It's a humdinger of a pickle fit for Sturges or Lubitsch, but clumsily eeked out as if Godfrey (a theater director) was more interested in actors than storytelling. The premise is half-baked but it's supposed to be, and Godfrey brings it in so light and unassuming, it doesn't matter that the suspense tactics have little variation (the whole thing is a series of tests for Stanwyck, who has to decide whether to continue pretending she's married to a pushy suitor for the benefit of a needy war hero and her even needier boss). The ending, probably too clearly foreshadowed by the film's overall absurdity, does not pack the punch of impact 40s audiences probably gleaned; These days, surprise is all big budget romances films seem to have.

Felt more for Hawke, applying an almost visible empathy, which came in handy as his transformation came to fruition - although still way too quick for my taste (still stuck on how much Ayer pushes that "all in one day" crap, although the gimmick isn't the problem it's how poorly Fuqua is able to mask the length of the story). I liked it more this time than the last time. Even desiring a third viewing probably says something pretty obvious: I'm attracted to Denzel Washington, who pulls off despicable so capably, even detractors of the film (I'm teetering) want to announce to strangers on the street how cool and mainstream they are because they actually like a great performance in a lousy film. You know who you are.

To begin with, it's poorly made, evincing a cheapness typically relegated (in this modern age) to the straight-to-video set - but what's particularly insulting is the thuddingly overexpository direct address, here in all its glory to be shown to film classes as a prime example of what not to do. Made me want to write a book identifying the warning signs of a 90s film. But really, what a waste of time that would be.

So, finally, who is to say that in creating life, we aren't our own creator and destroyer? Our own, ahem, God? If technology really brings us closer to realizing our purpose, isn't our purpose, ultimately, to realize that we can deduce our own purpose? As if, oh, I DON'T KNOW, there was no answer to the riddle because there was no riddle to begin with? Chaos?

The careful wording, cornball wit and poetic widsom of Abraham Lincoln are what's driving Young Mr. Lincoln, a film that is part retelling of his counsel and defense of two murder suspects, part quasi-allegory of his political strategy and the position he found himself in as our only Civil War President. Henry Fonda exceeds even Jimmy Stewart in vibrant, outward integrity, playing the politest, most charming little man in a big, new town. He uses the same diplomatic auspice to both diffuse a lynch-hungry mob and cross-examine the suspects. There's a self-absorbed spareness to it, a quiet that surrounds everything; Abe is practically sainted.

Though I think the mystery surrounding Allen's decision to reshoot and rewrite the whole film before release is more interesting than the film itself (word is he was even ready for a third pass at the thing), you can't deny his skill at envisioned psychoanalysis as it trickles out of people who are probably incapable of love. Okay, so that sounds like a downer. Let me back up. When September pulls off filmed theater it works pretty well. When it lapses into Bergmanesque confessionals, it works pretty well. None of it really sizzles, though. The things at stake just don't seem as immediate as they should. Part of the problem lies in the actors: Farrow plays mousy and Elaine Stritch boisterous, but Wiest's confused flutter of a desired object keeps Sam Waterson's infatuation too creepy for us to even begin to pity poor, unrequited Farrow (though that's the grand irony: Denholm Elliott longs for her in the same one-sided way she longs for Waterson). The patchwork narrative barely has time for Jack Warden's absurdly loyal second husband, which turns out to be fine: Elliott is probably the most interesting character in the bunch. The tranquil cabin setting dictates like a writing exercise, but verily achieves the desired effect (complete with a lightning storm, a blackout and eerie orange light, Farrow's Connecticut cabin was recreated on a sound stage).

I love the way it opens: A wordless five minute sequence of Gabin and partner piloting a locomotive as it barrels down the track and into town. Gapes of visual poetry abound, passion zings and Jean Renoir announcing himself right from the get-go. Pre-dating the moral stink eye of his fifties pictures, he ventured very nearly into the waters of poetic fatalism, steering to a clear fate this test of wills between the maltreated wife of a railroad stationmaster and her lover, Gabin (the railroad driver). She lusts after his blue collar the way the wife does the drifter in Ossessione.

I'm still more in tune with the idea of this film than its actual execution. Of the films made since Burton went "straight", Sleepy Hollow is still more relevant and look how many times I've managed to stay awake through that whole thing (once, I think).