I like films where the main character gets off on attracting women with his aloofness, then shames them by losing interest. Dry, desperate and incredibly sly, Daniel Auteuil appears to have been up all night watching any one of Bresson's films to nail that robotic anti-emotion.

Nothing like a movie whose worldview is so utterly bleak, it makes you want to pour alcohol down your throat until you can feel happy again. The rogue who fuels the examination of truth Mike Leigh is performing on several dregs of Londontown, is Johnny, a character who carries on like a vinyl recording of Malcolm MacDowell's Alex in A Clockwork Orange, reciting all the dialogue from The Knack...And How to Get It at 45 rpm's instead of 33. He plays like the physical extension of the psychological state of his former girlfriend Louise, who can't seem to usher him out the exit door fast enough (until she realizes the trick is to invite him in). Almost like a perpetual, one man Waiting For Godot, Johnny seems to be chasing that which never comes and waiting for that which never arrives; he is simultaneously the world's worst fears and the world's best friend; its doomed prophecy and its painful reminder; its hellish nightmare and its cheap fantasy; a truth seeker as a stellar reporter, dropping questions from his mouth that somehow penetrate the very facade of humanity. In Naked, Mike Leigh finds moments which almost break through the screen with a vivid chaos to infect our head (like seemingly any scene involving Katrin Cartlidge's chillingly weak and anxious Sophie). As Johnny, Thewlis gives one of the great performances of the last decade, tapping a wildly paradoxical, yet aching clarity, as in "I hope that you dream of me and I hope that you wake up screaming". When the four main characters all finally occupy a single space (as if confronting their past selves) everyone flits about in a violent panic, which manifests itself in four distinctly different forms - which only meet at one, solitary point: it is easier to physically wound oneself with self pity than to be remotely honest with oneself. Like I said, bleak.

Seems more and more likely to me that Thirteen Ghosts is actually content to merely follow its “characters” around a series of hallways as they whine and babble endlessly, repetitiously, nonsensically; I got the feeling Thirteen Ghosts half expected me to create my own scenario (like the time Homer Simpson was shown the Unitarian propoganda film and, instead, zoned out, inventing an infinitely more exciting movie with car chases and villians and such). So sparing is this film’s narrative, I honestly defy you to tell me it isn’t introduced in one scene, resolved in one scene and completely forgotten about for the remainder of the film’s short running time. The art direction would be more spectacular, I believe, if filmed coherently; as is, we have little else to do but stare (through subliminal flashes that are rude instead of scary) at the shifting, unbreakable glass partitions, hoping one of them allows the film to generate a single moment of suspense that isn’t prefaced by much more inconceivably obvious moments of “I think we’re going to be alright as long as we just pretend we are” faux confidence. There really aren’t too many performances to speak of; there's (Academy Award Winner) F.Murray Abraham chewing scenery, slumming teen favorites Matthew Lillard and Shannon Elizabeth stay within their usually miniscule range, a particularly embarrassing turn for Embeth Davidtz, only surpassed by….well, let’s say this...I’d like to earn the kind of money I imagine was necessary to convince Tony Shalhoub that this was a wise career move). As strong an addendum as likely to my however informal, (sadly) ever growing petition to outlaw modern horror
updates.

With every subsequent film boasting supporting actors far more interesting than the main characters or, you know, the plot, it seems said characters, more and more, are being withheld until at least the thirty minute mark. That, of course, is how you know they are significant: they can only be properly launched into the circumstances after we’ve trudged through the (exceedingly slight, in this case) chief characters’ establishment. This is Bandits, Barry Levinson’s latest slum between the eminence (look at his track record, it reads like a perfect rendering of the old adage “One for me, one for them”). In Bandits Bruce Willis looks as if his entire performance was transplanted from The Whole Nine Yards, his dialogue dubbed over and a disclaimer (which must have been cut) that he just doesn’t have anything remotely resembling the range to tackle a comedy that isn’t a string of one-liners and please could we forgive him because he smiles so adorably. Billy Bob Thornton is wasted in a performance that starts out befuddling and gradually warms as it becomes more apparent that it sure ain’t Thornton’s fault that his character is so thoroughly unremarkable (I’m still petrified, having never actually considered the possibility looming overhead that he could, some day, give a bad performance ). By the time we’re fourscore and two minutes into this charade, I’ve completely written off the lackadaisical premise, the inclusion of yet another tabloid show (used here as The Thinnest Plot Device Ever Conceived) and, as mentioned, some rather banal characters (I didn’t even mention the wanna-be stunt man they use as a get away driver – which is as ludicrous as it sounds, I assure you). This routinely bad independent film disguised (with a budget) as a Big Studio Comedy (the kind of movie that performs on its opening weekend only), also happens to contain one of the most charming surprises of the year. Cate Blanchett, giving perhaps her most valuable performance to date, plays the film character equivalent of a bottle of super glue: she manages to hold together both Thornton and Willis, The Movie and herself, with what looks like effortless ease. First seen dancing about, cooking and thrashing rebelliously to Bonnie Tyler’s “Holding Out For a Hero”, the moment doesn’t just define her; its energy, like cinematic parentheses, continually reoccurs as an extension of her personality, all but upstaging the movie in nearly every scene. She is a bona fide eye magnet,  so inventive, so tuned to this character and her place in this pedestrian scenario, that the temptation that existed to recommend only watching only her establishing dance sequence fades. The movie is actually almost just about ever so close to being recommendable on behalf of Blanchett alone. I feel, however, like I’m letting my guard down in advocating, even in the least, a film with this many sad song montages, eye rolling quirks (the last robbery in the film takes place at a bank called “The Alamo”, for Christ’s sake); and, finally, its unfitting two hour length (any way you slice it, using any kind of knife, on any sort of cutting board, this is a ninety minute diversion).  Hope I don’t fall off this proverbial fence I’m sitting so casually on.

Maybe I had nothing to say for fear my opinion was confused; tough to judge whether I loved this four hour experience because of the passion Scorcese shows for countless clips or, for the clips themselves. I suspect it's a healthy mix of the two, though, I must confess, I had made a promise to remember over a dozen of these titles and, due to the sprawling nature of the film, I can't seem to place a single one. Nevertheless, worth a look.

As if some strange challenge playwrights saddlebag each other with for kicks, My Dinner With Andre seems poised to divide audience members, whom we picture seated on opposite sides of the theater, chanting apropos the film’s two-people-talking-for-two-hours-and-that’s-pretty-much-it: Left side, “It’s Boring!” Right Side, “It’s Riveting!” Culled from phone conversations between former theater director Andre Gregory and playwright/actor Wallace Shawn, this miraculously entertaining motion picture begins with a narrative, shifts into a study of the finer points of conversational drama and closes with a long bout of deliriously pretentious existentialist mumbo jumbo. Not that these are flaws, mind you. Far from it. My Dinner With Andre is as much a character study as it is a pseudo-story, often delving so deep into the back and forth of Wally and the title host, as to reveal less about where the film is going than about just who in the holy heck these two stage junkies think themselves to be. As Andre lists – then jubilantly dissects – the extensions of drama he’s subjected himself to (Polish forest improvisational antics, a mock burial designed to make one appreciate life, a horrible trip to India), Shawn listens, often playing up our confusion of perception: is this guy interested, or just being polite? As Shawn becomes more and more astonished by Andre’s accounts of just what he’s done with his life while vacationing from his trade, it becomes clearer by the second that an argument is coming. And when it does, it’s less the typical sort of argument than a wonderful explanation of why existence remains so debate-worthy. As the two of them duke it out, director (though I’m not sure exactly how much (italicize) direction (unitalicize) could have possibly been involved, they’re playing (italicize) themselves (end), for Christ’s sake) Louis Malle cuts back and forth between the two of them, a waiter and the food on the table. Yes, you’ll begin to wonder if this is purposefully meant to drive a paying audience nuts, but, you’ll also probably run into a painful realization that what you’re watching isn’t nearly as tedious as you’d expected, therefore you have to run out and atone for all the unfounded jokes you made at its expense.

If the title as a contrived metaphor doesn’t set your eyes a-rollin’, the film’s way below sub par rendering of nearly every TV movie cliché in existence may suffice. If you still haven’t had enough, I submit to you the film’s last minute instance of what I’d call the Single Most Convenient Moment In Recent Memory (which should take care of those last few intelligent viewers who’ve been actively forgiving everything else occurring onscreen). And if  “forgiving” sounds like a pointed accusation, it needn’t be. Quite the contrary, in fact. I can quite easily see why one would be ready-set-march to exercise a fanatical amount of leniency: the film actually features three proven thespians (Kline, Scott-Thomas and Steenburgen) being directed by a more than capable producer (Irwin Winkler, Raging Bull, Rocky and Goodfellas), subsequently being given dialogue and situations by a semi-gifted writer (hey, admit it, you liked Andrus’ As Good As It Gets), and an actor who, even before the release of what will ultimately become One of the Top Grossing Films Ever Friggin’ Made, is being touted hither and thither for his role as Anakin Skywalker. Of course, talent does have its seasons, just like anything. Here is set in motion a tale of one recently fired, three months from death, loony-to-the-last dad (divorced for a decade) who decides that come hell and (or) high water, he’s going to win back his son by building a long in the procrastination dream house near the beach. If it sounds trite, read it again with whatever additional sarcasm you can muster and then read it again with just a touch more than that (squeeze now, people) and know this: you’re still not cooking a potent enough poison. Forget melodrama, Life as a House is megadrama, the kind even TV movies have ceased to employ for fear of being considered more silly than necessary. And for the vast depth of all of three inches, Life as a House seems to almost enthusiastically understand its many shortcomings. Examining its shrewd marketing technique: The film is actually being sold on Hayden Christensen’s name based solely upon his incidental participation in another film’s (certainly much more extensive) marketing campaign. This breathes not a word about his actual quality as a performer, which, sadly doesn’t fall under the “no news is good news” subheading. Required to dress as if he walked off the set of a Velvet Goldmine sequel, Christensen is not the extraordinary actor other critics, probably equally exhausted by this film, have dubbed him. He’s obliged to do an awful lot of brooding, hardly a mighty stretch for a twenty-year-old (at times, I wonder if he’s already switched over to Darth Vader mode). The real challenge will be how well he can live up to Lucas’ alternately characteristic and underrated wooden British acting style which makes Star Wars…well, Star Wars. In Life as a House, the only thing remotely resembling a redeeming quality – and that includes the work of the aforementioned “promising” and “talented” individuals (memo to Kline: read the script first, then decide to attach yourself) – is that Christensen displays the possibility of possessing an inkling of talent. Unfortunately, I could have made preposterously redundant observations like that before watching this uber-clunker.

Rupert Pupkin is easily one of the most magnetically duplicitous characters I’ve seen and DeNiro’s performance is so good it nearly runs away with the film (don’t you just hate it when an actor’s performance renders a great character so watchable you nearly forget to remember that you’re supposed to be watching the film ). The scam Pupkin pulls (after he’s given “the hint” more times than this viewer could bear) is so absolutely applause-worthy - yet so devious and wrong. Scorcese and writer Zimmermann almost pull off, very quietly, a rather apt objectivity. The problem with The King of Comedy trying to remain objective lies in its faith that the audience will purchase the long line of wicked shots at the cult of celebrity without looking at the receipt. We’re almost programmed – through Jerry Lewis’ terrifically loathsome talk show host Jerry Lankford – to root for Rupert Pupkin. In fact, much like Scorsese’s and DeNiro’s Travis Bickle, Jake LaMotta or even Johnny Boy, we’re almost threatened into simultaneously fearing the unpredictable nature of Pupkin as well as feeling such direct and elegiac pity for him. I’m not sure The King of Comedy has much more to offer in social commentary than any other movie made about fame or celebrity status or hero worship, but, films like Network or 15 Minutes or even Bulworth don’t contain characters we feel so sorry for that we almost become sick with rage at ourselves for nursing that natural reaction. Need confirmation. Re-watch that shot of Pupkin performing his act for a blown up picture of an applauding audience. Standing at the end of a hall similar to the one Travis Bickle makes that sad and lonesome phone call from, Pupkin turns his wretched ambition into one of the most upsetting fantasies I’ve ever seen.

Apparently, according to Jafar Panahi’s The Circle, women don’t have a great deal of the freedom there in the Iran. And also, (you may have noticed), a great many of them end up in unthinkably pointed quandaries involving manipulative men who leave these women either pregnant or shamed, landing them in prison and, subsequently, leaving these women in question no choice, once released, but to roam about the streets, dolling out their lives to people they know in effort to find sanctuary or safe passage or, you know, a place to sit for a couple of minutes before its time to nervously pace the streets again. He’s as broad and boorish as I’ve just been; most of his dialogue and situational messages are ridiculously straightforward (instead of, say, being simple and therefore proving a much larger point at hand – as with Kiarostami or Majidi, better directors from the same country). Panahi also seems obsessed with casting some sort of spell on the audience. He fails, however, to see the trouble with setting an entire movie to this exhaustingly sluggish rhythm: no matter how much you believe in neo realism - as either the vox populi or, in this case, somewhere between a how-to guide for women interested in dodging the authorities and a “well, duh” lesson meant to expose the situation currently taking place in Iran’s bustling metropolis, Tehran – you still have to give it at least a effective intensity, if not a doctored one, then the one that comes from how true-to-life your filmmaking is. His soporific impetus never reached me in quite the way he intended. Instead, I found myself thoroughly bored with how little was actually being accomplished by staging the film as the ultimate in minimalist construction (a character buys a shirt, she later wanders a bit, then she runs into someone, talks to them about little or nothing, etc.). For a film this short, Panahi might try Getting To The Damn Point Already, but, on the other hand, this is a movie that follows women almost arbitrarily, hoping to say something about the gradual push and pull of their surroundings as they close in on them; something about the universality of their troubles. So, in Panahi’s quest for some sort of subtle, roundabout meaning we’d almost have to absorb, I decided to test a theory which I’d concocted in which I hypothesize that, perhaps, some sort of gradation was present in the structure (that is, that the women aren’t random per se, but each one builds another level of discomfort in their plights, the same concept as building block, I suppose). It failed miserably, though, and, that I’d spent so much time thinking about it, I burned with even more disdain for this hopelessly misguided cinematic vacuum. Perspective check: It reminded me of the Dardenne Bros. Rosetta. Not a good thing.

You know movies you just can't fuhhhhrigggin' turn off, no matter how tired, hungry or amass of break free yearnin'...oh...well, this is one of them. And mostly because its so superficial.

Thornton is flat-out hilarious, such a low-key observational humor; this guy ought to double as a stand up comedian rather than a singer (didn't we learn anything from Bruce Willis?) The Coens add more than their share of interesting tidbits to the stew, but, more than anything, watching the film's graceful cinematography and listening to its hypnotic score continually (as the commentators point out) upstage the commentary.

Because No Man’s Land is so mechanized (“You mean a Bosnian and a Serb are trapped in a trench? Together? Just think of the possibilities!”), I spent at least half the movie wondering why it was played with such a painfully uniform rhythm. Later, I realized why: No Man’s Land is confused: it can’t decide whether or not it wants to be an allegory or an sensationalized, absurdist account of wartime attitudes. Topping this off with the self-congratulatory inclusion of the all-encompassing, unconscionably dumbass bureaucracy of the UN (in particular); here's yet another film where peacekeeping brass say things like (paraphrasing here) “We can’t help these people for reasons too complicated for you to understand, you world cop grunt”). We're also asked to watch as he carefully thins the necessity for the fundamental – yet ridiculous – rules of engagement of the Serbs and the Bosnians (we are expected to buy into the film as a universal exploration of war as a farce even though Tanovic actually comes from Yugoslavia and is clearly exorcising some patriotic demons). To take an even more paltry step, No Man’s Land joins the dozens of other recent movies who find the press to be a preposterously easy target. Here we join already in progress a quintessentially headstrong and obtrusively single-minded reporter and her bosses back at the network (who dictate exactly which shots she needs to get in drone-voiced orders to which she responds with both intimidation and smiles). Blaming the media, sadly, is just another excuse to ignore the inherent nature of war within our species the film seems content to infer but never interested in expanding. Ridiculous figureheads, so clearly meant to stand for their respective sides rather than being endowed with actual personalities, replace actual lead “characters” (so much so, that they begin to paint a rather good argument for the disposal of these types of films, i.e. films that, for whatever reason, forget, that in actuality, it’s people, not countries, who fight wars). Essentially, No Man’s Land is a more pretentious, ineffective version of Three Kings (a la Waiting for Godot) with some interesting ideas scattered here and there (the character with an activated, bouncing land mine to his back is an uncharacteristically strong metaphor, one that, astonishingly, doesn’t feel perfunctory). Tanovic’s film will join Shrek next week at an informal ceremony for most needless bombardment of praise showered on a middling-at-best film released last year.

The only remotely refreshing thing about this steadily inept, often insatiably goofy “thriller” (whose very moniker, Domestic Disturbance, dribbles with insipidness), is that John Travolta is so obviously aware of the emptiness of what he’s involved in, he almost completely vindicates himself for being involved at all. Not only does his father-son relationship smack of a bond adhered using a half priced emotional glue stick, but Travolta, and his mildly rebellious twelve year old son (the appallingly erratic Matthew O’Leary), are so disconnected that, while Travolta’s dialogue may sound sincere, his face is so clearly saying (through squinted eyes) Get away from me you little shit. Vince Vaughn, on the other hand, is so spectacularly miscast as a pseudo-mature villain, typically ambiguous racketeering past behind him, he actually rivals his riotous turn in Swingers for most laughs garnered by me in a single sitting. (Luckily, I’m not discerning as to whether said laughs are at him or with him). Eventually, the child custody pandering mixes with the supposed murder subplot dawdling, melding into purely lackluster histrionics and later, culminating in the ridiculously violent, “I was three to four leaps ahead of the story the whole time not that I'm bragging” conclusion. In fact, as we’re watching the (thankfully) breakneck paced Domestic Disturbance, we can’t begin to imagine anyone anywhere finding plot point upon subsequent plot point (gaining utter incredulity like a rolling snowball) even remotely entertaining outside of how easy it is to poke holes of fun into it, while reflecting on just how strangely ironic it seems that poking holes in something usually lets the air out, but here, the air has been pleasantly removed in advance, leaving one to wonder if a film like Domestic Disturbance wasn’t made merely as a genre entry to the ever growing legion of films falling into the category coined by Movieline as “Bad Movies We Love”.

Here we have too many cuts of two irritating characters talking of too many uninteresting things (for the first hour anyway, which is nothing more than a blind establishment - not subtle or anything, just a significant lack of foreshadowing; in other words, Linklater uses the same set-up as in Waking Life: he strands you in the middle of his alter reality and challenges the audience to catch up with him before the movie ends). The third act is the cinematic equivalent of an alter ego, a coup de gras acting more like a twist ending, only the twist is stretched out to last thirty minutes and all but requires the first hour as a intro; there's no actual weight, just a valuable little oxymoron called BSM (believably simulated reality). Tape is what Oleanna would look like if William H. Macy had been a nutty dope dealer acting like a detached friend-as-a-talk-show-host instead of a seasoned professor. And he would have been called Vincent, the warped cloud of chaos played by Ethan Hawke, a character who consists mostly of an almost physical need to bounce off the walls in a frenzied orgy of drunken substance abuse, faux immaturity and wretched guilt. (Linklater should be simultaneously commended and bitch slapped for how succinctly he nails the empty feeling of being cornered with a drunk who wants nothing more than to repeat things the same thing ad nauseum, then get rapidly more candid until he's doing stuff like talking you into a confession). It is not by accident that Vincent and fellow thirtysomething John (a very genuine Robert Sean Leanord) refer to high school as if it were yesterday (rather than ten years ago); their manner and tone suggests they've only grown up a touch since then. Tying themselves up in escapable, flamboyantly defining professions (Vincent is a pusher/volunteer firefighter and John is a fledgling film director), each seems to look at their path in life as their own personal rebellion. But who are they rebelling against? Each other? Their former selves? Okay, too many questions for so quick and painless an affair. Granted. One more thing. No accident, betcha, that digital was the choice of stock for this psychological head-butt of a film, which, instead of feeling claustrophobic and searing, lacks ambition, (and, though more the fault of the play it is based upon, is often over plotted). Who'd have thought Richard Linklater would make a film that makes him seem more like a self serious Slacker?

[Whoops. Here's where I go off on a ridiculous tangent about digital technology. And there's me with my foot in my mouth. And there's me, I'm having a hard time getting it out of there. Mom comes over to help me - watch this part right here...]

As a viewer, I must confess that I find myself scoffing that digital films - like this one - can't seem to avoid appearing self-conscious and suspect, the very simplicity of their desperate attempts to project REALITY, consequently (at least, predominantly) undermining their source material (see also Bamboozled and The Center of the World, both as alternately admirable and flawed as this film); or worse, filmmakers thinking themselves innovators feel the need to announce that they couldn't fund their films on film, so they're using this new technology to save money. On the other side of that looming coin, films like The Blair Witch Project, Time Code and at least the first two foreign (I'm not counting Julien Donkey-Boy) Dogme 95 films seem to either be poking fun at a standard that purports to share its filmmaking power with the populous - or riffing creatively with the digital camera instead of merely using it the same way we would film.

There’s a fractured genius of entertainment hidden in Tony Scott’s filmmaking. He’s a choppy cutter and always seems to be standing too close to what’s occurring. He frames almost everything with a gaze which appears either intensely stuffed (not cluttered, but full of air) or video-ready, leaving two thirds of the frame to chance and one third to cram the subject into. And all these years, I’ve seen him as this second-rate, unimpressive film-director-as-a-cowboy. So, to my surprise, Spy Game turns out to be the most fun – and the most timely (in terms of filmmaking – NOT WHAT YOU’RE THINKING) feature Scott has helmed since Crimson Tide. (What I mean by timely is this: with the onslaught of films like Saving Private Ryan and Black Hawk Down pushing a one-up competition for who can present reality at its most scariest, films that present gunfights and rescue missions and all the other ilk of politically violent confrontation in any manner not up to the standard of those two  films tend to be readily dismissed as unnecessary. Not so. Allow me to speak for everyone here in screeching “We want the sensationalized, programmed heroism with the choir music, the explosions and the one-liners! (at least, if they don't suck)” And Spy Game, seemingly taking said cue, is a rare instance of throwaway purity, a piece of steel wool fluff hell-bent on packing into its two hour running time as much pleasing pursuit, delayed realizations, sleight of hand cons and non-stop flame-retardant exuberance as is humanly possible (sometimes running over the brim, but never dripping on our shoes). Divided as it is, between Robert Redford retelling his history with Brad Pitt (whose rescue is the focus of the film and, admittedly, makes him seem like a remote character for it), and scenes of Redford attempting to have Pitt rescued by breaking every single possible rule of protocol he can without breaking a sweat. It’s trite, there’s a tacked-on love story, its typically convoluted to the point of confusion - - - but, inexplicably, it works. It works well. It’s everything I usually bitch about and I love it. In fact, it feels like the technical equivalent to a bizarro Black Hawk Down: instead of taking itself seriously - it doesn’t; the safe haven is underlined, not removed;  the actors aren’t required to debase their images in the name of art, instead looking as if they're contractually bound to do just the opposite); here is where the occasional speech about valor - spit forth through jargon laced, dodgy dialogue - comes in mighty handy. Spy Game is as thoroughly enjoyable as Crimson Tide or The Rock and, like those films, we don’t have to bother ourselves with whether or not the director was even remotely interested in taking the material seriously.

Again, can any director alive claim to get away with so much sap so unscathed?

Really, am I supposed to be sitting around trying to decode this thing? One more time: The skanky Naomi Watts is reality; the first two hours are her fantasy of what Hollywood would be like (and more importantly, how life with Diane Selwyn was in her mind) and the flashes involving Diane and Adam Kesher at the dinner party...well, hell, even her fantasy world is a clear thinking tragedy machine. It's the way Lynch makes all of it seem like swirling smoke you just can't help but stare at, pondering the possibilities - that's why the film stands head and shoulders above so many of his other films. Instead of reveling in the incoherent - he dangles it just out of reach, begging you to use dream logic to make sense of it.

Fun for the first hour, often inventive and satisfying, then, it turns bitterly conservative. Someone must have had a long chat with the writers, spilling the truth about how these blockbusters are supposed to come off (underscoring the part about not taking risks). Everything lives up to my expectations (sadly). The voice-over is inconsistent (sometimes he can hear it, sometimes he can't, sometimes it feels like we should, but we don't, and so forth); the idea that Gibson can read thoughts is less preposterous than metaphoric - which softens the blow (until the third act when Gibson comes back around from being bad to good to bad again...in moral terms, of course). Unfortunately, for it to be any real fun, an agreement between the film and its gimmick would have to walk a much finer line. Instead, the writers seem to take the easy route, setting up three challenges for the enlightened Gibson (which he'll have to handle without use of his "gift"), who feels like his character arc has come far too early and far too abruptly. Then, we watch, dumbfounded as two are left dangling and a third, shot from left field entirely (the suicidal copy writer girl) is more satisfying than the other two (which involve major characters who have inhabited major screen time). In fact, the final scene between Gibson and Helen Hunt contains a twist so inexplicable, I wondered if I'd missed a major plot point earlier. At times, What Women Want is harmless (if suspiciously false in its attitudes towards the stereotypes of the sexes). At other times, its maddeningly obtuse, trying far too hard to please us with far too little and, ultimately, souring us to death with repeated jolts of sap. (Bonus points awarded as yet another film that makes me want less and less to visit New York City, but rather, to live in the city created in my imagination via the cinema).