Booming with self-reference, used to a degree that feels like an out-of-control ferris wheel; Every once in a while a convoluted plot string, so lacking in parody, makes these characters all the more their own entity, all the less stand-in's for decades of British spies; Is there no mercy when we stack franchise upon franchise? (On the plus side, I laughed...okay?!...I laughed.)

The movie is bad. The special effects are worse. Feels like an big, empty payday; a big-budget sci-fi popcorn movie acted out by cardboard standees. (I'm aware that this bitterness just sounds far too right coming out of my mouth.)

....big time sports bookies on the outside of Sweetwater prison are betting on a boxing match that is set to take place inside between the recently incarcerated world-heavyweight champion of the world/convicted-rapist/Tyson-esque egomaniac Rhames, and Snipes, the toothpick-house building,  man-of-few words type who just happens to have been the champion inside the prison for ten years. There's gonna be friction....

(It's as ridiculous as it sounds and more (and, taking a cue from Last House on the Left, all the songs used in the film seem to describe the action as it is happening), but it's so much fun you'll probably forget all the empty calories.)

So gushingly arty, beautifully free-spirited, it's Salma Hayek's most visible and memorable performance to date; But....no wonder you've never heard of her - no one involved seems interested creating a coherent spectrum of Frida Cahlo, instead content in ignoring her as an icon, creating an interesting human being and generally stating and re-stating that there was no line between the two, (the makers of Pollock should have pitched in, that film was nothing but Pollack-as-icon.) Taymor is a major talent, though; Frida isn't quite as rapturous or ambitious (or as entertaining) as Taymor's 1999 opus, Titus, but the two aren't really comprable enough to judge against one another; Frida is a free-flowing vision of a woman's struggle to make good and bad choices and define herself as an independent artist who can love. That's just plain rare.

I probably could have done without the voice-over; if anything, it serves to diminish the mystery of Sy, the troubled photo guy, a character Robin Williams dissolves into (finally). We rarely see an actor try so hard to prove he's more than silly (see his dark turns in Insomnia and Death to Smoochy, both released this year, for further proof). He probably won't net any attention from the important quarters - too few people could possibly be willing to invest themselves in reflecting on his perpetually leering mind-fuck of vagary, the kind of display of demons we would really rather look away from as it gets underway. There's some tricky sequences, though, most notably when Sy wanders into a family's house, and worries they'll catch him. He's relieved when it turns out to be a fantasy. The very next scene has him attempting to spoil their child - for real. He's being extra nice, and since the subtext of threat and stalking is almost too delectable not to have strings attached, it turns out he's been left a tortured soul too long to come back around without some sort of outburst and, the biggest shock of the film is that, indeed, there are some pretty major strings attached. Not that it takes away from the film's crowning glory: A sleazy, unbelievably nerve-racking forced photo session, the kind of revisitation of one's skeletons in one's closet via a channel of supreme moral justice you rarely see in a film that turns up at a multiplex, let alone with a family-friendly star doing both the forcing and the revisiting. Movie is obviously directed by a former commercial/music video maker (I'm assuming - I'll look it up eventually*, I'm sure) - and it looks terrific. The most effective moments are the scenes with no dialogue - the ones where Romanek captures, in all it's universally disturbing glory, the awkwardness of someone trying so hard to be your best friend - - - and failing miserably. (Does the hook, a wall of photos, seem to anyone else kind of overkill? Isn't the movie supposed to be about the inside of this guy's pain, not the external projection? And wasn't there a similar scene in the film's obvious pattern, The King of Comedy?) The family whose "happiness" Sy lusts after is kind of assembly line: They look so happy - but there's a dark secret, and they're unraveling. Hard to say that Williams drives the piece entirely, but he certainly comes close enough to leave a valid impression. The ending betrays the character; it's an unfathomably angering move that feels like a nervous studio ploy to avoid backlash for presenting such a character and never expounding on his motivation. This simple error in the mechanism is the movie's only really unpardonable flaw: it lets Sy off the hook far too easily. The point of movies, folks, isn't that - despite their sins - we like all the damn characters at the end of the film.

(Certainly, though, this is the best use of The Simpsons in a feature film to date. And for that - I tip my massive happy hat).

* Romanek directed Madonna's "Bedtime Story" and Nine Inch Nails' "Closer".

First hour's a dull, thoroughly serviceable submarine genre entry, looking as if has fallen square out of the template. It picks up, though, as soon as it becomes more personal: A story about radiation poisoning that is unflapped when fire is introduced into Ford's and Neeson's eyes, the two of them squaring off - as so many Captains and XO's have done before them - with a star powered steam that finally raises the film's pulse. The two principles, who spend a great deal of time angry at each other - which is, of course, what we pay to see - don't disappoint. They're stuck in one submarine movie - but they're good sports about it, as is Peter Saarsgard (Boys Don't Cry, The Salton Sea), who is fast becoming one of the better young actors in the business, and who, stuck in another submarine movie, turns in the film's most emotionally challenging performance as a wet-behind-the-ears comrade in charge of the atoms. Set in 1961, it's almost alarming how the sense of irony is lost on the filmmakers: The switcheroo, wherein American actors portray Russians who are, essentially, in contempt of the Americans at this, the height of the cold war, doesn't seem at all important; Instead, when the Americans show up, taking pictures and offering to help the crew of K-19, the film inadvertently creates a rather skillful duality: Soviet pride is kept, the Americans don't look like cretins and there is no subtext of anti Russian sentiment to be found. The summer thriller that walks on political eggshells is, as it turns out, the one that suffers at the box office - but it's admirable just the same that punches aren't pulled. Shame about that first sixty minutes, though. It's all set-up - but Bigelow, the director of several unbelievably entertaining summer throwaways, among them Point Break and Strange Days - seems hell-bent on getting all of that out of the way in order to fully enunciate what's left over - most of which is rather good.

So hyper indulgent; 8 Mile is a character study posing as a clownish, mock gangster epic wherein the thugs are thick with egos not from traditional hustling but, instead, from spontaneous rap competitions that seem to occur most anywhere two or three are gathered (lunch truck lines, parking lots, etc.). Based upon rap star Eminem's little journey to the top (with what feels like very little artistic license taken), his alter ego Rabbit starts out as the ultimate odd man out challenger, an obnoxious white kid out to gain the title of honorary black man. 8 Mile plays like a sort of Rudolph the Red tale - with all the other reindeer beating the living shit out of the soon-to-be dubbed Slim Shady (in addition to laughing at him) and, for his trouble, instead of Santa's respect, Rabbit will eventually score a record deal with Dr. Dre, (doesn't help much, by the way, that we know 8 Mile's main character emerged successful, after all, does it?). Eminem's strong presence is the sole reason to trudge through this thankless exercise in big ball dangling, (most of the other characters are horrifically underdeveloped - even the usually competent Mekhi Phifer can't save the promoter he plays from sounding shallow and convenient). Non-stop, profanity laced hanging out replaces any trace of narrative trajectory at all costs, which makes it even harder to displace the feeling that everything that takes place rarely amounts to much more than undercooked silliness; The climax, for Christ's sakes, is a freestyle battle between two guys who hate each other's guts and, while the glide of rhyme, so built up from frame one, is ear candy - it represents a mere ten minutes of screen time, tops. The rest of the thing builds to a head, ducking and undercutting interesting plot lines left and right (an ambiguously accented Basinger plays Rabbit's down-and-out trailer trash mother, poor Rabbit has to take the bus to work and he almost gets fired, oh no, and he has a fling with a girl (Murphy) everyone (including we, the audience) knows is a tramp - but Rabbit, whose hard core attitude is a facade, trusts his boyish naiveté - he so wants her, as he wants the rest of his world, to be pure). His employed, housed "struggle" rarely amounts to much more than a fairly small hill of beans, all of it much too flat to be played up as any sort of affecting drama, which is probably where Curtis Hanson's name came up: Somebody saw the gravity he commanded in L.A. Confidential and Wonder Boys and took heed: "Hey, let's offer that guy who crawled up from the gutters of The Hand That Rocks the Cradle a bunch of money to slide back down there, give a false sense of seriousness to the story of a dufus who dreams of earning respect". Even the characters in Hanson's movie would probably call him really, really nasty names.

It's so free with its racial joke telling, ignoring taboo to the last. Following its first act, though, the film isn't problematic, exactly, but too many jokes fall flat after awhile, a number of bits getting progressively tiresome. Griffin is particularly good (especially when undercover), as is Chapelle, as Conspiracy Brother, who voices suspicions left and right, of the wrong doings against black culture. Most of all, the film is unlike other SNL-patterned flicks in its seamless knowledge of the in's and out's of blaxploitation to the point where sight gags feel natural enough that we don't question their validity or source (would remind you of the smart, Lorne Michaels-ish laughs in Josie and the Pussycats and pre franchise obsessed Austin Powers: International Man of Mystery, i.e. the first one). There are smart performances from Kattan, tortured by black culture, and Harris, assimilating himself as the affirmative action forced intern of "The Brotherhood", a black organization used to counter "The Man", a pro white propaganda machine. It's the kind of cheaply made film that teeters between being absolutely brilliant satire, and shamelessly simplistic entertainment. Very close to earning a 'B', though.

The whole of it bathed in a certain quality and texture of shadow, not unlike that which doubles as romantic and hidden, every one of it's simple gestures on careful and warranted display, Unfaithful teases the sensuality out of its collection of sins with the power of a stiff drink. The basis of which is that both Lane and Gere are so fashionably ordinary, yet so casually - seemingly - happy until a slam-banging affair (a strikingly palpable fantasy which takes place in a variety of public and private places) cuts into the middle of this (categorically speaking) fable, whose only real crime is that it's pursuit of perfection often feels too over-the-top to be taken seriously. Lane and Martinez are terrific together - as are Lane and Gere - and, to my great surprise, it turns out to be Lane that runs the movie. Her presence, something she just never seemed to be interested in displaying in other films, could be driving hers, the best female performance I've seen all year. It's practical actions and reactions, a deceptively interested general restraint on the homefront contrasted with a sexy, uninhibited bedroom fury (not to mention her good sportsmanship in competently handling yet another ridiculous "you know Mommy and Daddy love you no matter what happens, right honey" moment), all of it inserted into a film populated by yet another privelidged, (categorically speaking) inadmirably shiny marriage which includes as it's members, people who readily indulge their animalistic sexual desires in order to work out their entitlement issues. Gere plays betrayed with a sympathetic charm that makes it easier to watch him pour on the over-emotion in big confrontation scenes. Come to think of it, it's so much a great movie, the little pieces cut out to play metaphor nicely on the screen with a social training film (as we'll call Unfaithful since we've already used the word "fable" once in this review), you barely realize that: a) it's feels A-list (like In the Bedroom, whose tone theme and feasibility it most closely mirrors); b) the subject matter is a sale-ready commodity for its target audience; c) Adrian Lyne's films are like counterculture porn for people who love to gossip about broken marriages (that one's a stretch). (Also, it contains a piano rendition of a Radiohead song which, by default, is kinda cool in itself.)

Transitioning with the ill clarity of a lost lifetime (as opposed to a lost weekend), Big Bad Love could feasibly be considered, in some quarters, a masterwork. That it constantly lurches forward, inching ever so close to something of real, psychotropic power – only to step back – makes it play more like what it is at heart: A series of short stories that overlap and meld with each other, never quite coming up with anything that transcends their own briefness. Arliss Howard’s film is best when he’s doing the steering – most of the supporting characters feel somehow intrusive to his rhythm. "Some dreams ruin being awake if you know the difference. Better not to know." And it's too damn long for what it is.

The cast list gives a pretty accurate picture of what to expect. Fashioned in watchable, easy to swallow vignettes, Lovely and Amazing is less a film than a series of sequences that end with punchlines rather than, you know, resolutions. The film was written and directed by Nicole Holofcener, who made 1995’s Walking and Talking, a film I was unable to discern from Kicking and Screaming until just this year when I actually sat down and watched the latter film and realized that comparing it to the former wasn’t really something I ought to admit to have done. In the same fashion, Holofcener seems more incisive, almost hell-bent on rendering the psychobabble commentary between disparate sisters (Keener, Mortimer), each the more singed by their mother’s (Blethyn) acerbic personality quirks. It’s first hour or so is somewhat compelling (and admirably devoid of conventional, emotional infrastructure) until that last thirty minutes - - - when it suddenly resorts to a long duet played by heart and strings, side by side on my piano, etc. Almost custom tailored for Keener’s faux-sexy “fuck you” attitude – Lovely and Amazing made me realize what the fantasy of watching her bitch her way through countless, similar performances is: We want so desperately for her to just, you know, be nice to someone for ten minutes without stabbing them headlong in the back (and wouldn't it be the ultimate if she could be nice to, you know, us?). Also on display are the following: Emily Mortimer in the nude, Dylan McDermott as a jerk and James LeGros as a soft-spoken nice guy. And Jake Gyllenthal reprising his role as Tobey McGuire. Men are portrayed as particularly thin beings and, even more resentful, the adopted step-sister coming to terms with her skin color subplot feels more and more out-of-place as the film progresses. If this is meant to be anything more than entertainment, I regret so say I missed the boat.

Unlike The Fellowship of the Ring, which was decidedly about exposition and mood, The Two Towers is pretty much pure, unadulterated, exciting fun. It throws us right back into the narrative, not necessarily rewarding those of us who have seen the first film, and not necessarily punishing those who haven't. Jackson keeps the balance of interlocking story lines charged with an effortless momentum, an intimacy, and, without ignoring the thundering roar of battle, a general keenness in observation and cementing of the characters: Frodo's decided deterioration, Sam's supporting strength, Aragon's defined heroism, Gandalf's reckless loss of neutrality, Sauroman's helplessness and, of course, Gollum's foulness (incidentally, he's probably the most believable digital character yet attempted onscreen). While juggling three story lines, the film manages to still make the important points within its fantasy world: Small deeds have their rippling effect, politics are most certainly still politics, and, the quite timely ethical quagmire over intervention at the risk of one's personal safety (as demonstrated by the digitally astounding, slow speaking Ents). But it's all nuts and bolts until the film bumps Oracai head with man and elf head in the hour-long battle of Helms Deep, an unending barrage of surprises and spectacle that is so full to the brim with old-fashioned bravado, it will leave you exhausted - and will challenged one of Gandalf's final statements (which I'll not reveal): Dear God, how in the hell could Jackson and Co. possibly top this? It's beginning to really look a great deal the most ambitious set of films ever attempted.

It is a brazen policy to weave such a large, competent cast into a story that practically demands they they be dwarfed by their own surroundings. What makes Gangs of New York such an achievement is Scorcese's absolute belief in the power of his characters - despite the sense they are slowly losing control over their own respective places in history. Pause. Reflect. Sounds suspiciously in the vein of a classical Western scenario, no? You called it - right down to the Five Points, a central setting in both the film and, in its own general physicality: It's the dirty square where the five principal corridors of commerce dump into, the High Noon-ish Main Street where the duels take place, and a stunning set that radiates equal parts the consistent, looming peril of Ripper-era White chapel and the bustling den of Dickens' quick thieves in Oliver Twist. Genre swapping and set design aside, the most exciting rhythm in Gangs of New York is the re-creation, the Scorcese trademark to worship every last little trinket and signpost in his fetishistic appreciation of detail. But it's more here than merely items and music of the time period: It's the dinge, the dive, the hollow dustiness of even the upper crust. The pitfall of re-staging a period is always its commonality (the striking sense that you've been there before in another film), which Gangs of New York sidesteps almost completely, looking so at home in Civil War-era NYC - a place we've seen so rarely put on film and, for the occasion, a place that never feels anything more than a carnage driven version of actual history. This massive world creates, in itself, yet another feat: It's populants actually transcend their use as expository Western stereotypes. Besides giving every last line of dialogue its proper historical and character specific edge, Scorcese makes a plea that his players carry on like their ornamental nicknames: Bill "The Butcher", Amsterdam Vallon, Jenny Everdeane, Happy Jack, Tammaney, et al.  Day-Lewis, in his first performance since 1997's The Boxer, angles his ferocity so potently, so unflinchingly, that his very presence is a breath of scalding doom. As William Cutting, he demonstrates oh-so-easily why he can pick and choose his roles and, every last time come up with a disturbingly memorable performance (in this case, the best one I've seen all year). Therein, of course, lies this quandary: How to keep a hero, his romantic interest and a collection of hoodlums, politicians and other assorted New Yorkers even remotely in focus in the massive shadow of such scenery chewing mayhem? As ever, Scorcese simply hires the right people (or, failing your belief that Cameron Diaz could even be considered for a role in such a charged, uncompromising scenario of sorts, Marty has merely worked his magic as with otherwise flighty actresses - Sharon Stone and Cybil Shephard comee to mind). DiCaprio is terrific, all violent maturity with a careful sense of patience - but what makes his inclusion here, among other things, so necessary, is his visionary self-image of a smaller-than-life, shrugging matinee idol. It's vastness in tow, rarely do I remember being quite so consumed by a film's blatant mixture of incidental prowess and, at the other end of the spectrum, the epic set pieces staged with a rough-edged calibration, a genuine interest in their own lack of symmetry - in the magic of a balanced imperfection that doesn't call attention to itself. (Don't read this if you haven't seen the film: This attention to realism's clumsiness is never more prevalent than in the film's opening sequence, which turns out, quite rightly, to be the film's climax, and, in the closing sequence which, in a rare display of what must've been studio leniency, is an ambiguously anti-climactic showdown which turns strangely complex - and at the same time, cuts through the treadle.) And, Continue. And for all it's power (not to mention a year and a half of delays), Gangs of New York retains its sense of worth. Nary a disappointing moment steps forth, everything a tight balance of montage and homage; a Spaghetti Western set in urban decay; a historical note tinged with a bitter revenge saga and modern social parallels; all told a film of uniqueness and of substance.
 

Something about its sarcastic undertone that leaves it cold after about thirty minutes of grade-A hysterical nonsense. Pretty much after Warren Schmidt (Nicholson) leaves his home in the RV, the movie begins to collapse into the most unpleasant, utterly depressing journey of self you could imagine. Told through the ol' unreliable narrator, Payne uses a clever exposition trick, bending our vision of Schmidt's world through Nicholson's letters to his World Children's Crusade-sponsored Tanzanian, Ngudu. (And yes, every time his voice-over starts with "Dear Ngudu...", the audience breaks into unruly giggling). That Schmidt boldly boasts no character arc isn't a problem, exactly. It's an admirable addition to the sad frankness of this world Payne creates - but it rarely makes for anything more than a few dots of punishing epiphany along the way (the most noteworthy is that Schmidt - and we, the audience - have to see Kathy Bates in the nude). The film never really answers its own call for something more transcendent that what it's worth, never gives its characters anything deeper than their own flaws - and how funny they can be when their being so cruel and hurtful. How bleak. Nicholson is flat-out terrific (though I doubt I'm alone in wishing I didn't have to watch him - Nicholson, of all people - play a senior citizen). I never actually buckled down to sympathize with Schmidt - or his stressed daughter (Davis), his nit picky wife (Squibb), or his gooney son-in-law-to-be (Mulroney) - in fact, I spent a good portion of the second and third acts wishing they'd just go away. What's really alarming is how realistic the movie feels - and how disturbing the comedy startss to feel after awhile. Can't say I had a good time, though.

Where others have failed, Adaptation truly brings the vice of indulgence into correct form, establishing it as something that's brilliant and funny - but never transparent. It's quite something because its ballsy, which is really something because it works. The don't-even-try-to-figure-it-out trappings of meshing art's silly imitation of life and, a rather potent vice versa, find a note of pleasing, labyrinthine madness not unlike the zany energy of Jonze's debut. All of the actors not only seem to get it - but seem deliciously at home in this strange, unique world; especially the ones you'd peg for instant turncoats (like Cage, for instance, and, perhaps, Streep). Cooper, devoid of front teeth and repeatedly assuring us that he's "the smartest guy he knows" nearly walks away with the film, but it's Cage's complete reversal as twin brothers Donald and (especially) Charlie (who is just about everything Cage is not), that makes Adaptation feel so darn fresh. Alternately funny and haunting, and supremely "taut" (to use Mrs. Kaufman's word), the threat of hyperbole dangles, even now, four days after I've screened the film, to give me away. But - - - I dare not raise quarrel with the slow, justified-joke sequences towards the end of the film.  I did that after just one viewing of Malkovich and the regret still hangs heavy in the air (Multiple viewing alert!). For certain, though, Jonze is a master filmmaker who has somehow crafted a film in entirely the same vein as Malkovich, but has managed to give it the complexity and straightforward presentation to allow the Kaufman's (I'll play along here) wicked send-up of Hollywood's screen writing nightmares to bite just that much harder on the film going public. What a brilliant scheme: Let's put the damn thing in a theater right between pictures whose scripts were, in fact, private ruses, worked over to obtain a committee's  marketability 'thumbs up'. Isn't Tinseltown fun when it's breaking its own balls?

It's all endless indexing to start, feeling to precede something and, indeed, it does. Sexual deviance. And MORE sexual deviance. The title character lives by her own rules and she's mesmerizing, because she's played by Isabelle Huppert, an actress who could easily teach an uber-specific acting course called Facial Expressions and Their Subliminal Link to Brave Acting Choices (101). It's such a skillful build that by the time you're left with Haneke's trademark rug pull on your personal space, The Piano Teacher has encroached itself inside your head, wriggling painfully, and it then occurs to you that our faithful director hasn't really got anything of substance to say, except, "Look, I've pulled the rug on your personal space. How masterful of me". Huppert's heroine (of her own dysfunction) has obvious issues, at one point admitting that she has no feelings and, that if she were to develop them (God forbid), her intellectual prowess could easily find a way to dispose of said feelings. (She says other, sunnier things, but I've forgotten most of them on general principle). Of course, this line about those pesky feelings must be spoken as if it were a weapon, its' victim the unfortunate recipient of Huppert's cool, double life masochism. (In fact, it's one of her students and, in a turn of events that's starting to feel less like a turn than a required turn, it becomes an error in judgment on her part, leading to a scene where Haneke tries to elicit our sympathy for her, as if to say, "Look, you may hate her, but here's a guy you should really hate. How masterful of me"). Unfortunately, beyond staging sexual self torture in a way meant to disturb us (and, in another more disturbing way, repeating some of the same admittedly brilliant stunts he displayed in Funny Games), Haneke's ultimate, visceral pushiness goes nowhere. Disconnect if you don't care to read about the final shot, in which Huppert plunges a knife into her chest before skipping out on a rehearsal. It is especially telling in the same way most of the underground elements of the film are, repeatedly, candidly, begging the wrong questions, (such as, "What in the holy hell just happened here? And, for God's sake, why did this strange event happen?") You're welcome to return as I close in saying, somehow Haneke was deft enough to escape being dubbed a mindless shock artist with the aforementioned Funny Games, but here, it's as if he's demonstrating, step by step, exactly how he could re-tap that film's glorious summation of moral quickness in such a way that it blends, almost indiscernibly, with every other art house squirm-fest we've been subjected to in recent years. There's a great bit of style and technique, and some really, really swell mood elevation but, once he's inside you're head, it's all too clear that he's forgotten his map. (Not that I don't await his next film with open arms, bated breath and a full erection.)

Hell House, by the way, is a Halloween alternative to a haunted house where the congregation of Trinity Church put on skits depicting such hell bound moments as suicides, drunk driving accidents and graphic abortions, all in the name of educating non or lapsed Christians in the final destination of their eternal soul. Part of it feels like a backfire, as if Ratliff was desperately trying to be objective in the hopes that Hell House itself would portray this tradition seriously, thereby providing viewers with something to laugh at. After viewing it as a whole, though, what you take away is how fervent and uninhibited these Christians are and, an almost warm and fuzzy exoneration of all the weird and ambiguously sinful portrayals they've subjected themselves to - in the name of our souls. As a hard-core cynic, who is deeply suspicious of the Christian faith, I found myself oddly annoyed that the film constantly threatened to betray its own objectivity. A film making fun of Christians wouldn't be all that interesting. There's some terrifically odd stops along the way, including a father whose daughter wins the most coveted of roles (the rave rape skit), the teacher who believes there are such a thing as dumb questions, the girl who muses about Christian dating and the police officer who is so articulate and so patient, you'll wonder why he's not negotiating hostage situations instead of walking a beat. The genuineness of these people, in fact, is what drives the piece and, in the end, the surprise that they're a whole lot more level-headed than the premise might lead you to believe, gives the whole experience a sense of gravity: There's a reason they're up to their tenth straight year doing this thing.

Probably conceived and even filmed simultaneously with Lock, Stock & Two Smoking Barrels, this film, nevertheless, feels like a heady answer to Guy Ritchie's mid-60's-styled Brit gangster updates. Alternately horrific and dry, something about how attractive it feels to use these actors in these roles is kind of thrilling; Bettany is pure evil - almost always conjuring McDowell's Alex from A Clockwork Orange; Thewlis is remarkably good as a boss man (watch it after Naked and you'll spend hours convincing yourself that the two characters are, in fact, played by the same actor). The final confrontation, when the two men are old and gray (Thewlis, bald cap and made-up - not good), is so hard to watch, so full of the kind of jealous rage and teeth-gritting male-ness, you may end up merely writing it off as silly. I was able to stave that off until the grande finale - which is just that - silly.

The observation-comma-observation-comma-revelation pandering of the thick, goopy voice over seems to be subjecting the terrific, throwaway comedy to a horrible and unnecessary dose of genuineness and philosophical rambling. The cheating wife, the stoner husband (and his crazy buddy), the young, brooding writer - these all feel more like suggestions of characters; White has written, as he did in Orange County, a whole bunch of really funny situations (and I did laugh a great deal, especially at Blake Nelson), but he has given these laughs a flat, passable context and several marginally boring characters to create them. Aniston isn't anything spectacular, exactly; in her defense, she's playing a character who has been beaten so hard into the ground, even our predictions of her future decisions and actions feel like masturbation. Arteta isn't a bad director (see Chuck & Buck), but he seems hell-bent, here, on suggesting that he's erected a fresh take on tired material. And, as you can imagine, I've got news for him.

How to spin a yarn of redemption without warranting comparison to a blunt object? The entire film bathed in sobriety; it's like a two hour funeral - or, more specifically, a two hour eulogy for a fate everybody keeps trying to beat, but which has already been decided (which is strange, but really intriguing, in a way). 25th Hour contains what is perhaps the most vivid simulacrum of pure self pity I’ve seen (short of the collected racial epithets montage in Do the Right Thing, the joint in Lee’s repertoire this film is most comparable to), in a scene where Norton’s inner voice as glimpsed in a men’s room mirror, rattling hither and thither with all of American’s favorite stereotypes and simple gripes, a shocking sequence that gives the movie a social jolt: there’s no question from that point on that the film is making a broader point than that of the masterfully intimate tale of Monty’s last day without fear of forced sodomy. And with that in mind, Norton gives what may be his best performance to date. His range and the competent control thereof are on display – but most prevalent is his silent intensity, his power, his command, the total security he has gleaned from his character's career choice (drug dealer), a near-erupting sense of self-control, the irony of which is his sentence, the thing he cannot change, to which he seems to be quietly challenging by mid-film, meeting it with a drunken grimace that’s desperately failing to mask some rather serious pain. The movie’s power lies in a clever suspense tactic wherein, as a byproduct of the simplicity of the premise, we are constantly positioning ourselves a few feet ahead of Monty, breathlessly anticipating some sort of miraculous escape from his destiny. Our faith in the cinema serves us these predictions and, with a splash of low-key cold water, the film cries to sing a capella without the bells and whistles - at face value. Lee’s filmmaking is patient, talky and character-driven – and, without sounding like I’m merely comparing it to other films -  it’s a supreme jewel because it’s so straightforward and, (dare I say) conservative. Then comes Benioff’s finale, a physiologically fitting, lingering just short of haunting, a rambling piece of fantasy matching only the tone of the aforementioned montage - it's a winking eye warning shrewdly, like a clear-headed elder, against taking the easy way out. Lee also arms himself with patriotism and post 9-11 WTC rations, making these relevant as a scourge of the American Dream and the paradoxical pinhole that is NY City. He positions his characters in the same state of shocked alertness, equating the process of accepting responsibility for one’s actions with the realization that a city's (and nation's) security has been, and most definitely could be breached in the future. One of the many sequences between Frank and Jacob finds them sitting at Frank's window, gazing at the wreckage and clean-up of ground zero, just below them. Frank sums up the place Monty keeps hoping to get himself to, mentally, in regards to accommodating his own consequence: (paraphrasing) “Bin Laden can drop another one next door, I’m not moving”. It’s especially exciting as a filmgoer to see plot pieces acting out of turn and assuming their own identity. They may fit into a bigger puzzle, but the set of scenes where Frank delights in intimidating Jacob lead to a terrific set of turns that are their own entities, and of little connection to Monty’s plight - outside the fact that the men are both in the same building (yes, I’m referring to Jacob’s moral wake-up call and its ill-timed connection to Monty's praise: “You’ve always been smart enough to stay away from things like that”. All the rationalizing in the world can’t shake up the reverse psychology fueling that comment). In addition to the stellar cast, Rosario Dawson, as Monty's girlfriend Naturelle, usually backed into tiny parts or silly films (The Adventures of Pluto Nash, Sidewalks of New York, Josie & the Pussycats), gives a sharply conflicted, mature sense of self with a touch of naughty (a perfect mirror to “jailbait” Mary’s (Paquin) out-and-out naughtiness with a touch of maturity). It takes a round set of interests to evince Monty’s world – Jacob, Frank, Naturelle, and Monty’s dad (Brian Cox), are all so carefully in their element, in a guilty state of concern, and fully aware that their surreal existence justifies and, essentially, defines Monty. The ending may smack of a metaphoric splash of cold water, but watch the last night toasts: Each man gets an eyeful of sincerity before promptly blinking it away. These guys may have written their own ticket - but they've been caught scalping it one too many times. And somebody's got to pay. Only real quibble, and there’s just no escaping the irony, is that watching a film about a busted drug dealer where the drug dealing – and everything associated with said crime (the scummy Russian bosses, the double crosses) – are the least exciting thing, seems just about right. Unfortunately, the business’s unusual lack of gravitas is, in fact, one of the film’s few flaws – Monty’s uppers in the biz are, inexplicably, commonplace heavies, thankfully confined to a single scene.

[Opening sequence between Norton and his Russian Cohort, where they rescue a beaten dog (note the symmetry by the end of the picture), made me wonder (almost aloud) if Spike hired Rodrigo Prieto (Amores Perros) for his talent with shooting bloodied pups.]

God help you, really, if you don't take charge and watch the film with your finger on the fast forward button, careful to precisely turn your head and zip through any scene without a surfboard and a wave.

[I'm really tempted to dock it the plus, after having read that Bosworth, who is just a horrible actress, didn't even do her own stunts! Why hire her then, if you don't mind my asking? She's as vacuous - if not moreso - than Paul Walker in The Fast and the Furious, the film this one is clearly modeled after. If that film's surprise success means a cineplex full of xeroxes for years to come, I'm getting the fuck out of this wicked game. Now.]