer (and an army of effects geeks) can handle, short of actual cats and dogs–although flying cows will certainly do, in my book.

A word about those F/X. The matte work, multilevel projection, and various digital gewgaws–from Industrial Light & Magic–are as impressive as it gets. And yet, as realistic as the spatial relationships appear to be, with rolling houses and mile-high semi trucks casting just the right shadows before they hit the ground, the computer-enhanced objects just don't seem to have the heft of real things; the explosions look nice, but they make only about the same visceral impact as a decent Klingon attack.

Still, the movie isn't all earthly upheavals and narrow escapes. There's an intelligent balance of storm warnings and quiet moments in which to regroup for the next onslaught (for the audience, I mean), there are some clever cinematic in-jokes–that snatch of The Shining is the best–and the supporting players help vary the mood. Most notable are Lois Smith, as Jo's artsy Aunt Meg, and red-haired Philip Seymour Hoffman as Dusty, a metal-loving assistant who appears to have wandered in from a low-budget surf movie, thank God.

Crichton, writing with his wife, Anne-Marie Martin, doesn't think there's quite enough conflict built into ducking evil wind-suckers, so he gives the hardy Hardings a rival research gang, headed by the weaselly Jonas (Cary Elwes). We know he's bad because he and his zombielike team, in their uniform black vans, are backed by–oh, no–corporate sponsors! Spielberg, remember, is always for the little guy, and if you don't think so, he'll crush you like a strategically placed can of Pepsi.

Speaking of product-pushing, the film's pleasantly bombastic soundtrack throws Deep Purple together with Van Halen and Lisa Loeb, plus an Americana-on-speed score that made me want to invade Grenada–I hear they have tsunamis down there.