Curtis "50 Cent" Jackson. My brain is giving you one star, but my heart wants to give five. I want you to know that Get Rich or Die Tryin' Get Rich or Die Tryin' is to ghetto movies what is to ghetto movies what Stop! Or My Mom Will Shoot Stop! Or My Mom Will Shoot was to Mafia movies, and I love, love, love it. I love that there are more naked men in this movie than in was to Mafia movies, and I love, love, love it. I love that there are more naked men in this movie than in Brokeback Brokeback . I love that you keep getting your fellow gangsters to admit that they love you. Really loudly. In the middle of robberies. I love the Beckettian dialogue: "I'm in it for the money." "For what?" "Sneakers." "Anything else?" "A gun." "What you need that for?" "I don't know." I love that you watched . I love that you keep getting your fellow gangsters to admit that they love you. Really loudly. In the middle of robberies. I love the Beckettian dialogue: "I'm in it for the money." "For what?" "Sneakers." "Anything else?" "A gun." "What you need that for?" "I don't know." I love that you watched GoodFellas GoodFellas and and Scarface, Scarface, like, a million times and decided to ditch all that narrative arc c.r.a.p and get straight to the point with a minimalist voice-over: "Crack meant money. Money meant power. Power meant war." I love how your acting style makes Bogart look animated. I love that the boss of your gang is dressed like Brando and is doing the voice from like, a million times and decided to ditch all that narrative arc c.r.a.p and get straight to the point with a minimalist voice-over: "Crack meant money. Money meant power. Power meant war." I love how your acting style makes Bogart look animated. I love that the boss of your gang is dressed like Brando and is doing the voice from The G.o.dfather The G.o.dfather. And then there is this: "So that was the crew. Four n.i.g.g.as dedicated to one thing and one thing only: getting paid and getting laid." Tupac, you can sleep easy. Richard Pryor, watch out.

MUNICH.

Steven Spielberg is sometimes condescendingly described as a "family filmmaker," as if family were not one of the more profound aspects of our experience. His instinct for the family dynamic has offered intimacy to many a big-budget premise-the struggling single mother in E.T. E.T., the couple teetering on divorce in Close Encounters, Close Encounters, Indiana Jones's Oedipal struggles. In the 1990s there seemed to come a tipping point: family was no longer a metaphor for the action, it Indiana Jones's Oedipal struggles. In the 1990s there seemed to come a tipping point: family was no longer a metaphor for the action, it was was the action. This became explicit as Spielberg grew ambitious for larger clans-the African slaves of the action. This became explicit as Spielberg grew ambitious for larger clans-the African slaves of Amistad, Amistad, the six million Jews memorialized in the six million Jews memorialized in Schindler's List, Schindler's List, the lost generation of American men in the lost generation of American men in Saving Private Ryan Saving Private Ryan. Depending on whom you talk to, this was either an extension of his emotional reach or a grandiose exercise in cinematic grandstanding.

I should lay my cards on the table: I think Spielberg is one of the great popular artists of our time, and I base this upon the stupidity/pleasure axis I apply to popular artists: how much pleasure they give versus how stupid one has to become to receive said pleasure. The answer with Spielberg is usually: "not that stupid." His films bring pleasure where they most engage. Of course, when reviewing Munich, Munich, the cards the critic lays down are expected to be of another kind. As it happens, the film itself is neither "pro-Israeli" nor "pro-Palestinian," but this is precisely why, in the opinion of many American reviewers, it is inherently aggressive toward Israel, under the logic that anything that isn't pro is, by definition, anti. There is no way out of that intellectual cul-de-sac, which is why Tony Kushner's and Eric Roth's script does its best to avoid that road. the cards the critic lays down are expected to be of another kind. As it happens, the film itself is neither "pro-Israeli" nor "pro-Palestinian," but this is precisely why, in the opinion of many American reviewers, it is inherently aggressive toward Israel, under the logic that anything that isn't pro is, by definition, anti. There is no way out of that intellectual cul-de-sac, which is why Tony Kushner's and Eric Roth's script does its best to avoid that road.

Munich is a film about a truly horrific terrorist attack and the response to that terrorist attack. It is not about moral equivalence. It is about what people will do for their families, for their clans, in order to protect and define them. It is about how far we will go in the service of the people we come from and the narratives we tell ourselves to justify what we have done. Those who have sympathies with either side will go away retaining their sympathies: that is the nature of the argument. And it is exactly this, the nature of the argument-what it does to those who are involved in it-and not the argument itself that is a film about a truly horrific terrorist attack and the response to that terrorist attack. It is not about moral equivalence. It is about what people will do for their families, for their clans, in order to protect and define them. It is about how far we will go in the service of the people we come from and the narratives we tell ourselves to justify what we have done. Those who have sympathies with either side will go away retaining their sympathies: that is the nature of the argument. And it is exactly this, the nature of the argument-what it does to those who are involved in it-and not the argument itself that Munich Munich is interested in. Crucially, it is billed as "historical fiction," which will permit those who cling to their separate, mutually exclusive and antagonistic set of facts to call the film a "fantasy." This film has made groups on both sides uncomfortable because the truths it tells are of a kind that transcend facticity. Whichever family you belong to, national or personal, these truths are recognizable and difficult to dismiss. is interested in. Crucially, it is billed as "historical fiction," which will permit those who cling to their separate, mutually exclusive and antagonistic set of facts to call the film a "fantasy." This film has made groups on both sides uncomfortable because the truths it tells are of a kind that transcend facticity. Whichever family you belong to, national or personal, these truths are recognizable and difficult to dismiss.

Munich is an imagined reconstruction of a program of a.s.sa.s.sination that Mossad implemented against the organizers and surviving partic.i.p.ants of the 1972 Munich ma.s.sacre. If you are too young to remember that ma.s.sacre, rent the doc.u.mentary is an imagined reconstruction of a program of a.s.sa.s.sination that Mossad implemented against the organizers and surviving partic.i.p.ants of the 1972 Munich ma.s.sacre. If you are too young to remember that ma.s.sacre, rent the doc.u.mentary One Day in September, One Day in September, because because Munich Munich wastes no time setting up context. Unusually for Spielberg, he treats us as historical grown-ups (though not, as we shall see, geographical ones). At the heart of the movie is Avner (Eric Bana), a young Israeli who loves his families, both small-his pregnant wife, Daphna (a wonderful English-language debut from Ayelet Zurer)-and large: Israel itself. He is an inexperienced but dedicated soldier chosen by Mossad agent Ephraim (Geoffrey Rush) to head up a ragtag team of four operatives: a brash, South African-born getaway driver called Steve (Daniel Craig), a Belgian toy maker turned explosives expert (Mathieu Ka.s.so vitz), a German-Jewish doc.u.ment forger (Hanns Zischler) and a "cleanup" guy (Ciaran Hinds). Together they roam through a series of 1970s European cities meticulously re-created, although too laboriously symbolized (in Spielberg's Paris, wherever you are, you can always see the Eiffel Tower), doing unto their enemies as their enemies have done unto them. wastes no time setting up context. Unusually for Spielberg, he treats us as historical grown-ups (though not, as we shall see, geographical ones). At the heart of the movie is Avner (Eric Bana), a young Israeli who loves his families, both small-his pregnant wife, Daphna (a wonderful English-language debut from Ayelet Zurer)-and large: Israel itself. He is an inexperienced but dedicated soldier chosen by Mossad agent Ephraim (Geoffrey Rush) to head up a ragtag team of four operatives: a brash, South African-born getaway driver called Steve (Daniel Craig), a Belgian toy maker turned explosives expert (Mathieu Ka.s.so vitz), a German-Jewish doc.u.ment forger (Hanns Zischler) and a "cleanup" guy (Ciaran Hinds). Together they roam through a series of 1970s European cities meticulously re-created, although too laboriously symbolized (in Spielberg's Paris, wherever you are, you can always see the Eiffel Tower), doing unto their enemies as their enemies have done unto them.

In the process we begin to understand the biblical imperative "an eye for an eye" as something more deadly than simple revenge: it is of the body. It permits us the indulgence of thinking with our blood. And Spielberg understands the blood thinkers in his audience: for every a.s.sa.s.sination of an Arab, we return-lest we forget-to a grim flashback of that day in September, when eleven innocent Israeli athletes met their deaths in brutal and disgusting fashion. Flashbacks repeatedly punctuate the film's (slightly overlong) running time. We are not allowed to forget. But neither can we ignore what is happening to Avner as he progresses through his mission. Eric Bana gives a convincing portrayal of a man traveling far from who he is in order to defend who he is. His great a.s.set is a subtle face that is not histrionic when conveying competing emotions. The scene where Avner is offered a double mazel tov-once for the arrival of his new baby, and once for the death of a target-is a startling example of this. Through Avner, Spielberg makes a reluctant audience recognize a natural and dangerous imperative in the blood, a fury we all share. "I did it for my family" is the most repeated line in this film. Its echo is silent, yet you can't help hearing it: what would you do for yours? The perverse nullity of the cycle of violence is made clear. Death is handed out to those who handed out death and from whose ashes new death dealers will rise. Children repeatedly wander into the line of fire. Normal human relations are warped or discarded. When Black September launches a letter-bomb campaign in response to Avner's a.s.sa.s.sinations, there is a twisted satisfaction. "Now we're in dialogue," says one Mossad agent. Thirty years later we are familiar with this kind of dialogue and where it leads.

The technical achievements of the film are many. Most notable is Ja.n.u.sz Kaminski's photography, which gives a subtle color palette to each city while lighting the whole like The Third Man, The Third Man, with bleached-out windows and skies that the actors shy away from, preferring the darker corners of the frame. The play of shadow and light looks like a church, a synagogue, a mosque. In the shadows, the cast debates the ethics of their situation and offer as many answers as there are speakers. If the audience recoils from South African Steve's a.s.sessment, "The only blood that matters to me is Jewish blood!" it understands Avner when he says, "I'm not comfortable with confusion." It is easier to think with the blood. It is easier to be certain. with bleached-out windows and skies that the actors shy away from, preferring the darker corners of the frame. The play of shadow and light looks like a church, a synagogue, a mosque. In the shadows, the cast debates the ethics of their situation and offer as many answers as there are speakers. If the audience recoils from South African Steve's a.s.sessment, "The only blood that matters to me is Jewish blood!" it understands Avner when he says, "I'm not comfortable with confusion." It is easier to think with the blood. It is easier to be certain.

But how many of us know what to do with these two competing, equally true facts we hear exchanged between Ephraim and Avner: "Israelis will die if these men live. You know this is true!" says Ephraim. Avner replies, "There is no peace at the end of this. You know this is true!"

WALK THE LINE AND GRIZZLY MAN.

Arkansas, 1944. Two brothers walk the long, flat corridor of earth between one cornfield and another. Jack Cash, the elder, is memorizing the Bible. His little brother prefers the music of the hymnals; he worries that Jack's talent for stories is the n.o.bler enterprise. Jack wants to be a preacher. "You can't help n.o.body," he explains, "if you don't tell them the right story." Yet we already know it is his little brother, Johnny, who will grow up to tell the memorable stories, the kind you sing, the kind that matter most.

In their own generic way, musical biopics are always the right story: the struggle toward self-actualization. With songs. They are as predictable and joyful as Bible stories: the Pa.s.sion of Tina Turner, the Ascension of Billie Holiday. It is a very hard-hearted atheist indeed who does not believe that Music Saves. Walk the Line Walk the Line-although conspicuously well acted-is really no different from previous efforts, and that's a good thing. It shares the charm of the genre. It has Cash abandoning the music of the church for the devil's tunes. It has Cash falling down drunk onstage and smashing up a dressing room. It has the low times ("Didn't you used to be . . . ?") and the times when Cash's name rode high on the hit parade.

It has the greatest of all musical biopic tropes: the instrument endangered by a parent. One begins to suspect a reverse psychology ploy: parents ambitious of turning a daughter into a future Jacqueline du Pre would do well to smash up a cello in front of her. In Cash's case, he has a hick father who wants to hock the family piano and buy whatever hicks buy with piano money-chewing tobacco, maybe. It's Johnny's downtrodden mother who saves it, but worse is to come: beloved brother Jack is killed in a farming accident for which Johnny feels responsible. Daddy Cash reckons the devil took the wrong son. Next time we see those cornfields, the boy Johnny has turned into Joaquin Phoenix, walking that line alone.

Joaquin alone is, for many women, the reason to see this film. For this reviewer, his elemental masculinity strays rather too far into Victor Mature territory-still, I respect the majority opinion. Certainly when he is covered in water or sweat (which he frequently is) and filling the screen with his ungainly bulk, he possesses a certain Old Testament style. He looks as if he's struggling with himself-he'd make a good Abraham. For Johnny Cash, he's perfect. On those early tours, when we see Cash playing alongside Elvis (Tyler Hilton) and Jerry Lee Lewis (Waylon Payne), Phoenix works the difference between those two coltish, flamboyant stars and the bullish man in black whose sole piece of stagecraft was his no-frills introduction: "h.e.l.lo, I'm Johnny Cash." It's fun to see three musical pilgrims at the beginning of their journey, before their places in history were settled. "How about that Johnny Cash, everybody?" cries Elvis, with the magnanimous generosity of a man confident that he himself has the greater talent. While Elvis launches into "Hound Dog," Cash watches from the wings with a face that encapsulates Bing Crosby's sentiment re Sinatra: "I know one great singer is born into every generation, but why'd he he have to be born into have to be born into mine mine?"

But Cash has bigger problems than Elvis. In a recent interview, Woody Allen put the trouble well: "The thing standing between me and genius is me." The bad guy in every musician's biopic is the musician himself. Cash is stuck in a bad marriage, he drinks and he never got over Jack's death. One night he is offered amphetamines on the a.s.surance that "Elvis takes them," surely one of the worst celebrity health tips ever recorded. Once the addiction takes hold, Phoenix is free to give us what he does best: a very dark night of the soul.

It is presumptuous to speak of the parallels between Phoenix's biography and Cash's, but there is no doubt that whenever the plot returns to the trauma of the missing brother, Phoenix's game raises and the audience grows tense. Several scenes are of an emotional intensity out of all proportion to the humdrum musical biopic one expects.

And then, at just the right moment, Reese Witherspoon takes over and brings the film home. Witherspoon has the kind of maniacal feminine perkiness that people of a Woosterish temperament cannot abide. I like her. I like her triangular chin and her head-girl, can-do att.i.tude. Here she plays Cash's savior and eventual second wife, June Carter, and it's a great piece of casting: Witherspoon is a twelve-step program in and of herself. She's so capable, so hardworking, so upright and practical-underrated virtues among actresses. Physically, and in all other ways, Witherspoon makes the best of what she has. She has June's steely self-sufficiency down pat. "Marry me, June," begs Cash, not for the first time. "Oh, please, get up off your knees; you look pathetic" is the sensible response.

There is in this film the serious notion that nothing is as existentially fatal as a miserable relationship. And no redemption like a good one. But to get the good one, you've got to work harder than Job. Before the successful prison concerts and the comeback and the hagiography of the very movie we're watching, we see Cash taken low. Real low. Drugs, poverty, despair, violence. Each biopic digs its own way out of this hole. Black soul singers are redeemed differently from white punks-everyone's got their own groove-but the principle is the same: keep it real, get back on track. Here's Johnny at his lowest ebb, just before the turnaround, begging his bank for money: "I need this, see? To get my phone on . . . cos I got a woman . . . and I need to speak to her." That's country music logic, and it's really quite beautiful.

After the cultural violence of much nineteenth-century anthropology, there came a twentieth-century emphasis on reticence-we should no longer seek to explain people definitively, but rather observe them, respecting their otherness. Fortunately, no one told Werner Herzog, and that is why his Grizzly Man Grizzly Man is so d.a.m.n cool. Herzog (whose voice-over perfectly matches is so d.a.m.n cool. Herzog (whose voice-over perfectly matches The Simpsons's The Simpsons's hard man, Rainier Wolfcastle) is an infamous egomaniacal, auteur nutjob (i.e., a great European director) with a bent for the Germanically literal. (To pay off a bet he once made a movie called hard man, Rainier Wolfcastle) is an infamous egomaniacal, auteur nutjob (i.e., a great European director) with a bent for the Germanically literal. (To pay off a bet he once made a movie called Werner Herzog Eats His Shoe Werner Herzog Eats His Shoe. It did not disappoint.) Herzog is hard-core. He's not interested in your interpretation of why American nutjob Timothy Treadwell lived among bears. Who cares what you think? Herzog has his doc.u.mentary in hand, explaining that what we have here "iz on astone-ishing story of beauty and depth." He's not wrong. The footage itself is mostly Treadwell's, but the film is a discordant duet of two voices: Herzog's old-world Schopenhaurian pessimism versus Treadwell's new-world optimism (which, Herzog believes, masks a deep despair).

Herzog calls bears a "primordial encounter." Timothy calls them Mr. Chocolate and Aunt Melissa. Herzog believes Timothy was "fighing against the civilization that cast Th.o.r.eau out of Walden." According to Timothy's parents, the motivation was more prosaic. Not to give the specifics away, but "failed TV actor" is at the root of the crisis. Still, Herzog is determined to spin grandeur out of poor Timmy. And fabulous though it is to hear Herzog shouting about the "ooltimatt indifference of nature," it's Timothy saying to a fox, "I love you. Thanks for being my friend. I like this-do you like this?" that brings real joy. All you need to know about indifference is right there in that fox's face.

BRIEF ENCOUNTER AND PROOF.

In the spring of 1945, when David Lean's Brief Encounter Brief Encounter was first released, my father was nineteen. I envy him that vintage year of cinema and all opening weekends between, say, 1933 and 1955. Instead of was first released, my father was nineteen. I envy him that vintage year of cinema and all opening weekends between, say, 1933 and 1955. Instead of Memoirs of a Geisha, Memoirs of a Geisha, he saw he saw Woman of the Year Woman of the Year. Instead of Shopgirl, Shopgirl, he got he got Top Hat. Top Hat. The first film he ever saw was The first film he ever saw was King Kong, King Kong, and it was a merciful hour and a half shorter than the beast I slept through in January. In New York and Paris, we can revisit the films of our fathers any night of the week in dozens of fine revival cinemas; in London we rely on the occasional largesse of film festivals and the BFI. To those who love them, any rerelease of a 1940s film is a draught of sunshine. I have never seen a movie of this period in which there was not something to like, just as I have never come across a cheese I wouldn't eat. and it was a merciful hour and a half shorter than the beast I slept through in January. In New York and Paris, we can revisit the films of our fathers any night of the week in dozens of fine revival cinemas; in London we rely on the occasional largesse of film festivals and the BFI. To those who love them, any rerelease of a 1940s film is a draught of sunshine. I have never seen a movie of this period in which there was not something to like, just as I have never come across a cheese I wouldn't eat. Brief Encounter Brief Encounter is a Wensleydale: a lovely slice of English fare, familiar, inadvertently comic. It has become its own parody. The English are slightly ashamed of it, as the Aus trians are annoyed by is a Wensleydale: a lovely slice of English fare, familiar, inadvertently comic. It has become its own parody. The English are slightly ashamed of it, as the Aus trians are annoyed by The Sound of Music The Sound of Music. In fact, its reputation as a period piece is unfair. It is not all cut-gla.s.s diction and antediluvian good manners. The film is really about the dream life of the English, those secret parts of us that are most important and to which we have least access. It's a shame to go to the cinema only to laugh (as modern audiences laugh at the supposed camp excess of another sincere movie, Now, Voyager Now, Voyager). If you pa.s.s over the superficial culture shocks of sixty years pa.s.sed (A lending library in Boots the chemist! A string quartet in a railway cafe!), it is as astute about the English character as it ever was.

The story is easily paraphrased: Laura Jesson (Celia Johnson) and Dr. Alec Harvey (Trevor Howard) meet in a railway station and fall in love. Unfortunately, they are married to other people. Laura has a stolid, suburban husband, Fred, whose only connection to the Keatsian strain in English life is via the Times Times crossword, the clue in question being "When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face, Huge cloudy symbols of a high . . . (seven letters)." Laura suggests "romance." It's right-but it doesn't fit with the other answers. In this moment the entire film is contained. There are many things that the English want and dream and believe. But they do not fit in with our other answers. crossword, the clue in question being "When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face, Huge cloudy symbols of a high . . . (seven letters)." Laura suggests "romance." It's right-but it doesn't fit with the other answers. In this moment the entire film is contained. There are many things that the English want and dream and believe. But they do not fit in with our other answers.

Lean's sad, b.u.t.toned-up account of unconsummated love is about all of us and our cautious natures. It's not that the English don't want true love or self-knowledge. Rather, unlike our European cousins, we will not easily give up the real for the dream. We remain skeptical about throwing away a concrete a.s.set like Fred in favor of "the faery power of unreflecting love," no matter how much Keats may recommend it. Laura, a Midlands mother of two, is certainly not a fairy by temperament, despite her pixie face. She will not give up the reality of Fred for the dream of Alec. Alec, gentleman that he is, quite agrees. An Italian (or indeed, the modern English viewer of this film) will diagnose Laura and Alec as morbidly repressed. The film offers a different hypothesis: that the possibility of two people's pleasure cannot override the certainty of other people's pain. Primum non nocere Primum non nocere is the principle upon which the film operates. As a national motto we could do a lot worse. is the principle upon which the film operates. As a national motto we could do a lot worse.

These days, carpe diem is more popular, and self-sacrifice invites sn.i.g.g.e.rs. But the impulse behind Laura's and Alec's sacrifice seems to me neither smug, religious nor self-satisfied. Brief Encounter Brief Encounter is not about English s.e.xual repression or Christian values. It's about personal grandeur. By the end of the film, Alec and Laura are truly grand; they are their best selves. And if there is a moral lesson, it is not about the sin of s.e.xual infidelity but the secular sin of being unfaithful to oneself. is not about English s.e.xual repression or Christian values. It's about personal grandeur. By the end of the film, Alec and Laura are truly grand; they are their best selves. And if there is a moral lesson, it is not about the sin of s.e.xual infidelity but the secular sin of being unfaithful to oneself.

In the last few minutes of their good-bye, they are interrupted by Dolly, a silly woman whom Laura knows. She sits down uninvited and starts to talk about train timetables. She represents all the petty horror of English life, the inconsequential stuff and nonsense that gets in the way of our real lives and separates us from that "high romance" Keats knew the English have within them. It is sad that Alec and Laura must part, but what makes this an English tragedy is that they will politely listen to Dolly as they do it. They should be showing their souls. Instead they discuss the weather.

Hollywood recycles its actresses. Ava Gardner turned into Angelina Jolie. Claudette Colbert reincarnated as Reese Witherspoon. Cate Blanchett may one day prove worthy of the Katharine Hepburn echoes she evokes. Gwyneth Paltrow, star of the depressing misfire Proof, Proof, is Grace Kelly's replacement, and that's a poisoned chalice if ever there was one. The qualities of Grace and Gwyneth, as I see them, are as follows: a sense of ent.i.tlement, a glacial physical beauty and an apparently genuine submissive att.i.tude to the opposite s.e.x. They worship the men they play opposite and don't so much act as react to them. It is this talent for silent reaction that won Paltrow an Oscar for is Grace Kelly's replacement, and that's a poisoned chalice if ever there was one. The qualities of Grace and Gwyneth, as I see them, are as follows: a sense of ent.i.tlement, a glacial physical beauty and an apparently genuine submissive att.i.tude to the opposite s.e.x. They worship the men they play opposite and don't so much act as react to them. It is this talent for silent reaction that won Paltrow an Oscar for Shakespeare in Love, Shakespeare in Love, one of the least verbal Oscar-winning performances in recent memory. Her face flushes, her eyes flood. If you hold her in your arms, she trembles. It's all good old-fashioned movie actress stuff. If you were a male moviegoer looking for someone to love you, to just love you, and not drive you crazy with questions and smart talk like Bette Davis or Renee Zellweger, then Gwyneth's your girl. Cla.s.sy as she is, she'll love you even if you're completely unsuitable, even if you're Ripley or Ted Hughes. But just as Grace did, Gwyneth has grown tired of the princess gig. She wants to be an actress. one of the least verbal Oscar-winning performances in recent memory. Her face flushes, her eyes flood. If you hold her in your arms, she trembles. It's all good old-fashioned movie actress stuff. If you were a male moviegoer looking for someone to love you, to just love you, and not drive you crazy with questions and smart talk like Bette Davis or Renee Zellweger, then Gwyneth's your girl. Cla.s.sy as she is, she'll love you even if you're completely unsuitable, even if you're Ripley or Ted Hughes. But just as Grace did, Gwyneth has grown tired of the princess gig. She wants to be an actress. Proof Proof sees her acting and acting and acting. I'm sure it's true that on stage she made this role her own, wowing audiences with her portrayal of Catherine, the emotionally and mentally vulnerable daughter of a math genius who has lost his mind. Did the father write the mathematical proof posthumously found in a desk drawer-or did the daughter? The theatrical script uses the word sees her acting and acting and acting. I'm sure it's true that on stage she made this role her own, wowing audiences with her portrayal of Catherine, the emotionally and mentally vulnerable daughter of a math genius who has lost his mind. Did the father write the mathematical proof posthumously found in a desk drawer-or did the daughter? The theatrical script uses the word proof proof as a metaphorical launchpad for discussions of work and love and life, as plays will. It's that kind of verbal swordplay that so impresses onstage while seeming so redundant and brittle on-screen. Everyone involved tries really hard, and Jake Gyllenhaal is puppyishly excited by the whole project, but dominating it all is Paltrow's voice, with its hipsterish high-rising terminals that sound as if she is saying only one thing, over and over: "Like, I can act, right?" She has something to prove, but it has nothing to do with math. as a metaphorical launchpad for discussions of work and love and life, as plays will. It's that kind of verbal swordplay that so impresses onstage while seeming so redundant and brittle on-screen. Everyone involved tries really hard, and Jake Gyllenhaal is puppyishly excited by the whole project, but dominating it all is Paltrow's voice, with its hipsterish high-rising terminals that sound as if she is saying only one thing, over and over: "Like, I can act, right?" She has something to prove, but it has nothing to do with math.

The best course of action for Paltrow is to remember her antecedent and follow her example. There is a way out of the princess gig. Grace Kelly cracked it in High Society High Society and and Rear Window Rear Window. Paltrow glimpsed it in Emma, Emma, which was, in truth, the role that deserved an Oscar. Keep the vulnerability, but don't be coy about the self-possession that is so obviously there. He goes down on his knees because you have something of value-and you know it. And if he left, you'd survive. Grace Kelly proved that princesses have power, too. which was, in truth, the role that deserved an Oscar. Keep the vulnerability, but don't be coy about the self-possession that is so obviously there. He goes down on his knees because you have something of value-and you know it. And if he left, you'd survive. Grace Kelly proved that princesses have power, too.

GOOD NIGHT, AND GOOD LUCK AND CASANOVA.

First, a disclaimer. With regard to Good Night, and Good Luck, Good Night, and Good Luck, George Clooney's strident political docudrama, I find myself in a difficult position. I watched it and liked it. Then I spent two hours on the Internet and changed my mind. George Clooney's strident political docudrama, I find myself in a difficult position. I watched it and liked it. Then I spent two hours on the Internet and changed my mind.

What remains is still the review I intended, but it is qualified by the obvious fact that liberal films like this are made to please liberals like me. In terms of historical content, the film is neither quite honest nor quite true. That's a shame, because it's a good film. I don't have s.p.a.ce to discuss the several disappointing inaccuracies, elisions of fact and deliberate obfuscations. All I can do is direct you to the Internet and to Joseph E. Persico's 1988 biography Edward R. Murrow: An American Original Edward R. Murrow: An American Original. What follows, then, is a glowing review of a fine piece of agitprop leftist cinema, which I very much enjoyed in the same spirit a person of the opposite sensibility will enjoy Ann Coulter's recent celebratory defense of McCarthyism, Treason, Treason, not because it is entirely true but because she's fighting in your corner. Clooney's fighting in mine, and doing it in style. not because it is entirely true but because she's fighting in your corner. Clooney's fighting in mine, and doing it in style.

And how. This is a beautifully made, superficially coherent, effective movie, and you have to pinch yourself to believe an actor directed it, wrote it and produced it. The generosity of the ensemble casting, the control of the heavily verbal material, the expert pacing-it is a mature work. Clooney understands that style is what you leave out, and in its taut ninety minutes he leaves out so much of what we have come to expect that Warner refused to fund the film. He left out the color. He left out the subplots. He left out the love interest. He sidelined historical reenactments in favor of the real thing: archive footage.

What remains is strongly reminiscent of Citizen Kane, Citizen Kane, not simply for its loquacious, crusading journalists, but because it is both visually luscious and aurally self-sufficient. You could close your eyes and understand everything. But don't close your eyes. Here in sumptuous black and white is a perfectly recreated Capraesque newsroom. Here are quick-fire conversations a la Pres ton Sturges. The period detail is given a kick in the pants by the witty camera work (borrowed from Soderbergh and the Coen brothers), shooting faces from below, zooming in on a finger worrying a shirt b.u.t.ton. not simply for its loquacious, crusading journalists, but because it is both visually luscious and aurally self-sufficient. You could close your eyes and understand everything. But don't close your eyes. Here in sumptuous black and white is a perfectly recreated Capraesque newsroom. Here are quick-fire conversations a la Pres ton Sturges. The period detail is given a kick in the pants by the witty camera work (borrowed from Soderbergh and the Coen brothers), shooting faces from below, zooming in on a finger worrying a shirt b.u.t.ton.

Clooney himself avoids the camera, slinking through the film as un.o.btrusively as a star can. In a film that is about editorializing and is itself heavily editorialized, Clooney edits himself out for the sake of the material. Into the Clooney-shaped hole slips an accomplished ensemble cast-Tate Donovan, Reed Diamond, Jeff Daniels, Robert Downey Jr., Patricia Clarkson-all of whom back up David Strathairn's pitch-perfect Murrow impersonation by being entirely convincing newshounds. Well, all but one. I think you know who I'm talking about. Mr. Downey remains the most aggressive scene stealer in Hollywood. He's barely restrained here, but if someone doesn't give him free rein soon, there's a danger of auto-combustion.

I digress. Like Murrow-the campaigning television broadcaster who squared off against Senator McCarthy in the mid-1950s-Clooney uses the "wires and lights" of his medium to make simple, forceful arguments. His case against McCarthy is familiar and correct: the paranoid fervor of McCarthyism placed the right to fair trial and the rights of the First Amendment under serious threat. Today, these rights are endangered once more. "We cannot defend freedom abroad by deserting it at home," argues Murrow in 1956, foreshadowing our present concerns. Clooney doesn't have to push hard for a.n.a.logies like this-they're everywhere. In fact, they're a little too easy, and so admiring is he of Murrow that he follows his hero's editorial style to the letter. (Clooney has always seemed boyishly p.r.o.ne to masculine hero worship, from his consecration of his own newscaster father to the re-creation-both on- and offscreen-of Sinatra's rat-pack heyday.) Just as Murrow gave McCarthy enough rope to hang himself by allowing him "right to reply" on Murrow's own prime-time show, See It Now, See It Now, so Clooney refrains from casting an actor as McCarthy and simply replays the archive film. The edited archive film. He chooses all the same shots as Murrow did for his TV show: the off-guard, twitching, sweating, hysterical McCarthy, asking pointless questions, chasing phantoms that were not there. so Clooney refrains from casting an actor as McCarthy and simply replays the archive film. The edited archive film. He chooses all the same shots as Murrow did for his TV show: the off-guard, twitching, sweating, hysterical McCarthy, asking pointless questions, chasing phantoms that were not there.

Clooney clearly believes, like Murrow, that his editorializing has truth on its side. He has a case. Sometimes there is no "other side of the argument." n.a.z.is have no right of reply. Ed Murrow made a bet that what was pinko liberal thinking in 1956 would prove to be a condition of basic humanity fifty years later. He was wrong. The basic human rights he defended are once again a.s.sailed. Clooney is angry about that.

This must be why he cuts into his movie Murrow's selectively edited footage of McCarthy's interrogation of Annie Moss, an elderly, uneducated black woman whose Communist connections-McCarthy believed-had led her to seek a job inside the Pentagon. We see this meek woman verbally bullied and cheated of her right to see the evidence put against her. We are led to believe she knows nothing of the charges. One senator tries to help her. McCarthy leaves the hearing. Bobby Kennedy sits at the end of the table of senators, failing to come to her aid.

What evil breeds where good men stay silent! So we are meant to think. And this is a true liberal principle, as is the principle that no one should be tried without seeing the evidence held against them. Yet it remains disappointing to go on the Internet, in a shameful state of historical innocence, and discover that Bobby Kennedy was a good friend of Senator McCarthy and that Annie Moss was, as it happens, a member of the Communist Party. Clooney could have included gray areas such as this and still have made a fine liberal argument. It's a sure sign that things are bad when the Left, like the Right, wants its history black and white.

Casanova is a silly film. Half is a silly film. Half Carry On, Carry On, half Shakespearean comedy, everyone in it is perfectly nice and should rea.s.semble to make a lively half Shakespearean comedy, everyone in it is perfectly nice and should rea.s.semble to make a lively Twelfth Night. Twelfth Night. The trouble here is that the words are not by Shakespeare but rather by one Kimberly Simi, who worked as an attorney before selling this script. It has Heath Ledger sounding like James Mason with a soupcon of Peter O'Toole. It has tights and bosoms. It has mistaken ident.i.ty, gender switching, girls wearing mustaches, a shrew tamed, hearts sundered then reattached and finally a journey by sea. Some of the best writing is in the program notes: "Sienna Miller . . . catapulted into the public eye when she appeared in the BBC comedy The trouble here is that the words are not by Shakespeare but rather by one Kimberly Simi, who worked as an attorney before selling this script. It has Heath Ledger sounding like James Mason with a soupcon of Peter O'Toole. It has tights and bosoms. It has mistaken ident.i.ty, gender switching, girls wearing mustaches, a shrew tamed, hearts sundered then reattached and finally a journey by sea. Some of the best writing is in the program notes: "Sienna Miller . . . catapulted into the public eye when she appeared in the BBC comedy Bedtime Bedtime." Strange. That's not how I remember it. Speaking of the young actress, she might ask hair and makeup how it is possible to make a preternaturally pretty twenty-two-year-old look like a dull matron. In the film, Francesca Bruni, for that is the character's name, is secretly writing a feminist tract called "The Subjugation of Women" under a nom de plume-maybe that was the reasoning. Feminists can't be blond and must have big eyebrows. I would love it if Miss Miller was secretly the author of the works of Elaine Showalter. I fear it is not so.

CAPOTE AND DATE MOVIE.

Some cinematic seasons throw up abstract questions. In the early 1990s a clutch of movies asked: What is adulthood? Children found themselves in the bodies of adults, and vice versa. Adults left children home alone. Children were shrunk by careless fathers. Babies started talking with the voice of John Travolta. It may be vocational myopia on my part, but this year I hear the question "What is a writer?" In Hidden Hidden (released in the United States as (released in the United States as Cache) Cache) the answer is painful: writers are petty bourgeois. In the answer is painful: writers are petty bourgeois. In Good Night, and Good Luck Good Night, and Good Luck it's the writer as hero, n.o.ble champion of the people. In it's the writer as hero, n.o.ble champion of the people. In Casanova Casanova she's a harmless firebrand, in she's a harmless firebrand, in Memoirs of a Geisha, Memoirs of a Geisha, a naif who simply records events as they happen. In both a naif who simply records events as they happen. In both Get Rich or Die Tryin' Get Rich or Die Tryin' and and Walk the Line Walk the Line the writer is an alchemist, turning pain into gold. the writer is an alchemist, turning pain into gold.

Why all the sudden concern with scribblers? Writers like to flatter themselves that in times of communal trauma people turn to the written word for comfort and direction. Maybe once. But in the noughties we've begun to legislate against language itself: writers are not to be trusted. They are double-dealers. For this reason, Capote, Capote, despite its 1950s setting, is timely. When people rail against the "media," the bogeymen they have in mind owe not a little to the specter of Truman Capote. What is a writer? He knocks on your door with a smile, a pen and a shard of ice in his heart. Around that shard Philip Seymour Hoffman molds his tremendous Capote impersonation, by turns fey, friendly, oleaginous, deadly. He is Ja.n.u.s-faced. In New York, he's a quixotic queen laughing in smoky nightclubs at the stupidity of his own readers; in Holcomb, Kansas, he does a d.a.m.n good impression of being the boy next door. He'll turn up at the sheriff's house early in the morning with doughnuts and coffee, find the sheriff's wife alone and explain he came on a whim to eat breakfast with her. She wanders off to get plates. Slowly the camera and Hoffman slink to the left into a side room where little Perry Smith, multiple murderer, is locked up in a cell. despite its 1950s setting, is timely. When people rail against the "media," the bogeymen they have in mind owe not a little to the specter of Truman Capote. What is a writer? He knocks on your door with a smile, a pen and a shard of ice in his heart. Around that shard Philip Seymour Hoffman molds his tremendous Capote impersonation, by turns fey, friendly, oleaginous, deadly. He is Ja.n.u.s-faced. In New York, he's a quixotic queen laughing in smoky nightclubs at the stupidity of his own readers; in Holcomb, Kansas, he does a d.a.m.n good impression of being the boy next door. He'll turn up at the sheriff's house early in the morning with doughnuts and coffee, find the sheriff's wife alone and explain he came on a whim to eat breakfast with her. She wanders off to get plates. Slowly the camera and Hoffman slink to the left into a side room where little Perry Smith, multiple murderer, is locked up in a cell.

The sea change that comes over Hoffman's face during this pan shot is as close as silence comes to narrative. His Capote coolly dissembles, yet he is impa.s.sioned; he lied to get into the house, and yet he came to uncover truths. He is a writer: a man who tells the truth by lying. An actor of Hoffman's caliber, who also tells the truth that way, can't help but have a deep understanding of writerly psychology. "When I think of how good it could be," wrote Capote of his unwritten book, "I can hardly breathe." When Hoffman says these lines-s.e.xually, venally, desperately-you fear him and yourself. How far will he go for a good story? How far will you go with him to hear it?

Hoffman has been vocal in his praise of the writer, Dan Futterman, and director, Bennett Miller, but this is an actor's traditional demurral: the lion's share of the praise belongs to Hoffman. Everything looks lovely and period and prestige, but shots linger ponderously, keen that we should fully appreciate them, as predictable a tic of a first-time director as the first-time novelist compulsively inserting adjectives. It's the acting that sings, especially when Hoffman duets with luminous Catherine Keener (playing another writer, Harper Lee), the lady with the loveliest laugh in cinema. Hoffman's writer is a self-serving egoist; Keener's a restrained, wise soul. But just as in life, cinema's Capote trumps Harper Lee. We admire those who refrain, but we make movies about personae. Capote's persona was enormous and, unusually, his talent was almost its equal. Yet we still tell Capote's story with pity and use his life as a parable: talent can't buy you morals. The film implies Truman couldn't finish another book after In Cold Blood In Cold Blood because he never got over his betrayal of Perry Smith and d.i.c.k Hick.o.c.k. To my mind, the problem was less moral and more writerly: stage fright. Capote stumbled across a true story that suited him perfectly and dressed himself up in it to fabulous effect. Without it, he felt naked. because he never got over his betrayal of Perry Smith and d.i.c.k Hick.o.c.k. To my mind, the problem was less moral and more writerly: stage fright. Capote stumbled across a true story that suited him perfectly and dressed himself up in it to fabulous effect. Without it, he felt naked.

I could have seen a lot of good films this week. I chose Date Movie, Date Movie, and actually I'm thankful because it allows me to say with certainty something I had not decided until this moment: and actually I'm thankful because it allows me to say with certainty something I had not decided until this moment: Date Movie Date Movie is the worst movie I have ever seen. I really mean that. Forty minutes in, I fled the cinema feeling dazed, aggrieved and strangely weepy, as if a stranger had just physically threatened me. I took is the worst movie I have ever seen. I really mean that. Forty minutes in, I fled the cinema feeling dazed, aggrieved and strangely weepy, as if a stranger had just physically threatened me. I took Date Movie Date Movie personally. The actress who stars in it means a lot to me. She is Alyson Hannigan, a pet.i.te redhead with goofy good looks, who cos-tarred in personally. The actress who stars in it means a lot to me. She is Alyson Hannigan, a pet.i.te redhead with goofy good looks, who cos-tarred in Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, the only TV show I have truly loved. I have tried to convince people that she is one of the finest tragicomic actresses in L.A. I have persisted in this despite the only TV show I have truly loved. I have tried to convince people that she is one of the finest tragicomic actresses in L.A. I have persisted in this despite American Pie American Pie and its sequels. At the very least, I expected her to step effortlessly into the shoes Meg Ryan left empty. Ms. Hannigan shares Ms. Ryan's triumvirate of talents-quick wit, deep soul and gummy smile-and is happily free of the emotional neediness with which Ms. Ryan occasionally oppresses the audience. When I dared to dream, I pictured Alyson at a podium, thanking her parents. But there will be no prizes for and its sequels. At the very least, I expected her to step effortlessly into the shoes Meg Ryan left empty. Ms. Hannigan shares Ms. Ryan's triumvirate of talents-quick wit, deep soul and gummy smile-and is happily free of the emotional neediness with which Ms. Ryan occasionally oppresses the audience. When I dared to dream, I pictured Alyson at a podium, thanking her parents. But there will be no prizes for Date Movie Date Movie. The very fact of its existence forces a wedge between Alyson and anything resembling mainstream or indie Hollywood. And for that she has Jason Friedberg and Aaron Seltzer to thank, two "filmmakers" whom I can only name and shame in the full knowledge it will not stop them.

In the first forty minutes of Date Movie, Date Movie, Hannigan beats up a homeless man for sport, wears a grotesque fat suit, watches a cat eat a dead woman's face, has a carpet of ginger hair waxed from her backside and takes part in a parody of Hannigan beats up a homeless man for sport, wears a grotesque fat suit, watches a cat eat a dead woman's face, has a carpet of ginger hair waxed from her backside and takes part in a parody of The Bachelor, The Bachelor, in which women the bachelor "doesn't want to bang" are "eliminated" by submachine gun. The humor is so broad it's less than human-it's the laughter of monkeys as they fall out of trees. To imagine the audience for this film, one has to envision new levels of adolescent nullity. Who in which women the bachelor "doesn't want to bang" are "eliminated" by submachine gun. The humor is so broad it's less than human-it's the laughter of monkeys as they fall out of trees. To imagine the audience for this film, one has to envision new levels of adolescent nullity. Who are are these kids? Why are they evolving these kids? Why are they evolving backward backward? American Pie American Pie was an amusing gross-out. was an amusing gross-out. Scary Movie Scary Movie was a gross-out, funny piece of nothing. was a gross-out, funny piece of nothing. Date Movie Date Movie is less than nothing. It's a new concept in c.r.a.p: a film that is in itself an absence of film. For Hannigan, it's cinema suicide. The worst humiliation comes when she sits opposite her date as he laboriously spoofs the o.r.g.a.s.m scene from is less than nothing. It's a new concept in c.r.a.p: a film that is in itself an absence of film. For Hannigan, it's cinema suicide. The worst humiliation comes when she sits opposite her date as he laboriously spoofs the o.r.g.a.s.m scene from When Harry Met Sally When Harry Met Sally. Eventually he finishes. Hannigan says: "I'll have what he's having." As a metacomment on Hannigan's career, it's the cruelest joke of all. And yes, I know this movie wasn't meant for me, but I'm repulsed by the children it's meant for and dread the adults they will become. On the Internet the little darlings are legion, defending Date Movie Date Movie against all attackers. I reproduce one such review: "OK I'm a 13-year-old girl and I thought the movie was hillarious [sic]. That kind of stuff is what kids joke about and talk about now a days [sic]. Its [sic] a comedy so stop acting like a 50-year-old spinster with a stick up your a.s.s and get on with your life." against all attackers. I reproduce one such review: "OK I'm a 13-year-old girl and I thought the movie was hillarious [sic]. That kind of stuff is what kids joke about and talk about now a days [sic]. Its [sic] a comedy so stop acting like a 50-year-old spinster with a stick up your a.s.s and get on with your life."

SYRIANA AND THE WEATHER MAN.

What is Clooney saying? A sentence he began sparklingly with Ocean's Eleven Ocean's Eleven (2001), which stumbled at (2001), which stumbled at Intolerable Cruelty Intolerable Cruelty (2003), grew lamentable at (2003), grew lamentable at Ocean's Twelve Ocean's Twelve (2004), having seemed almost to make sense with (2004), having seemed almost to make sense with Confessions of a Dangerous Mind Confessions of a Dangerous Mind (2002), now reaches its conclusion with the impressive (2002), now reaches its conclusion with the impressive Good Night, and Good Luck Good Night, and Good Luck and the rigorous and the rigorous Syriana Syriana. I judged too quickly, thinking him one of those actors who prides himself on making the big bad movies in order to fund the small good ones-a kind of vanity tax upon the audience, whereby the pointless shoot-'em-up is the price we supposedly pay for the chilly little chamber piece about divorce.

Clooney is not that actor. He doesn't make sterile, unlovable vanity projects. In a cultural climate that ridicules and is repulsed by intellectual and moral commitment, in his way he pursues both. With his role as executive producer and front-of-shop "face" of Syriana, Syriana, he has now created an unprecedented scenario: the most popular actor in Hollywood is also the man who wants to agitate us most. Something like this has happened only once before, with Marlon Brando, an actor whose personal failings and self-regard overran all his most serious ambitions. Clooney appears to have no such tragic flaw. He is making real American films instead of American products; he is helping real American films to get made. At a time when most people with half a brain cell have long given up on the products of the American multiplex, Clooney gives us a reason to put our foot back through the door and cautiously buy some popcorn. Rarely in the history of Hollywood has so much personal charm been put to such good use. he has now created an unprecedented scenario: the most popular actor in Hollywood is also the man who wants to agitate us most. Something like this has happened only once before, with Marlon Brando, an actor whose personal failings and self-regard overran all his most serious ambitions. Clooney appears to have no such tragic flaw. He is making real American films instead of American products; he is helping real American films to get made. At a time when most people with half a brain cell have long given up on the products of the American multiplex, Clooney gives us a reason to put our foot back through the door and cautiously buy some popcorn. Rarely in the history of Hollywood has so much personal charm been put to such good use.

Syriana is the first film this season that demands and deserves to be rewatched as soon as it has concluded. Unless your mind naturally turns to the economic and political intrigues of the global oil industry, much of this film will remain obscure to you upon first viewing. Writer/director Stephen Gaghan has followed the same narrative policy as he did in is the first film this season that demands and deserves to be rewatched as soon as it has concluded. Unless your mind naturally turns to the economic and political intrigues of the global oil industry, much of this film will remain obscure to you upon first viewing. Writer/director Stephen Gaghan has followed the same narrative policy as he did in Traffic Traffic (2000), connecting the dots between the alienating anonymity of great power and its human cost. But where (2000), connecting the dots between the alienating anonymity of great power and its human cost. But where Traffic Traffic was neat and pleasingly didactic, was neat and pleasingly didactic, Syriana Syriana is as murky and multifaceted as our present historical moment. The story revolves around a Justice Department investigation into the merger of two giant oil companies, an investigation that is for appearances only ("We're looking for the illusion of due diligence"), for the merger will ultimately benefit the American consumer. Gaghan's talent is for Marxist explication, demonstrating how one transaction contains within it elements of the entire system it supports. He knows one drug deal on the streets of Brooklyn can be traced back to the rich dealers in Florida, to the desperate backstreets of Mexico City, to the peasants who slave in the cocaine fields of Colombia. So it is in is as murky and multifaceted as our present historical moment. The story revolves around a Justice Department investigation into the merger of two giant oil companies, an investigation that is for appearances only ("We're looking for the illusion of due diligence"), for the merger will ultimately benefit the American consumer. Gaghan's talent is for Marxist explication, demonstrating how one transaction contains within it elements of the entire system it supports. He knows one drug deal on the streets of Brooklyn can be traced back to the rich dealers in Florida, to the desperate backstreets of Mexico City, to the peasants who slave in the cocaine fields of Colombia. So it is in Syriana, Syriana, where a dull piece of political stagecraft is shown to contain mult.i.tudes: Arab princes, CIA agents, Texas oil barons, energy a.n.a.lysts, Washington attorneys and two young Pakistani boys who lose their pitifully paid jobs in the oil fields when the merger causes huge layoffs. Guerrilla camera work and bravura acting fuse to create a realism not unlike the edgy, off-kilter work of Ca.s.savetes, a particularly striking achievement when one considers the fame of many of the actors involved. Playing an all-American, square-chinned energy a.n.a.lyst, Matt Damon joins Clooney, here fat, bearded and sluggish as a U.S. agent with a conscience, and both appear to be just what they claim to be-real players in this dark world. where a dull piece of political stagecraft is shown to contain mult.i.tudes: Arab princes, CIA agents, Texas oil barons, energy a.n.a.lysts, Washington attorneys and two young Pakistani boys who lose their pitifully paid jobs in the oil fields when the merger causes huge layoffs. Guerrilla camera work and bravura acting fuse to create a realism not unlike the edgy, off-kilter work of Ca.s.savetes, a particularly striking achievement when one considers the fame of many of the actors involved. Playing an all-American, square-chinned energy a.n.a.lyst, Matt Damon joins Clooney, here fat, bearded and sluggish as a U.S. agent with a conscience, and both appear to be just what they claim to be-real players in this dark world.

My complaint is clarity: it is evident that the sociopolitical contexts of this film have been closely observed, so much so that at times it feels like an overresearched novel, the writer having forgotten that we have not shared in his research. This film treats its audience not merely as adults but as experts. I was frequently thrown into scenes on the back foot; only understanding what had pa.s.sed when it was almost over. You don't walk out of Syriana Syriana outraged and decided, as from outraged and decided, as from Traffic, Traffic, but this is part of its sophistication. It prompts you to begin thinking, not to finish. Ultimately, what is most impressive about but this is part of its sophistication. It prompts you to begin thinking, not to finish. Ultimately, what is most impressive about Syriana Syriana is the scrupulousness of its production: the genuinely multicultural casting; the sensitivity and nuance of its use of languages, accents, vocabulary; the clothes people wear in each city; the respectful attention to the smallest cultural details. is the scrupulousness of its production: the genuinely multicultural casting; the sensitivity and nuance of its use of languages, accents, vocabulary; the clothes people wear in each city; the respectful attention to the smallest cultural details.

Syriana is an American movie that reaches out beyond itself. Watching it made me feel hopeful-a rare sensation in a multiplex. Of course, no one film or book will make of us a reasonable, decent people, and what we are living through is not simply a war of ideas; but ideas are no small part of our troubles, and the American film industry is, for better or worse, among the largest engines and disseminators of ideas on the planet. Films like is an American movie that reaches out beyond itself. Watching it made me feel hopeful-a rare sensation in a multiplex. Of course, no one film or book will make of us a reasonable, decent people, and what we are living through is not simply a war of ideas; but ideas are no small part of our troubles, and the American film industry is, for better or worse, among the largest engines and disseminators of ideas on the planet. Films like Syriana Syriana are not revolutions, but they are contributions. And if this film reaches the countries of which it speaks-on illegal DVDs or in backroom cinemas-a novel message will be pa.s.sed to the people who live there: we believe you exist and are human, as we are. "When I grew up the only time you would see Arabs on-screen would be in something like are not revolutions, but they are contributions. And if this film reaches the countries of which it speaks-on illegal DVDs or in backroom cinemas-a novel message will be pa.s.sed to the people who live there: we believe you exist and are human, as we are. "When I grew up the only time you would see Arabs on-screen would be in something like Sinbad, Sinbad, where they're climbing over the side of the ship with a saber in their mouth," says Alexander Siddig, who plays the character of Prince Nasir, a young, reform-minded emir-in-waiting who has an idea about halting the sale of cheap oil to Americans and getting a better deal for the people of his country. To deal fairly with other humans one must first see them as human. American movies disseminate more images of humans than any other medium. Here Hollywood has something approaching a responsibility; where they're climbing over the side of the ship with a saber in their mouth," says Alexander Siddig, who plays the character of Prince Nasir, a young, reform-minded emir-in-waiting who has an idea about halting the sale of cheap oil to Americans and getting a better deal for the people of his country. To deal fairly with other humans one must first see them as human. American movies disseminate more images of humans than any other medium. Here Hollywood has something approaching a responsibility; Syriana Syriana goes some way to honoring that. goes some way to honoring that.

The Sunday Telegraph does not hold with the idea of half stars. I understand the thinking, but it makes it difficult for this reviewer to rate a certain kind of "quirky" American film set in the suburbs, of which half a dozen are released each year and for which two and a half stars is precisely the correct denomination. does not hold with the idea of half stars. I understand the thinking, but it makes it difficult for this reviewer to rate a certain kind of "quirky" American film set in the suburbs, of which half a dozen are released each year and for which two and a half stars is precisely the correct denomination. The Weather Man The Weather Man is one of those films; in fact, it might be the ur-quirky film, for it is an exact splicing of two mild giants of the genre: is one of those films; in fact, it might be the ur-quirky film, for it is an exact splicing of two mild giants of the genre: American Beauty American Beauty and and About Schmidt About Schmidt.

I think I found this film palatable because I read it perversely. As I see it, this film's central concept is the aversion most right thinking people have to the actor Nicolas Cage. And he accepts this mantle so honorably and humbly in this film that I think maybe now I quite like him. It's an honest and comic performance and seems filled with all the genuine humiliations that one imagines Cage himself has suffered in the past ten years. I don't want to tell you any more about it-it's best stumbled upon without expectations but with my reading kept in mind. One recommendation, though: Nicholas Hoult (the kid from About a Boy About a Boy) is almost grown and is possibly on the cusp of becoming better looking than the original teenage Leo DiCaprio. Oh, and one warning: Michael Caine's American accent will make your eyes bleed. Again.

V FOR VENDETTA AND TSOTSI.

As a rule, film critics fondly place themselves at a slight remove from the pa.s.sive ma.s.s of cinema audiences. The fortunate among us have pens with lights on them and, while you let the medium of film simply wash over you, we are making notes on such aesthetic minutiae as the Aryan Band-Aid on the big black head of Ma.r.s.ellus Wallace, or the Damoclean slice of light that falls over Harry Lime in a gloomy alleyway.

Cinema-the most pleasurable of medi