No one is as skillful at authoring lean misdirection with seamless flow as Mamet, here proving himself capable of turning on its ear even the most cringe worthy of premises - the kidnapping of the President's bitchy daughter. Kilmer warms to the lingo and the lack of wasted space -  - - or, maybe warm isn't the term, exactly; He seems to fill the emotional vacuum required of him without particular matinee idol allure or evidence of foggy naiveté (I guess Mamet broke him down or was able to explain just why the pauses are there and how to follow the plot points). Previous mention of zero fat policy should not go unnoticed: It surfaces quite potently on several occasions as I felt myself effortlessly floating in the master's hands, giddy smile forming on my face. Most stellar are the crop of red herring tricks, narrative forward momentum with the snapback of a car crash (i.e. - no one is safe from whatever just happened, even if they happen to be a main character) and the unwavering sense of necessity Mamet seems to allow his characters whenever they smell a side glanced detail. (That is, when they're not looking badass.) Could all (or, more, anyhow) thrillers be this smart, please?

Forget the life-imitates-art irony that Icon Productions cooked up to market this film (pitting two religions against each other, just as in The Passion of the Christ). Forget the murmurs among your peers that the violence in the most widely seen subtitled movie ever is overwhelming (it's nothing if not numbing, in my opinion - "We get it, we get it, the dude got beaten up"). And whether it happened, didn't happen, it's historically accurate, or less so - all of it is completely irrelevant; The suspected anti-Semitism is a gray area at best - or, more articulately, it's a kind of risky hazard. The film is obviously meant to be the unfurled narrative of one faith's intolerance of another faith. That the persecutors are Jewish doesn't seem to be highlighted or used maliciously. The quote at the beginning obviously means us to appreciate what Jesus has done - if you believe in that sort of thing - which sets up two more irks: 1) it marks a target audience (believers) making this a borderline exclusive prize for pop culture Christians, and 2) it gives the appearance that Gibson wants to push - I'll just come out and say it - guilt (as, say, a Catholic might)). I'm not particularly intimidated by the movie's secular politics, but it stands to reason that perhaps Christians deserve a better film for their controversy (The Last Temptation of Christ, maybe?). But anyhow. The story has been told to tatters and it's a decidedly open-and-shut case (the only surprises are the silly deviations or reimaginings). The Passion of the Christ gets plugged up in literal translation - even when it's being boring, as in the long, sagging "road to calvary" sequence wherein the same thing seems to be happening over and over again (for thirty minutes of screen time). The violence is used in the same way hand-held photography is used: To express an asymmetrical, scruffy realism. If the result is meant to be one where suffering transcends love, why did I feel like I'd been pummeled by the film rather than enlightened by it? Caveziel's is an interesting Jesus - as was Willem DeFoe's; I think there's probably only bad or interesting. I'm not sure I could call the portrayal of perhaps the most widely interpreted character in the world's history good or, you know, accurate. The use of a bald, pale satan - on the other hand - is clumsy at best; His presence seems to be the catalyst for most of the Nine Inch Nails' video images [maggots crawling from noses, ghoul-spirits jumping out suddenly and, oh yes, that baby satan that turns out to be a mini-me-esque satan midget instead (I'm not kidding).] Gibson's mise-en-scene for dummies suits the melodrama of this tale (rudimentary overuse of slow-motion and Mel's trademark figure moving among a muted crowd shot seem almost insultingly lazy, though). The last shots (I'm really not spoiling anything, you know what happens) of the boulder being moved and a squeaky clean JC moving into the frame, displaying the holes in his hands - - these shots are probably the goofiest thing about the movie: At once new age-y and characteristic of an ajar sequel door, they were the only thing that topped the slow motion bag of coins being tossed to Judas as moments where I stifled a deviously inappropriate laugh. A less profound movie riding a crest of loud word-of-mouth (where ever I go, I have to hear about this movie, you see) I couldn't imagine; A better title might have been The Beating of the Christ.

[And was it just me, or is "We don't have all day" a more modern saying? It's uttered in the film twice, by different Roman guards who, incidentally, are not wearing wristwatches.]

Presumably, Gondry's film is a cinematic simulation of Alzheimer's as seen through the brightly colored filter of a cartoon fable; Kaufman's is a (natch) labyrinthine allegory, channeling the cruelly fluctuating perspective of a newly broken-up couple through the radical procedure of mental erasure - - as envisioned through the shamelessly irresponsible practice that is Lacuna, Inc. (whose role is assumed, not advertised - a wise move clearly meant to distance it from Being John Malkovich's JM, Inc.); Winslet's film is clearly a re-launching of her talent, easily her best performance to date; Carrey's is essentially a role usurped by the narrative - which makes it all the more stunning that we are so easily made vulnerable to his suffering (This is his most satisfying balance of straight and funny yet attempted; the mind fuck and manipulation he receives recalls a worst version of the one in Memento or, even the con in Matchstick Men). I feel like I'm accepting an award: Everything about the movie is amazing. Ruffalo, Dunst, Wood and Wilkinson - all playing Lacuna's crack staff - seem to revel in their tawdry work; The performances are fine, but the characters are exceptionally twisted - each one a more strangely casual monster than the next. (They're also quite funny.) Love the way the concept is displayed, find it ever more intimidating (by which I mean mind blowing) that Kaufman is able to conjure these premises and, still, wiggle around in them - using his own rules. There's a moment of realization in the film that, I'll admit, made me really want to turn to the wife and say, "Did you see that? Can you believe that?" (And you know me - I'm not easy or anything.) I'm pants-pissing excited for a second viewing and doubtful I'll see anything that absorbed me quite as amiably as Eternal Sunshine did this year.

It's hard to nail a grade to this film as an independent piece; The bulk of what's great about it is the promise that, tacked to the first film, an epic of unimaginable interest and excitement will be born. This one foots the real transition of character for both The Bride and the title character (here, we first meet Bill, get acquainted, then follow his trajectory to an obligatory comeuppance). It's real clear, for instance, that the movie was divided in two for marketing - and possible comfort - reasons (though some of use don't mind being exhausted by a film - and despise being pandered to by a studiio). There's a falsely stilted flavor (i.e. - we're watching the second half of a film and it feels like the second half of a feature) that is almost distracting sometimes. But enough of the rant. What's actually encased in the deux moniker is awesome: The Bride's training with smart ass kung-fu master Pei Me, her brutal confrontations with the remaining DiVAS (a down-and-out Michael Madsen and spunky, nearsighted - literally and figuratively - Daryl Hannaah), and her eventual return for the big finale all contain blood hopping set pieces and long, dialogue heavy sequences of Tarantinospeak that (thankfully) drips with his own brand of super cool. And above all, it's the final confirmation that this is, in every sense, Uma's movie. While tirelessly single-minded and brutally successful at her one woman revenge streak in Vol. 1, more dimensional melted shades abound in this outing: Sensitive, vulnerable, and incredibly self-contained, Vol. 2's most wonderful surprise is how full figured the full figured Thurman's full circle really is. Even though the film itself seems undermined by existing in quasimodo form - - Uma seems to benefit from having her perrformance bisected. Here, she's believable as the mommy and as the warrior (and it makes perfect sense that the Twin Pines Massacre was left out of Vol. 1, but opens - and sets the stage - for Vol. 2); And overall, she's believable as a creature of truth - the perfect heroine for a campy kicker epic. So, on one front, I'm sticking up for the volume structure and, on another, I'm daming it. Wouldn't it be nice if I could just sit on one side or the other?

Von Trier is an astute moralist - and an exciting filmmaker. The expectation can never be for the sugar-coated or the easy to digest, and Dogville is no deviation. This is a sharply critical film rooted in human nature (aside from the recent cry of anti-American sentiment, but I'll get to that later); The astonishing universality which practically erupts, is matched only by the ferocity of Von Trier's risks - - and his rousing success with the aesthhetic (namely, the bare stage, but also some of the framing devices: the curtain over the apple truck, the sundial effect, etc.) I love the idea that things are either black or white (just as the backgrounds which stand for night and day), that the sensibility of experimentation with society - even of the amateur sort Tom performs with the people of Dogville - is as dangerous as leaving the society to exist without such provacation, and the double meanings to everything which, we see, is a reflexive technique: Von Trier seeks to have his audience expose their own fears and desires to themselves; Just as in Irreversible, the natural urge to see justice done is met with an even stronger pull in the other direction when we finally realize that justice is as appalling as the crimes being avenged (none of the characters in the film do the right thing - but whether there is a "right thing" to do is the much larger and more relevant question the film is asking). And it is just this potent lack that not only seems to reject the intentions of the (clearly) last minute photo montage - and obvious song choice - as pandering to an unnecessary hot button atmosphere, but it seems almost like a contradiction to indicate that the film is meant to be a knock at Americans in specific. Land of the free, poverty amidst wealth and current state of things aside (as the film was written before the Bush Administration by the way), Dogville works as a strong medicine; This is a film that critiques all of mankind, not necessarily those who live in America.

From the get-go, Japanese Story feels like it has a gloomy date with destiny. Something about it feels innately - and bluntly - pre-ordained. It's most nauseating feature is how it seems to play on the audience's expectations of this something, to a fault. The first act bounces through genre tags - fish-out-of-water/odd couple/working girl's inconvenient bump in the road of contentment  - and plays with the viewer on more than one level (i.e. - there's foreshadowing about [plot point withheld], but there's also the feeling that you've sat down to watch, um, this generic crap). Then the second act - whose twist you'd have to be blind to miss - comes along, practically saving the movie by moving it from a survival sequence (using characters who are at each other's throats) into an offbeat love story. It's the third act that's the humdinger - and the one that's, at heart, both absolutely stunning and unconscionably problematic. Toni Collette and Gotaro Tsunashima are both terrific; She's a good sport about playing such a strangely familiar, yet obtuse character and his melting stereotypes are quite well-honed - although I'm not sure why there are so many scenes of the two of them acting like stoned teenagers, running their hands along each other's skin as if it were made of carpet. Saving the film, to be sure, are the small details - both the practical and throwaway ones (II want to spoil about ten of them, but I just can't bring myself to). There's a performance, by Collette's partner (at the [sic] geology firm), that will make you cringe repeatedly. We'll talk more after you've seen it. Christ, I hate spoiler warnings and that I have to bother with them.

It seems to glide more on the oddity of its characters than its predecessor (it helps that its about proving true love instead of finding it and being accepted as different while simultaneously finding out you're the same on a goddamn technicality); But that doesn't let it off the hook for: a) miring in same focus group-approved comedy as it so cretinously "delighted" us with in the first film, b) employing fucking Smash Mouth (again), and c) ending the film with all the characters on a stage singing 'La Vida Loca' (seriously). I was able to enjoy it more from moment to moment, possibly because it didn't feel as adamently designed to tickle adults as possible (it felt more story-driven to me, even though it turns into a quest-for-the-lost-something-or-other movie for about thirty minutes). I didn't necessarily laugh too much more, but I wasn't bitter at the end either (at least, not until I realized the horrible Ricky Martin tune was tattooed to my brain, that is). Note to the writers, though: In Shrek 3, let's make Banderas' Puss in Boots character the center of attention. (Also, big extra points for the pirate piano player who plays both 'A Little Drop of Poison' by Tom Waits and 'People Ain't No Good' by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds. In a film full of crappy music (and anachronistic - does pop music in medieval times bother anyone else?), this was a welcome antidote to the ear cancer).

Kurt Russell's hardass-with-a-heart-of-gold hockey coach is probably the best reason to see Miracle, a movie that moves in so predictably Disney a way, (It is as if it's hammering points home for the blind using blinking lights; Exposition for the extraordinarily dull-minded.) I will wholeheartedly admit to enjoying it - even the long stretch where scene after scene is intense hockey training followed by INTENSE MIND GAMES followed by more intense hockey training; Even a two hour plus movie centered entirely around a single game - whose outcome we already know - can still be exciting and somewhat suspenseful. It falls into a category with a handful of films whose stories are true and certainly worth telling but, could do without a straight-up commercial artist - and his corporate dictators - at the helm. (In short, treat it as a Russell vehicle. Everything else has been assured, determined and pre-arranged for your comfort.)

There's an oddly bleak odor to watching warmongers, in any way shape or form. Rarely seen engaging in real life, the characters in Troy seem to have instead engaged in a bet to see which of them could become grand warmonger. Since there doesn't seem to be any shade between shouting demands, redfaced, and declaring love, face absolutely purple, no one ever emerges as anything like larger-than-life ought really to be. Bana comes the closest, etching the briefest of sparks of character (or, at the very least, demonstrating his ability to change his expression). While Pitt employs his usual ego-budgeted Hollywood schtick (boring man-hunk groan tethered to his cute-as-a-lisp crackball delivery), Bloom is busy proving himself right out of a career (Pirates of the Caribbean was no fluke!), Gleeson, Bean and Miss Burrows are relegated to background banter and, the beloved entertaining, Brian Cox, actively lobbying for a Raspberry Award (with a side of great big ham). The story feels clipped and arranged from frame one; Gladiator is the obvious model, but Troy isn't sure if its passing its second rate sets and washed out look off as camp, or, um, what? Worse than its identity confusion is its ham-fisted dialogue ("Don't take my lands", one general says; "But I like your lands," the bully general answers) Benioff - so strong with 25th Hour - can't seem to tell an interesting story. (Though in Troy, just as in 25th Hour, the political parallels seem accidentally relevant - - though it really is just a coincidence after all). He can, however, remind you in every one of Pecs' scenes that he wants his name to echo through eternity. Just like that Maximus fellow...

[I look forward to another Summer where I'll be punished for not being able to have "fun" at the movies; And this from people who've forgotten what the opposite of fun is, anyway..]

If Broomfield's original documentary drove the point home that Aileen couldn't receive a fair trial because of the media brand "first female serial killer", and Monster drove home the point (quite erroneously, in fact) that she was exorcising demons all in the confines of self defense, then Life and Death of a Serial Killer acts as an articulation agreement of these points, underlining most eloquently the permanent reverberation of her endlessly cruel childhood, the fragility of her mind in her last year (prior to an October, 2002 execution) and, thankfully, the exact meaning of the "seven joint ride". Not quite the pile of damning-the-death-penalty evidence I'd hoped arm myself with (on the soapbox, that is), but it certainly presents a head-cracker of a dilemna: A woman who openly wants to die - but whose mental state seems to dictate further review on the subject.

It's a B, mind, but it's certainly not the same sort of B I'd stamped Chamber of Secrets two Novembers ago (a grade since regretted following multiple half viewings half seen as my halfling watched them out of half her eye in my half house living room...); Azkaban has enough great cinema to make you truly want to forget the first two uber-dry installments ever existed (Albeit, it has its share of momentum-guzzling pointer scenes and an ending as rushed and compressed as Columbus' pair). The flavor Cuaron invests his storytelling with is darker and so much more interesting to follow; the film washes over - rather than floods - your chambers. A new director makes the characters almost seem new, with Radcliffe finally stepping out of the cartoonish, obvious line readings and nearly inhabits the title character's range (or, as nearly as we're likely to get, at any rate). It's also the best cast yet, with Emma Thompson, Timothy Spall, David Thewlis and (pause for salivation) Gary Oldman who, sadly, is given much less to do than his nearly two-hour buildup would suggest; Ironically, Hagrid's gigantic pet's plight turns out to be much more moving than the one referred to after Harry Potter and...

Most films that skew facts do so in a way that suggests that they're merely fudging reality rather than obviously and utterly fictionalizing it for the sake of keeping comfortable a good story. The Day After Tomorrow - another broadsiding from the demon of digi-truth, Roland Emmerich - flagrantantly sensationlizes, repeatedly, without ever going to the awful trouble to spin a slightly intriguing yarn. The effects are eye-popping (some of the ambitions of this dimwitted tale - particularly the magnitude of things - pay off well in that respect); Gyllenhal isn't, though - - somehow, he continues to avoid being mocked outright by critics and audiences alike (his sister stole the talent in their genes, clearly). I was particularly overjoyed to see Emmerich has brought back the same constant cutaways to incidental, isolated characters, whose presence is entertained soley to comment in expository terms and get killed instantly, as if to squeeze the lightest bit of sentimental goo out of their very existence; Really, I had hoped The Patriot was a better step towards harmless popcorn entertainment than it was (he said, with the sour taste of Independence Day and Godzilla lingering like old feces on his gums). Even the audience I watched with seemed to be chastising the film; How cruel, I thought, as I watched the world feel the perilous freezing temperatures, a seeming result of Dennis Quaid's (coincidental) that-day Global warming-warning - - and then watched some more, as the world was, subsequently saved because, ostensibly, Dennis Quaid skied from Philly to the New York City Public Library to be with/save/make up for lost time with his son. His wife wanted to be there, but she was busy caring her darndest for bald cancer patients in Mexico or, as it's seen in this film, the country we'll overtake (nicely and ironically) when the U.S. popsicle-izes. Did I mention that a Russian cargo liner floats into Downtown New York City, stopping long enough to showcase the showdown between love-lorn Jakey, his cronies and two vicious, man-eating wolves? Oh, well, that happens too.

[I hated the review I wrote. Then I rewrote it. And I hated that one. Now, I've edited down to just the essentials, because I can't stand looking at it any more.]

Absolutely enthralling mini-masterpiece...Uniting the four (or five, depending on perspective) title seasons is the floating monastery itself...Melding quiet comfort of Eastern religion into a dreamy haze of greens and browns...Cinematagrophy looks almost naturally occuring...It's the kind of film you see and then walk around stuck in, like a spacey bubble, for the next few hours...Third best thing I've seen thusfar in o-four.

[I usually don't write anything of much more value than this anyway; At least it's somewhat lean.]

[I tried very hard to write this without showing my favored hand.]

It's a paradox, to be sure: A sometimes great, always exhaustive work of propoganda without a hint of profundity. I had no trouble following Moore's politics this time around, but he has yet to leave the goofball tactics of a ringleader on the sidelines; At this point, doing so would be a major statement of how serious he is - - and no movie would benefit from that as the sure-to-be revered and reviled pop-conspiracy theory bundle of opinons that is Farenheit 9/11. (At least he stays out of the frame more). Actually, to be fair, at least the last 2/3 of Farenheit 9/11almost spotlessly unfold in a flurry of found footage and narration that seems to be no longer joking with its audience as if the two of them - Moore and the audience - were seated in a bar somewhere near his ever-referenced hometown of Flint, Michigan. It's this portion of the film that seems to contain the most moments that make you want to stand up and get angry, get rowdy and buy a bumper sticker. It also makes me wish - along with Jeff Gibbs' quasi-Phillip Glass drone score - that Errol Morris had made this film instead of one dissecting events of a foggier, times past-war. Profiling the bloodshed of American soldiers and Iraqi civilians in the current Iraq war, Moore seems to find his inner human interest reporter (occasionally bleeding a moment until it is so dry it begins to fleck, too, mind). Unlike the strong emotional reaction I had to Bowling for Columbine where I instantly gave the film an A- before it settled (to a B+, then later a B, you'll recall), this one made me feel social and mobilized. The audience I was with (who gave the film a standing ovation - a rarity in the multiplex these days) were hushed and completely rapt, defying the full house gamble: Either it's going to be a circus of talkers and noisemakers or a shocked, silent bunch. (I wondered, though, what it would be like to view a film this full of contempt for one administration (or, mostly, one man) with a more balanced, less middle-class twentysomething audience.) I also predicted that the least I'd get out of it would be to see that political filmmaking can be popular when a nation isn't floating in the status quo, which underlines the value of the medium (something that eases the constant, nagging feeling of worthlessness I feel sitting through so much mediocrity). I could've made out real good selling "Fuck Bush" T-shirts on the way out of the theater - - but isn't it irresponsible to program people to hate the thing you accuse of trying to program us? Is making a film that sidesteps slander by claiming patriotism - in other words, riding the rebirth of the very nationalism you're blaming one man for drumming up - really sort of, well, underhanded? Can a film that has received this much attention - negative or otherwise - ever receive a fair shake? That the film inspires a great number of interesting and important questions by its existence alone - not so much for the content (however informative) within - does that irony ruin the experience? Not really.

At odds with the fact that I obviously laughed a number of times - and that I enjoy watching Vince Vaughn in this sort of role - but found the material and its presentation so lacking, so unbelievably forgettable, that I almost felt guilty for the brief moments of genuine pleasure I got out of the film. If Ben Stiller continues to play this over-the-top, I think it is my patriotic duty to continue bringing Zoolander - and its parade of complete and utter suckiness - to his attention. Not that I think his playing straight necessarily works all the time either (Meet the Parents is mediocre drivel, and you're all wrong) - - but he clearly felt he had stake in this
debacle (producer credit, wife playing main character, scenery chewing role from start to finish). The subtitle "A True Underdog Story" only calls more attention to how bare the bones of the losers-come-from-behind plot really feels (all the extra chances everyone gets at the end make the characters and the sport seem almost unfit for entertainment). Trashy summer comedy at a limp-dick clip (I would say that Rip Torn's participation clinches it), showcasing yet again the audience still has to care if the "underdogs" win for this to be an actual "movie".

[7/3: On the can this morning, reading Lisa Schwarzbaum's approach to the material (she calls parody, clearly). Just wanted to acknowledge that yes I get it and yes I understand and no, the film does not succeed as a satire on any level.]

Fusing the melodrama and the action together doesn't seem all that seamless (And why so many scenes of Peter Parker, you know, weeping?) This is also something I said about installment #1, until viewing it two more times in its entirety and several more in parts thanks to an unprecedented show of good taste in my daughter. You may be the film's most vocal champion, but it would be impossible to deny that its ambitious sprawl, tackling far too many subplots to float is the inevitable spur in it's boot. Spider Man 2 does a good bit of recap - which seems strange (was there anyone on earth besides Randy who didn't see Spider-Man?), however, all the recap seems to feed Spider-Man 2's ultimate hunger: Revelation. At one point, it's not even a stretch to suspect that the screenwriters just left Spidey's mask off because they ran out of reasons it could possible come off. The bigggest revelations come at the very end, both of which seem to serve a purpose I've just realized surpasses revelation: Sequel. Don't mean to carry on like Mr. Cranky, though; The greatest part of Spider-Man 2 is a very sharp deviation from the peppy schematics of the first film: The action scenes. Not only do we actually begin to anticipate them with excitement, but they pretty much deliver - - and there's more of them! (I'm entirely google-eyed for the speed-laced thrills of Spider-Man battling the fierce and cleverly-hatched Doc Ock ). There's a ton of really nice touches: Parker's (sort of) dialtone confessional to MJ, the continued comic security of J.K. Simmons as J. Jonah Jameson and Bruce Campbell as the morphing cameo (here, he's a snooty theater usher), the Graduate-in-reverse bit at close (good point, Prigge, it is nice to see love that's not unrequited every once and a while) and - in the very best moment in the film - a practical commentary on the discomfort of a super-hero's costume in an awkward elevator exchange.

[Are the countless critics who are overpraising this thing lost in its Superman 2 nostalgia (good thing Summer's seen that film, like, eighty-six times, so she could point it out), or are they using this as happy medication to ease the Farenheit 911 blues? - - - You decide. I've kinda lost interest, here.]

Obviously the writers have spent many a wide-eyed-till-dawn note taking session in meticulous preparation to ape the television show and capitalize on a real duh idea. (This is me nodding to the  research, but also noting that it was just a matter of time before this film was made). They - along with rabidly successful gross-out comedy director Todd Phillips - have crafted this rather funny film that, despite the consistent use of its stars' established personas, smoothly welcomes viewers both familiar and unfamiliar with the show (I fall, I must submit, in the latter category). Vaughn makes a terrific villian, and Snoop Dogg a very funny informant (though he's clearly out to upstage everyone, as per his own persona), but the funniest thing about the film is how the sleepy-eyed murmur of Owen Wilson and the schmucky seriousness of Ben Stiller - though obviously reminiscent of every role they've ever played to date - don't topple the satire's balance. It's almost a testament (to miracles, I'd say) that I'd reward a movie for infusing modern sensibilities (to the point of anachronism) into a 1970s template when this very idea - the updating of popular television shows for a new wave of cinemagoers in the pursuit of box office chu-ching - seems to be, by all rights, pure evil. Though the scene itself almost goes overboard into self-parody, our heroes' final, inevitable exchange with the original S & H actors almost lumps the film into a bin of stale tv-turned-cinema genre entries.

Adapted from Elmore Leanord's novel (you could tell blindfolded, I assure you) by Sebastian Gutierrez using mostly one-liners and, you know, a couple of twists, The Big Bounce delivers on its poster jingle ("A comedy about taking a chance on paradise"), but miraculously supercedes the calm, easygoing entertainment such a dimwitted tagline implies. All the performed elements seem to be floating around sans tether - even supporters like Gary Sinise, Vinnie Jones and Charlie Sheen feel more obligatory than necessary - leaving Owen Wilson to wisely grab this opportunity by its lei-shackled horns and give - easily - his most valuable performance to date (inside a script, that is). In point of fact, the film is so apt at wringing out the wonderfully stoney-sweet pleasantries of Mr. Wilson, I might dare call his first legitimate vehicle. I'm not sure what else I'd call it; It bears none of it's director's offbeat whimsy (so sharp in Miami Blues and Grosse Point Blank). Quite curiously, though, The Big Bounce makes up for it's absent Armitage mileau in sheer smoothness; There's no thinking whatsoever involved. If you doubt me, consider this: Shots of surfers in between nearly every scene wash over you as if Armitage knows that this one - one of the least complicated meant-to-be-complicated-looking con artist films to mosey down the path in awhile - might benefit from giving the viewers a chill-out period to mull over what little information is dispensed.

[Morgan Freeman's in it too, but he no longer acts so much as he campaigns to subvert his earlier, more well-known strong-and-serious persona.]

Alright, with totally dull eyes by the end - and a subjective hang-up that downgrades any critical liscense I may have possessed to class DA (decided amateur) - I submit that, in the shower earlier, I stamped my foot while reflecting on this film: "Mmm...It's so damn good!" And since I usually have a boatload of trouble writing A reviews (you may have noticed that most are brief), this one comes four long days late. Here are my wretched excuses: The film is so experential (like nearly all of Linklater's ouevre), it almost makes you want to pretend that instead of buying a ticket to watch it, you bought a ticket to experience it. Also, even though few read this, I'm still planning on hiding behind the spoiler alert in order to avoid dwelling on specifics. For sure, though, it's: a) as good - if not better than - its predecessor; b) the kind of cinema that - for me - acts like most of Eric Rohmer's work (Ben, you like Eric Rohmer?), in that I felt as if I were spending time with down-to-earth friends rather than watching two actors discuss their lives; c) maybe the first time in a modern film where I've seen two people un-self consciously become obsessed with an event in their lives without being made to appear wrong or sick for doing it; d) the second time this year when I've been genuinely upset - and almost angry - to see a film end.

[I could write a real review, but I don't wanna.]

Since I can usually control myself, I decided not to bother this time around, in fact, I did turn to my wife and say (directly preceeding the opening credits): "There's no possible way that any part of this film can possibly be as good as this intro sequence". She wasn't home when I finished it, but I would'a exercised even less control in blurting out: "There's no possible way I can like this film when it ends the way it does". (Which might have sounded ironic and possibly cool because the Depp character spends so much time hassling himself about the ending to the title story.) Nevertheless, what starts out as an easy throwaway complete with goofy, Dean Corsoesque one-liners, ends up sliding downward far too quickly into the snap-surprise revelation, laced with flashbacks that ruin - yes, ruin - the random genius of the aforementioned pre-title happenings. Secret Window has all the trappings of a thriller we might otherwise find easy to be indifferent about, but they all lead, sadly, to a thriller that ends by employing split personality syndrome (as if it didn't quite know how to end on its own, and used this overused twist - quite appropriately - as a laxative). Whhy do I seem to be the only one who's thoroughly annoyed that about this gimmick, now so out of control, it's the first thing we think of rather than the last? If a thriller ends and the main character has not hallucinated once during the film - - save that one, it's a keeper. The rest: nothing over a C+.

[I'm aware the novella was written prior to the ball-rolling The Sixth Sense - even the other big guilty one, The Usual Suspects - but someone still decided to make it knowing that reason would prove popular.]