Coppola, with his staccato imagery fragmenting the songs and dances, knocks the life out of the performers.

For all its visual pyrotechnics, [the film] probably adds up the sum of its parts to nothing more significant than the largely empty stylistics of One From the Heart, The Outsiders and Rumble Fish. But at least those parts are consistently attractive.

The Cotton Club is an expensive fiasco that meanders through the '20s and '30s with flimsy characters and a pointless plot.

Bob Hoskins as the club owner and Fred Gwynne as his henchman certainly make their mark, while the Duke Ellington soundtrack is sheer bliss.