This film is immersed in the euphoria of high style; unfortunately, it suffers the throes that accompany substance abuse as well. Even so, many viewers see it as a moving story, well acted by a brilliant cast. While other filmgoers may concur with certain points made by these appreciative viewers, a scant few don't agree with any positive assessment. This discrepancy occurs because some viewers experience a lower threshold in their suspension of disbelief, while the majority allow themselves to be whisked down river for a suspenseful ride. Such is the nature of art and entertainment. The subjective appraisal is in the eye of the beholder. I will make the case that while this movie can be well regarded by the intelligent filmgoer, those who ingest film and distill it for a living should approach the film's essence with far greater scrutiny. Many of these aficionados go as far over-the-top with accolades praising this film as some of the actors do with their performances. Any Oscar considerations beyond the commendable work of production designer Henry Bumstead would be misguided. Maybe the official poster says it all: three men descending head first into the murky depths of a deep dark river. Or is this our reflective view? Is the reflection that of the three male protagonists or the novelist, screenwriter, and director? Only the "Shadow" knows the answer to this enigma.

Clint Eastwood's Mystic River is a tragedy for so many reasons. It's tragic that a director with Eastwood's talent, experience, and filmography thinks he has crafted something profound here. It's tragic that the screenwriter doesn't provide anything remotely resembling his best work. Tragic given the screenplay, that the overly starry dream cast is woefully, wincingly unwatchable much of the time. Tragic that the story has such a multiplicity of missing threads that the skein completely unravels, becoming risible bafflegab by the fade to credits. Tragic that the inferences to be drawn show the film to be a shoal under a sea of sophomoric shallowness. The film is a tragedy for what's not said regarding religious psychosis. It's tragic in that the conclusion is a kluge and the resolution offers not the least enlightenment. Finally, it's a tragedy that the vast majority of reputable critics, citing references reminiscent of a classic liberal arts education, think they experience something exceptional and "powerful" with this melodrama. Was I expecting too much, setting myself up for disappointment? Are the multitudes of critics cutting a lot of slack to a film icon and popular cast? Or does the problematic viewing of this film suffer from both of these excesses? If this film had a less revered director and cast while exhibiting the same result on the big screen, would anyone be genuflecting and raving? Would I feel the need to afford it extensive analysis? I think not. Therein lies the further tragedy of time wasted.

Director

I have to admit bias here. I wanted this film to be as great as the advance notice. I have seen nearly every one of Mr. Eastwood's films: with him as an actor, a director, and an actor/director. I have enjoyed watching him on screen as well as his work behind the camera. Since Play Misty for Me in 1971, he directed 10 consecutive, solid efforts - especially The Outlaw Josey Wales. Although Pale Rider is less accomplished, Bird is an epiphany. White Hunter, Black Heart is far better than most critics give it credit for, and he took home the Oscar for Unforgiven. Yet, I think the underrated A Perfect World in 1993 is the pinnacle of his career. It's hard to keep going uphill from there. While he made four more films - from Bridges of Madison County to Blood Work - that are entertaining, I was bored by Space Cowboys - and Philip Kaufman's acclaimed The Right Stuff as well - and walked out on Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, his only real mistake in a long career. Until now. This is worse. A world apart from his best. Interviewed, he claims to love the novel by Dennis Lehane on which this film is based, thinking the characters complex and well developed. He also thinks the story resonates and says he takes it seriously. How did his otherwise fine judgment and instincts fail him here?

Screenwriter

The main problem with this film is the writing/story, since it doesn't serve the authentic intimacy of the film's fine production qualities or the superstar cast. Unfortunately, style rules over substance in Hollywood these days. I fear Brian Helgeland, who is party to this trend, is a one hit wonder. L.A. Confidential is easily the best film of 1997, making it one of the ten best of that decade because his screenplay shines. Apart from Blood Work (screenplay), he's made a mess since. Besides the abominable The Order released earlier this year, he's responsible for A Knight's Tale, Payback, and The Postman. Before LAC he wrote too many kiddie bloodfest flicks to mention here. Yet, this may be his worst effort, since it is based on an "acclaimed" novel. Whatever mystical magic the novel may conjure (I haven't read it), it is apparently beyond Mr. Helgeland. What happened? Maybe the novel suffers from stereotypical characters and myopic thinking in the first place. The excerpt taken from the novel and put on the official website is prosaic. No matter the merits of the novel, they're lost in translation here.

Could Mr. Helgeland have fixed the novel's problems, or did he cause the film's problems in his adaptation? Did he and Eastwood change the story for "cinematic clarity?" If so, why not make it better? If not, why make it at all? According to interviews with Mr. Lehane, he is enthused with the adaptation. Ultimately, though, it is Helgeland's and Eastwood's responsibility to make the story work. That's why there is an Oscar for "Best Adapted Screenplay." Was this pulp meant for the big screen in a serious way, or was it meant to be constructed Tarantino style? Why did Lehane/Eastwood choose Helgeland over a consistent talent like Steve Zaillian? Every episode of David E. Kelley's Boston Public is better written and more compelling than any part of this film. Cystic River would be a more fitting title for the screenplay we're presented by Helgeland. But, maybe this street opera never had a chance as a film, and maybe the three tenors and a couple of divas could have made the story sing. Jerry Springer - The Opera got 8 Olivier nominations, which is more acclaim than the 5 Golden Globe nominations garnered by Mystic River.

Cast

The lead casting is a mismatch. How is that possible? I imagine nearly every actor on the planet wants to work with a seasoned pro like Mr. Eastwood (ex-girlfriends excluded). On paper, this cast is a C.S.A.'s dream. In an admission of Goldbergian "honesty," I'm liberally biased toward Sean Penn and Tim Robbins for their politics as well as their acting. I like all the other lead actors in this production as well, based on most of their career performances. I am apt to give in to their portrayals nearly every time. Most intelligent people have done so this time, too. But I can't. Hollywood health regimens make the lead cast of 40-somethings too smooth, hale, and youthful looking to play even 30-somethings from an economically deprived area. Maybe the cast is so laden with talent that it just had to sink into the Mystic under its own weight. Most likely their talent exceeds the material. I went on record over 10 years ago, stating that there should be an Oscar category for Best Casting Director because of how important the totality of a cast is to the artistic success of a film beyond individual performances. This film confirms that notion. This effort should definitely not get an Oscar consideration in that yet unused potential category.

It would appear that the character of Jimmy Markum is written with Sean Penn in mind. Paradoxically, though, Penn is so perfect for the role that his portrayal doesn't work at all for me. I see bad boy Sean Penn, not Jimmy Markum. In confirmation of that assessment, during an interview with Charlie Rose for 60 minutes, Penn related that he was concerned for the safety of the other actors during the overwrought scene where he learns of his daughter's death. His method is to play it for "real." Eastwood assuaged his concern with the hands of 18 "cops" for restraint. Penn's body of work speaks for itself. He is also a compelling, cutting-edge director in his own [W]right…. But he already excels in a similar role - on the other side of the law - in State of Grace, as Terry Noonan. Trying to be fresh for this, he actually leaves some Method chops on the screen, and, as in his personal life, goes over-the-top on too many occasions. This is not necessarily his fault. Mr. Eastwood is known for his sparse direction with actors. He probably said, "Sean, just be yourself." And he is. But it is to the detriment of the film. It borders on self-parody. Maybe Mr. Penn would have been more divinely inspired in the role of "Sean."

To me, Tim Robbins seems totally miscast as Dave Boyle, the grown-up version of Jimmy's boyhood friend. Try as he might to act small, he's too big and powerful to invoke the mien of a poor, helpless victim. He's too innately intelligent to play docile, damaged, and confused. His real intellect escapes at times, like his burst of clarity and control in the interview room scene, making the character uneven. I don't know what Robbins could have done differently. He really went inside himself and put forth fine effort. I just never believed him in the role for a minute. He's another excellent director in this collage of collegial all-stars. Bob Roberts is a masterpiece.

Kevin Bacon, as the grown-up, heavenly-named detective, Sean Devine, is the other boyhood friend, whose yeoman-like versatility works nicely. [35 years ago this role would have been Clint Eastwood's] He maintains a consistent tone and is believable throughout. He's the only good choice for the main cast. His partner is rendered with a solid performance by Laurence Fishburne as detective "Whitey Powers." Is that cynical or what? Fishburne really needed a role like this after all the big budget fluff he's been reloading and revolutionizing recently. Unfortunately, the filmmakers are PC pussyfooting around. The possibility of a black man named Whitey Powers being put on the case of a murdered white girl in blue-collar Boston, home to many bus-bashing Neanderthals, is out of the question, even today. Clintonian humor. Reel funny.

Marcia Gay Harden (Celeste Boyle) and Laura Linney (Annabeth Markum) are two of the finest actresses on screens today. Like Robbins, though, they are too smart for their parts and too well known. Watching them is awkward. Especially Marcia Gay Harden as a cornered mouse, nearly identical to her part in Mona Lisa Smile at nearby Wellesley. Her work in just one episode of too-good-for-TV Max Bickford towers above her performance in this high-profile film. Linney's body of work is wide and deep. This thankless role gives her no opportunity to make use of her extensive talent. She is reduced to uttering absurd, off-the-wall lines. She is far better served by her role in The Life of David Gale released earlier this year. Two local unknowns might have worked better with this material. I feel embarrassed just to recall how badly the roles and their execution are pasted onto the screen. Seeing these two talents have to deliver the lines they are provided is painful. I have to look away, even in memory. Nails on the blackboard. Ouch. Nearly as bad as seeing mega-talent Samantha Morton suffer through the dreadful Morvern Callar.

On the other hand, Phyllis Huffman's choices for the supporting cast are quite effective. The one moving performance in the entire film is turned in by Tom Guiry (Brendan Harris) as the most noble character. Spencer Treat Clarke ("Silent" Ray Harris, Jr.) stays within himself as Brendan's psychologically muted little brother. There is a short but commanding blowsy turn by Jenny O'Hara (Esther Harris) as the boys' mom. Kevin Chapman and Adam Nelson menacingly portray the thuggishly savage Savage brothers. Emmy Rossum (Katie Markum) is a sensuous siren that doesn't see much action as the catalystic victim. Eli Wallach provides a showy cameo. The rest of the background cast is white enough, Irish enough, and Catholic enough. Enough said.

Story/Screenplay

What's wrong with this story? Let me count the ways. Supposedly all will be revealed as the plot thickens. However, the only things that thicken ah the accents. I hate to suggest the unthinkable: the use of voice-over narration to fill in the blanks. This old, disrespected device might add clarity, as the backgrounds of the characters are not fleshed-out, and contrived continuity forces giant leaps of faith in the viewer. For non-believers, it makes for jumbo jet-sized plot holes. There must be a lot in the book that is not included in the film. The use of a narrator works well in The Human Stain and could have worked here. Mr. Helgeland could have put a shadowy neighbor who has "seen it all" in an upstairs window. The filmmakers could have used the voice of Jimmy Fallon for the young shadow neighbor and the voice of Gabriel Byrne for the present shadow neighbor. Or, in a really bold move, used the actual voice of Dennis Lehane. No sense crying over spilt beeah. It would take a miracle beyond a Flutie to Phelan Hail Mary pass to make this screenplay a winner. The following demonstrates just how much suspension of disbelief is required to appreciate this film:

As told by this film, the story begins by going into "the old neighborhood" circa 1975. Mythical East Buckingham, just west of Downtown (according to the book excerpt on the film's website), Charlestown on the map (by its proximity to the Mystic and Downtown), with exterior shots from East Boston, and interiors shot in South Boston. These locations represent a mélange of similar social circumstances; yet, to the locals, all of these places have distinctive characteristics and particular names; thus, it's rather disrespectful to meld them into one place. Quibbles on exactitude of real estate aside, apparently locals back in the seventies believed the Bosox could win it all. Now that we know naiveté and blind faith are the themes of the day, we go down on the street for some Bobby Orr-inspired ball hockey with our three 11-year-old protagonists. Evidently, their educators didn't inspire creative thinking or deductive reasoning, because the sewer drain, easily covered by a folded cardboard box, soon swallows their only ball for the umpteenth time. There is no sign of Matt Damon, as none of these lads are destined for Harvard.

With no available cars to "borrow" for a joyride, naughty little Jimmy, followed by Sean and DA[ve], etch their names into slow-drying concrete just as ill will hunting drives up in an old car. An authoritative figure posing as an undercover cop with cuffs and a badge hanging from his belt steps out, castigating the lads with vitriol. Why don't these kids run, as my friends and I would have? Especially a shite like Jimmy. I guess, given a stronger sense of reality, there would be no story to follow. Well, as it is then, the faux constable is the type of pedophile that is usually expert in instant psychoanalysis, determining immediately which kid will make the best victim. He chooses Dave to "give a ride home to tell his mother." Somewhat reluctant, Dave hesitates, especially upon seeing discarded food wrappers on the floor of the back seat - a tell-tale sign of the "hey little girl, want some candy?" ruse. After Dave gets in, the other "cop" turns around from the front seat and flashes a sly grin and a glowing cross-embossed ring on his finger.

Does this implicate "the Church"? In Boston there is only one. Well, two, if you separate the Irish Catholics from the Italian Catholics. Protestants are a thing of the past, having gone the way of gay Bishops, and the Jews are best left in the vicinity of the Bronx Bombers. Let the viewer decide. Don't need William A. Donohue protesting. Suffice it to say, these poor Catholic kids are not trained to think, only to obey. After four days of, dare we imagine, sex, Davey escapes the confines of the pseudo-cops' cave-like basement and runs home through a feral forest while wolves howl in the near distance. He is determined "damaged goods" by Jimmy's father. No counseling is provided. Do we assume the position put forth by the tenets of Catholic guilt that it must have been Dave's own fault for daring to draw in the concrete, succumbing to puckish Jimmy's peer pressure, and being dumb enough not to realize that even undercover cops would not drive an old car like that? No background on the kid's parent[s] is provided. Fade to black.

With that dark backstory told, we leap to the present. Not much has changed in the culturally static neighborhood. We open with a scene of improbability when Dave Boyle (Robbins) & son Michael are walking one day and go by the old sewer drain. Dave explains to his young progeny how "there must be 1000 balls in there by now." Then he spies the scrawled names on the concrete slab and has a flashback, which appears to cause a psychotic split in his psyche. Why the hell would he of all people stay so near traumaville? Was this the first time in 25 years for him and the first time in 10 with his son that he ever passed this spot?

Next, we visit the neighborhood patriarch, sporting a skunk-etched greasy pompadour piled high like a corned beef sandwich - at least a good corned beef sandwich, in the backroom of a corner grocery (spa) working on the books while chatting with a clerk. Minutes later, darling daughter Katie (Rossum) comes in and begins cooing and kissing him like a fanzine girl gushing over her favorite movie star, SEAN PENN (played by little-known actor Jimmy Markum). This is no normal father-daughter affection; it's more incestuous. This is weirdsville! Must be the second-hand smoke effect of all the cigs consumed in the making of this film. Getting off work, Katie goes out to her car where Brendan Harris (Guiry) startles and passionately kisses her from the back seat. We can easily intuit there will be no more surprises in this straight-ahead plot. Only trouble for the star-crossed Bostonian Romeo and Juliet. Leaving her man/boy panting for more, Katie's soon off to a girl's Saturday night out, while promising him that their plans to depart together the following day are still on the agenda.

Third mate, Sean Devine (Bacon), is now a state detective, with a black partner named "Whitey" (Fishburne), and a pay-phone-addicted, voiceless wife. No longer a Bucky/Townie, Detective Devine is a bit more upwardly mobile, having done four years in a college pen, and has escaped the 'hood for the better life on the other side of the tracks, er, river. When we catch up with him, he's actually on the Tobin Bridge, over the river, responding to a road rage incident and looking down - literally and figuratively - on his old neighborhood. It should be eminently evident by now that this will not be the bridges of Suffolk County.

With the trio's past and present established, this tale of morose mendacity moves ahead. After the gals file into McGills, a local tavern where Dave drinks and droops, Katie leads a coyote line dance on the bar with her ugly friends. Nothing happens, but you know something evil this way will come, and before you can say, "pour me another one, Mickey," Katie is gone missing.

Seems docile Dave - as haunted by his babe-in-the-woods encounter with predators as his beloved Red Sox are by the curse of the Bambino - comes home late to the doting, doddering Mrs. Boyle (Harden) covered in blood from a knife slice across his belly and a severely swollen hand, making up some blarney about a muggah. The genius wifey is immediately skeptical. And so are we. Funny how that works. Or doesn't. Could down-in-the-dumps Dave be a killer? The fact that he may have killed someone makes Celeste hot and kissy, and it is implied the couple may have … sex, on the kitchen floor, no less!

At around 6:00 am on Sunday, a police chopper hovers in response to a 911 call from two kids about finding a car with blood in it. In no time, it's surrounded by government employees. The phone rings at the Markum apartment. Katie hasn't shown up for work. Minor panic sets in, so Sean (Jimmy) dutifully goes to work (for the second and last time in the duration of the film), at his (where did this ex-con get the money) spa (sans strikers), this early morning (not a Chelsea one, Joni, another river, another day). He is soon watching the Harris kids shopping, overtly showing his disdain, but when asked by a clerk, can't really explain why. Of course, one of them, Brendan, is the same young man that is covertly carrying on with his precious Katie.

At about 10:00 am, the Boyle household rises. During breakfast, Celeste checks the papah for info to support Dave's story. It ain't in there. While the boys go in the yard for some wiffle ball, she gets even more suspicious. Let's see, the so-called event occurred at 2:00 am, giving the Globe ample time to send some reporter down to checkout the police blotter, get the story, write the story, give it to the editors, have it fact-checked in time for printing, and ready to be delivered all within an hour. Yeah. With modern technology, Jayson Blair, Mike Barnacle, and Stephen Glass, no problem. Coulda been a featcha in that amount of time!

Even in times like these, there is always room for a good Catholic rite, and we get the First Communion [in October?] of one of Sean's (Jimmy's) other daughters by his second wife, Annabeth (Linney). As in The Godfather, Catholic murder mysteries usually feature someone getting killed during the ceremony. While nothing happens during this one, there is evidence of a crime in the vicinity, and it just happens to be the one that was called in on 911. Even though the crime scene already has scores of city/state public servants on the job (more than responded to Columbine!), many more siren-screaming cars go roaring by the front of the church. Certainly jittery Sean (Jimmy) just knows something is awry. Cut to the other Sean (Kevin) and his sidekick Whitey (the only recurring black in the film), who get called in on a potential homicide. With more fudging than a Florida presidential election, the "how" these two get selected for the case defies reality even by Hollywood standards. Needless to say, not long after the youngest daughter devours the body of Christ, Sean (Jimmy) himself is on the crime scene with his posse of savage "barking dogs," making more noise than the police hounds. While "the Church" teaches we are different from the "animal kingdom" because of our "souls," tell me these human canines aren't more out of control than a pit bull in a San Francisco apartment building hallway. Apparently, Sean (Jimmy) and his boys intercepted the Red Sox monthly supply of steroids, downed a few, and were able to bully their way through a phalanx of Boston's finest. No arrests? Or is this Irish cronyism in the spirit of Dick Cheney's Halliburton in no-bid Iraq?

This development requires a quick cell call to Sean (Kevin) by a support person, warning him that Sean (Jimmy), upon seeing that his daughter's car is at the center of the crisis, is demanding to see him. In the flash of a pan, Sean (Jimmy) is on him ready to fry Sean's (Kevin's) bacon. How the hell does Sean (Jimmy) even know that Sean (Kevin) got the case? Oops. Why do forlorn people on movies/TV yell at the cops or doctors who are trying to help them as if the helpers were the culprits? Once order has been restored, Katie's lifeless body is found shot and brutally beaten. Fortunately, nothing really bad like sex happened to her. After much shouting and bravado, almost breaking out of his skin in rage, Sean (Jimmy) resigns himself to the horror of losing the daughter who brought him comfort upon his release from gaol so many years ago, who gave him a reason to go straight, and who was his last connection to his deceased first love/wife. That scene of resignation in the morgue is Penn's best moment. Yes, bratty Sean (Jimmy), turned into criminal Sean (Jimmy), who became con Sean (Jimmy), who is transformed into ex-con Sean (Jimmy). Or is he? The old gang sure snaps-to as if no time was lost at all. And more nasty little secrets continue to emerge as the story goes along. The enigma begins to reveal itself.

The investigation teams are full-speed-ahead. Team one consists of Sean (Kevin) and Whitey (the black guy). Team two consists of Sean (Jimmy) and the Savage brothers, who seemingly have nothing else to do. In a race to the finish, these two teams show how many legal and illegal methods of interrogation they have in (Boston) common. A lot. Of course, John Ashcroft and his minions have embraced that duplicitous practice for the past two years as well. Be that as it may, through dedicated hard work by both teams, shards of the puzzle begin to coalesce into a mirror. We just need to be patient until the killer's face is reflected.

Evidently, in another coincidence that doesn't pass the harbor fish stink test, Celeste is the cousin of Annabeth, who is sister to the Savage brothers, who were part of Sean (Jimmy's) crew before he married Annabeth. This entire neighborhood is so incestuous as to be illegal. Anyway, Dave and Celeste stay the day to help the Markums with the pre-funeral festivities. There are more didactic dialogs on this grim wake-filled day than flutters on a Tim Wakefield knuckleball. Dave and Sean (Jimmy) rekindle their friendship on the porch in an emotional moment before Dave goes home to regale his son with tales from the crypt as a nighty-night sleep potion.

The detectives ascertain that Brendan and Katie were leaving town together. While questioning Brendan at the Harris home, the killers (unknown to us at this time), "Silent" Ray and his buddy, John O'Shea, casually stroll in past the cops without a hint of nervousness. Puleeese. They'd be a just tad hincky to say the least. It's hard to say which seems longer: the search for the perp[s] or waiting for Sean (Kevin's) strange estranged wife to speak. I'm surprised detective Devine didn't have "Silent" Ray Harris Jr. try to have a conversation with his cat-tongue-strung wife. With last rites but not the funeral behind us, we have time to consider clues and the clueless. Devine goes home for phone non-sex and takes an old photo nostalgia trip. Another manic Monday put to rest.

On Tuesday, the detectives take a walk with Dave, the last man to see Katie alive, inquiring about timelines. Dave lies. Powers is suspicious. After a coffee chat, Powers and Devine go to the Markums' where they happen upon dependable Dave doing errands. Powers asks Dave about his swollen hand. Dave lies. Powers gets more suspicious. Devine asks Celeste - still helping Annabeth - what time Dave got home "that night." Celeste, "Why, do you think Dave did it?" as she rushes off. "I don't know. I was asleep." When Sean (Jimmy) is told by detectives about Katie's plans with Brendan Harris, he suspects the kid immediately because "the apple never falls far from the tree." Wow! All that wisdom without a college degree (as Ian Faith, manager of Spinal Tap once revealed, "Boston's not a big college town anyway"). Markum's assumption is based on another backstory about a perfidious partner/neighbor, "Just" Ray Harris, whom, he alleges, he "never liked." Sean (Jimmy) intimates that he may have to "take care of things."

The detectives catch a break from ballistics with a gun match. It was used in a robbery 18 years prior. Top suspect: Just Ray. Not convicted of that, Just Ray goes on to bigger things until he disappears 2 months after ex-con Markum was released from prison. This "coincidence" is later revealed by a Fed who never acted on the obvious. Our government at work. They got [sic] better things to do, like arrest terminally ill patients with pot in California, and, after all, "boys will be boys." J. Edgar Hoover sure set a high standard for ethics.
Celeste comes home to find Dave watching a vampire movie. A conversation out of The X-Files ensues, and Celeste is scared. Dave goes for a walk to clear his head. She now believes DAve did it. She bases her "logical" beliefs on the timing of Katie's death, and the "fact" that the mugger Dave beat never gets in the paper. Oh, and because the police are asking questions. The only thing left is to imagine what his motivation might be. Oops. What the hell was demonized Dave doin' with this neurotic paranoiac spouse anyway? She takes their son to a motel. Dave strolls by Sean's (Jimmy's) and tells him Katie was happy when he last saw her at McGills. Still bonding.

Detective Powers clings to the hunch that Dave is Katie's killer, based on clinical psychology 101 theories about personality traits and background. To him, Dave is a "classic case." All Sergeant Powers is missing is evidence and motive. Did Katie cut Dave? Did she even carry a switchblade? Wouldn't she have Dave's blood on her? For Powers's theory to work, he would have to believe that Dave lay in wait on the road causing her to pull to the curb, that he shot her, that she cut him, that he chased her carrying a gun and a hockey stick, shot her again, and then clubbed her with the hockey stick. Whew! Dave was a baseball player; wouldn't he have used a bat? Dave's hand injury is not consistent with crime scene assessments. Was Dave's DNA found on her face? Yet, Powers also suspects Devine, who doesn't agree with this absurd analysis, of not doing his job, based on neighborhood loyalties. Devine counters that he is not a friend of Dave's and that they should follow the gun. Powers stubbornly continues pursuing Dave as the prime suspect.

So, with these rocket scientist's theories of evolution and the death of Katie based on nothing admissible, even in a Pickering court of law, woeful Wednesday begins. When Devine gets to work, Powers is all excited about having Dave's car and blood samples. Devine gags, but Dave is already in the interview room. In a case of good cop/bad cop gone awry, Dave whips their behinds, leaving the pros in the lurch and Dave Spriteless. Brendan's next up in the batter's box. Powers and Devine want to know about his dad's gun. Brendan denies its existence. Devine gets irate but eventually releases him. Finally, after a box of "evidence and stuff" gets put on the table, Sean (Kevin) finds a clue gleaned from the 911 call, which started the ball rolling down the gutter drain in the first place. The one no one listened to in the haste of trying to please Sean (Jimmy).

In the meantime, Sean (Jimmy) receives the Savage report claiming law enforcement is "doing a good job for once" and that detectives will find the killer. Sean (Jimmy) still likes Brendan as the killer, but the Savages say no way. They confide that uniformed cops picked up Dave in a marked police unit earlier in the morning and put him in the back seat. Sean (Jimmy) gets a bad feeling.

We now enter a parallel universe. One based in facts, the other in fiction. Brendan searches the "secret hiding place" for the old man's gun. It's gone. He puts two and two together and realizes the killers are his kid brother Ray Jr. and Jr.'s pal John O'Shea. He waits at home for their return with mom conveniently "out." Sean (Kevin) simultaneously breaks the case as well. This time he has it all: a potential murder weapon, a phone tape, blood types, and motivation. As the "gods of fate" would have it, Mr. Sean (Jimmy) Street Smarts gets a visit from sniveling Celeste, stating her conclusion to him, rather than to the cops, that Dave did it. Is it because Sean (Jimmy) is the alpha-male of the neighborhood? Now seer Sean (Jimmy) knows what happened. No evidence, no motivation, no Nomah, no nothing but innuendo. The sign of a true leader. Just like Bush and his Administration's case against Iraq. Intelligence? What intelligence?

And like the Bush gang, Sean's (Jimmy's) gang is ready for revenge, damn the facts. And like the Bush gang, the plebes are used to set up the supposed evil incarnate. Sean's (Jimmy's) gang cajoles Dave - how soon he forgets - to get into their old car. We get a glimpse of his head, like a bobble-head baseball doll, in the rear window as they drive off. Gee, where have we seen that before? Not only that, but jobless Dave offers to buy the first round. What a guy! After the Savages ply him with liquor, Sean (Jimmy) makes an appearance, clacking across the wood floor in cowboy boots like David Carradine's Bill in Tarantino's latest gash fest. The heads are all backlit just like in Kill Bill as well. Of course, if Quentin had done this film, he would have used "Dirty Water" by the Standells, since the River Charles is just down stream a wee bit, and not the pretentious pomp - ready for Oscar background music - supplied by Mr. Eastwood. He also would have shot up a box of Flutie Flakes at the Harris home simultaneously with this bar scene.

But I digress. As the drinks flow, you sense that doe-eyed Dave is caught in the headlights of fate once again. Bottles of Wild Turkey are consumed, but no food is served, even though it was promised. These Irish boys can really pound 'em down, can't they? Many hours later - who knows, but it goes from broad daylight to pitch black in mid-October (still on DST), after they have been gulping down shot after shot at a rate that would kill even these diehards, Dave staggers out to use the shore of the Mystic for his own personal barf bag. This is the moment of "truth." Salem-style with a slight variation. Named for a town not far from Boston, and still in Massachusetts, the Salem method of fact-finding consisted of tossing an accused witch into the water. If she floated, she was deemed guilty and burned at the stake. If she sank to the bottom and drowned, she was innocent. Either way, she was dead. The Lord works in mysterious ways. Kind of like Ashcroft in Guantanamo. In the modern Markum version, a suspect is allowed one of two choices: admit guilt and "live", or lie and die. Dave is about to make the wrong right choice.

Cut to the fact-based world. Silent Ray and John O'Shea arrive at the Harris home. After an intense interrogation, Brendan delivers a double beatin' to the boys with a possessed fury. Fortunately, Powers and Devine arrive at the Harris household in the nick of time to save Brendan, who forgot to figure that the kids still had the gun. Ostensibly, with nothing in their revealed backgrounds indicating such malevolence, they turn into cold killers on the dime. Were they preparing for an elephantine Columbine moment at Boston Public? Once the lads are subdued, everyone is safe, and the case is closed, right? Not. Needless to say, this important factual information is too late to save Dave from his fate and a date with destiny.

While the kerfuffle is occurring at the Harrises' home, editor Joel Cox cuts back to the riverbank where ol' drunk Dave keeps maintaining his innocence and coughs up that he actually killed a wolf (child molester) at the same time as Katie's demise. This is unacceptable to obdurate Sean (Jimmy), who reasons that it would be silly not to have told the truth about that in the first place because "who would care about a child molester getting killed anyway." [Unless it's a priest; then ya just transfer 'em to another parish -Bernard's Law] As Dave pleads for his life, Sean (Jimmy) remembers that "God" wasn't overly concerned when he administered justice to Just Ray all those years back, departs from the Bush doctrine, and actually has the guts to gut poor Dave himself. Even so, he needs a gang and weapons. Funny how some of these cowardly alpha-males need so much help to get their way. This time Dave gets lucky. He's only being stabbed and shot to death. Not sexually violated. What a relief! Unfortunately, in another continuity mishap, none of the gang appears very drunk. I guess killin' is a sobering deed indeed. Fade to white noise.

Dénouement, s'il vous plaît. We still have time (in this 2:17 saga) for Sean (Jimmy) to contemplate whether he in fact is a natural born killer, if he was in some small way responsible for Katie's death, and if he is going to return to "the life" now that his savior (Katie) is dead. In a rare moment for an Irish stereotype, Sean (Jimmy) is stinkin' drunk, sittin' on a street curb, when Sean (Kevin) brings him the good tidings about finding the actual killers. Sean (Kevin) tells Sean (Jimmy) that the police needed to talk to Dave, who's gone missing, about another murder, that of a convicted pedophile, and does Sean (Jimmy) know where he is? With a grasp and squeeze on the shoulder, Sean (Jimmy) confides in Sean (Kevin), "If only you had solved the case faster." Of course Sean (Kevin) deduces what happened to Dave, yet does nothing but shake his head and make a crack about possible future payments to the widow Boyle, allowing Sean (Jimmy) to see that the detective is wise to the Just Ray murder and monthly payments he makes to Mrs. Harris (via an address in faraway Brooklyn - much too far for Brendan to go in search for his dad…).

Cue the marching band. Back in his bedroom, gazing out the window, Sean (Jimmy) wells up with Weltschmerz, and seems conflicted with Catholic conundrums. Just when you thought Annabeth would reel him back into the state of grace, - band goes quiet - she delivers a fatuous soliloquy about him "doin' what needed to be done and that he is a reliable king for their daughters to look up to." And that it made her hot! Just like cousin Celeste after she learned Dave may have killed someone. Finally, it is time for Pope-approved, authentic sex within a loving marriage between a man and a woman and "God," the way it was meant to be. Holy Begorrah!

After the climax, Sean (Jimmy) and the wife are down on the street in time to enjoy the wicked good parade [the one temporarily suspended to give them time to have the heart-to-heart, sex, a shower, and to dress] for the whole neighborhood, featuring the Boston U. marching band. But no players from the unWorld Champion Red Sox. Only Dave's kid, and he's bummed. No more wiffle ball. His mommy, desperate Celeste, is bummed. As in Judas priest bummed. Moll doll Annabeth sneers at cousin Celeste from across the street with a look of contempt for the fact that Celeste basically ordered a contract on her own husband. The band is still playing marching tunes, but not Twisted Sister. Sean's (Jimmy's) not bummed; he took care of business, got laid, and got the town back under control. No more of Dave's malaise to hang over the 'hood like a cloud of guilt. Sins buried and washed clean! Sean (Kevin) is not bummed. Case solved, no more Dave's malaise for him either, and the wife not only speaks but returns with his baby from New York in time for the parade in the old neighborhood as well. Oh boy. Everybody loves a parade. The hope of a brand new day. Bang Bang. Wink Wink. Spicoli-like situational moral moment. Surely these kids won't repeat the sins of the fathers. Or will they? The passing parade of life moves toward the river. One last glance at the sidewalk block of names. How many more bodies can the Mystic River hold, anyway? The whole Red Sox team plus Don Zimmer? Fade to credits.

Inferences/Conclusions

There is nothing new here, just a superficial look at clichéd stereotypes. Since Lehane claims on the official website that he is satisfied with the result of the screenplay and film, I have to question those who praised the book or question Lehane's judgment in his appraisal of the film. The result is more like a melodramatic made-for-TV soap called "Angela's Neighborhood," celebrating a miserably myopic worldview.

Let's examine the body count, implausibilities, and possible implications. Two young boys, who are friends, murder Katie. One, Silent Ray, has the possible motive: potentially losing his loving big brother/mentor/substitute father to Katie. Yet, we are to believe that he bludgeoned her head with a hockey stick at 1:30 am, called 911 from a pay phone at around 6:00 am to alert authorities as to the location of her car, went into the store where she worked with her father, casually strolling around the store with his hockey stick before 8:00 am, and ate with his family at 9:00 am. Sounds far-fetched for a child with arrested development and without the disposition to act on the jealous urge or thirst for revenge. Even so, the official explanation is that the killing is pure happenstance - wrong place/wrong time. Just kids out in the wee hours with a Heston-approved gun playing lie-in-the-street-and-see-if-we-can-get-a-motorist-to-pull-over-and-scare-'em. After she says "hi," Ray's buddy O'Shea points the gun at her; it accidentally goes off, wounding her shoulder. She opens and slams the door against O'Shea and runs into the park. This pisses off the boys, who chase her. O'Shea shoots her again while Silent Ray slashes her with the hockey stick so she won't tell. Sure thing! This tale is taller than the Green Monster at Fenway.

We are led to believe that Sean (Jimmy) is a real sharp guy with an uncanny ability to see the truth in people. After pouring out his heart to Dave on his porch and sharing another Katie moment with him on his stoop, how could he possibly believe that Dave would have killed his daughter and been so genuinely consoling at the same time? Did Sean (Jimmy) really believe avenging her death by killing anyone, much less downtrodden Dave, to be what Katie would have wanted? Did that act honor her memory? Was Dave the living dead (a vampire) in the years following the ineffable crime he suffered as a youth and merely transmuted into a more ethereal world at the hand of Sean (Jimmy)? Was despondent Dave depressed because his abductors/rapists were not clergy, disallowing him from claiming any of the big bucks dished out by the Boston Archdioceses? Did he commit self-patricide because of his poor matrimonial choice? Did his first, truthful confession to Sean (Jimmy) absolve him, readying him for heaven? Did his coerced, dishonest confession re-doom his soul? As he says, "Dave died 25 years ago." Was his physical killing OK because Dave himself was a murderer? Did it save the courts time and money? Would he have been declared innocent by reason of insanity? Was he merely put out of his misery? Isn't euthanasia against "the Church's" teachings? Would the death penalty be redundant? Would George W. ("Have the trial and execute him" -12/15 re: Saddam Hussein) Bush pull the switch if he were the governor? Okay, Massachusetts ain't Texas or Iraq, still…

At this point, for all the mayhem, what we basically have is a complex, extended family feud. Cue Phil Ochs's "Small Circle of 'Friends'." But what about the man in the car with a blade and a blade? Was he entitled to consensual sex? Even if he paid for it? Should that be a crime? Or does keeping the act "immoral," thus illegal, make it more exciting for the local clergy? Was Dave justified in his indiscriminate vigilantism even though his tormentors, Henry and George, were long gone? The killing didn't seem to make Dave feel better. He even had to lie to his own wife and friends, who would have understood. The cops didn't really care, did they? Wink.

What about the psychological damage to all involved in this incestuous clan? Is Sean (Jimmy) going back to prison? If not, are his Irish eyes really smilin' with the death of his beloved Katie on his head? If so, will Annabeth remain loyal to her king, and will his other daughters be served by his serving time? Were the Markums marked by their parents and their parents before them and the whole damn Celtic clan before them? Do we care? Should we care? Why?

Mrs. Boyle is a wreck - damaged goods. Too neurotic and creepy to ever re-marry anyone of substance. Will she have the backbone to testify against Sean (Jimmy) if Sean (Kevin) proceeds with the investigation of Dave's murder? Will she admit her culpability in the deed? No matter, it leaves the Boyle boy in deep trouble and predisposed to carry the sins of his father, and those that harmed his father 25 years ago. The cycle rolls on into the next Pepsi generation. Doomed.

Will detective Devine's marriage rebound? Nothing's really changed. He's still married to the "Staties." A baby doesn't usually help a troubled marriage. And he still has to deal with Sean (Jimmy) regarding the murders of Just Ray and Dave. His chances of success and happiness are about as good as the Soxes'. Check the odds with the local Irish bookie or Pete Rose.

Habitual imbiber Mrs. Harris is already a haunted shell of a person. Will Silent Ray be tried as a minor or given a major game-misconduct for high-sticking? Brendan will undeservedly suffer in purgatory for the rest of his life, dreaming of what might have been. He is the lone soul who makes us feel loss. He will miss Katie far more than Sean (Jimmy) will miss her, and he has the intuition to know he probably lost the love of his life. And he loses his little brother as well.

Brendan's mistake (along with Katie's) was a belief in the fallacy that they could "escape" the neighborhood. Indoctrinated, ingrained people usually don't change when they move to recreate themselves. They mostly just add to the sprawl of the new area. Just like their ancestors brought some of the "troubles" with them from Eire. Real change comes from within. Evolution is slow. And if they were truly courageous, wouldn't they stay and try to change the ethno-centric enclave for the better? If all the best and brightest leave for greener pastures, don't they leave behind the worst and the blightest? What hope have they? Poorer blacks moving in? Upscale gays with grandiose plans of gentrification? All bad signs for "the Church."

Ah yes, "the Church." I'm surprised that Donohue's Catholic League didn't condemn this film for its ugly, stereotypical portrayal of lower-middle-class - the promo says "working-class," but no one seems to work except the cops, and a grocery clerk between ciggie breaks - Irish Catholics. The majority, as portrayed here, are murderers, accessories to murder, thieves, clannishly corrupt, heavy drinkers, and commit many other sins of immorality except for the most heinous sin of all: extra-marital sex. [Maybe that explains the reluctance by conservative Catholics to criticize] I found no evidence of complaint by any media arms of the church. Where are Paddy and the Knights of Columbus? Perhaps preparing for the next parade. What does passionate Mel Gibson think? The Independent Catholic News even gave the film a favorable review, saying that it deals with moral compunctions in an adult and reflective way. Holy Redeemer!

Maybe if Lehane, Helgeland, and Eastwood had had the chutzpah to investigate the real tragedy within this story, Donohue would have issued the call to arms. The core of this irrational tale of emotional excess lies at the door of "the Church" itself, with its own foundation built on an irrational idea spread by violence in an unfettered lust for power and control. Starting with the obedient Dave blindly responding to authority as well as recalcitrant Jimmy rejecting it.
"God" forbid that any person with the power of Mr. Eastwood would make a sound judgment and sanction rational thinking in the face of an Eiger-like mount made up of the majority of "true believers." Indoctrination of school kids by the Catholic Church or any other cult should be illegal in this country. The mystification of sex and the celebration of violence in the blood of Christ contribute to the hypocritical secrets and lies, which keep a community like this in the continuum of mental morass and clinical depression. The psychological damage inflicted by these coercive religions is far worse than most coercive sexual "[ab]use." Jacko bad - war good! Catholic Valenti's MPAA gives an NC-17 rating (limited distribution) for sex-related honesty, and the R rating (maximum distribution) for violence, mayhem and killing. Delusion marches on.

You need go no further than the small screen to bear witness to such prevarication exhibited by "convenient" Catholic media blowhards like imperious, sanctimonious Bill O'Reilly, Leprechaun Sean Hannity, pugilist Patrick J. Buchanan, gambling-addicted gastronomic glutton William J. Bennett, quiet Chris Matthews, converted self-loathing Jew, droolin' Robert Novak, smilin' Kate O'Beirne, intellectually and emotionally crippled Charles Krauthammer, Buffalo Tim Russert, et al. Add self-righteous Drug Czar John Walters, as well as inane politicians like Rick Santorum (R-PA) who should be in a sanitarium rather than the U.S. Senate, the four papists on the Supreme Court perverting national elections, and you have a callous cabal of ugly control freaks bent on destroying the best instincts of humanity. People like these shouldn't be allowed to breed, thus ensuring the betterment of mankind, by decreasing the quantity of life while increasing the quality of life, creating a win-win situation. Even the Bosox would be victorious!

The purveyors of this story choose instead to be meek, Dave-like observers of travesty, offering no wisdom, no hope, no ideas. The truth is, all involved are just slumming it for our amusement. The film's bathos seems an attempt to inveigle audience pathos. We get to feel superior.

How many of the types of people featured in the film can/will pony up $10 to see a film like Mystic River? This film is an example of Hollywood elites exposing what lies beneath the slagheap that is the foundation of corporate America and globalization. I wonder if the filmmakers will return in 25 years to see what happens to the kids of the Boyle, Markum, and Devine families when there are no more blue-collar jobs, and their "faith" still instructs them to overpopulate, keeping the balance of economic power in the hands of those on top. Those in the tall towers and well-maintained landmarks across the harbor. Those who summer in Hyannis.

While viewing this movie is no tea party, not all is bad. The camera work by Tom Stern is superb. Consummate craftsman Henry Bumstead has created a canvas filled with enough authenticity and intrinsic beauty that it could hang in the Louvre. Unfortunately, (Lehane?), Helgeland, Eastwood, and most of the lead cast have cluttered it with stick figures that are more apropos for a pencil game of Hangman. In the old days, Sergio Leone could have counseled Eastwood on what to do with these characters. "Hang 'em high!" I don't mind if the producers walk away with a fistful of dollars; I just don't think they deserve to walk away with any Oscars, with the exception of Mr. Bumstead. It would be as ridiculous as the absurd victories by Ron "Hollywood" Howard's crowd-pleasing messterpiece, A Beautiful Mind. And that would be a real tragedy.

Critics

Why are the overwhelming majority of critics so highly favorable of this Hollywood hash? As most critics are wont to do, they show off their academic background consisting of: English Lit, Philosophy, Western Culture, Drama, and Film History 101 in an attempt to draw profound conclusions by espousing extravagant extrapolations that this film is a metaphor for all America and a tragedy grandfathered by the Greeks. It's "not just a police procedural, it's so much more." They eschew plausibility problems as non-essential to the "real" story, which is a "jingoistic journey into America's entanglement with the endless cycle of violence and revenge, child abuse, and loyalty." What embarrassing balderdash! Their huzzahs are more like the come-on of junket junkies begging for more filmic OxyContin, or an attempt to convince themselves they've found a diamond in a rough year of films so lacking in choice content, that even the French are exporting beaucoup de garbaage. But this film is an emperor without clothes. A false god not to be worshipped. A Yankee Clipper with no masts. A 73-year-old man without Viagra…

"It's the little things that make the case," implores detective Devine. If only the screenwriter had heeded that message. Deconstruction of the story illustrates that more details go missing in the plot than enemies of Jimmy go missing in the river. Even the production notes on the official website are littered with mistakes. Journalistic errors abound in every major review, most of which are as fictional as East Buckingham. It would seem more difficult to invent a review than to actually report what's on the screen. So why did these critics make the process more difficult for themselves? Why is logic and attention to detail important - it's only a movie? Because sloppy reporting and poor deductive reasoning contribute to our lack of quality political leadership. We need to hold the best accountable, even master filmmakers. They influence people. As do the critics, who, unfortunately, seem content to glide over the surface of the emotional effluences without delving into the depraved depths of effluent emanating from within this film. Their lack of cogent critical analysis is unfair to filmgoers and to filmmakers alike. It results in raised levels of cynicism and the undeserved promotion of this polluted watershed.

Yet, there are a few critics who panned this film. Why weren't they engaged? Ironically, Eastwood's spaghetti screen persona would've endorsed our position: The few against the many. But how do you fool the many? I won't name names, as Chicago Reader's Jonathan Rosenbaum and David Walsh do in their tendentious reviews.

Are most intelligent viewers going to catch all the errors in logic and contrived coincidences on one viewing? Probably not, and neither did any of the "cream of the crop" critics found via Web portal Rotten Tomatoes. It is no longer valid to let the devilish details go unnoticed in today's digital domain, because a DVD can be played over and over and dissected with ease. Filmmakers no longer have the luxury of playing loose with logic in a serious film. Mystic River is not meant for the Sci-Fi channel with its wide berth for suspended disbelief. It needs to pass coherent, tangible muster. It doesn't.

Despite the film's many flaws, most intelligent viewers I query say they enjoyed it. While they embrace the characters as portrayed, most weren't sure about the murder investigation sequences, just as Eastwood hoped. Their intellects were suspended while their emotions were engaged. Hocus-pocus. Yet, no one I spoke with admits to feeling anything. While a Hollywood master has fooled filmgoers, he doesn't inspire them to think deep thoughts or feel deep pangs. Are media elites reveling in seeing smart rich people playing stupid poor people? Implying that base emotion should rule over logic? And that one incident of forced sex should be the seminal event in one's life and an overwhelming reason to be depressed and violence-prone forever?

The overuse of inapplicable hyperbolic terms by most mainstream critics is especially disingenuous. The following are the most prevalent:

"Sean Penn is perfect." Yes. At being Sean Penn. Not much acting necessary. Dismissals of this film over Penn's politics by phony patriots are not to be given any credence. Still, this role is not a true test of his fine talent. If you want to see the year's most extraordinary male performance, rent or buy the excellent, underrated, sparsely exhibited film, Owning Mahowny, featuring Philip Seymour Hoffman. As an added bonus, he's actually working with a sharply written script.

Most critics use the term "powerful" to describe the hamstrung thespian theatrics and phony emotional manipulations. Did they feel legitimate emotion, or do they think you should feel it? Did they get angry or cry? If so, during which scene[s]? If this delusive dreck is powerful, what hyper adjectives do you use for actual powerful film experiences including: Full Metal Jacket, Billy Budd, The Deer Hunter, Schindler's List, and Apocalypse Now to name but a scant few? This sad year alone offers many films that are more genuinely powerful and heartfelt, including Whale Rider, Dirty Pretty Things, Gloomy Sunday, and Blue Car, as well as the Irish-themed The Magdalene Sisters and the largely panned Veronica Guerin. The violence is far more authentic in The Cooler and Irreversible. There is even one scene each in both Bubba Ho-Tep and A Mighty Wind [primarily comedies] that have more moving poignancy than any in this cold mist. But, the real power this year comes in the form of documentaries: Capturing the Friedmans, The Revolution Will Not Be Televised [Irish made], and the most relevant, important film of the year, The Fog of War [about an Irish-American]. And even though it's a Warners' release, Mystic River plays more like another "critic's choice," the vacuous, vapid All the Real Girls, a lame indie released earlier this year.

Too many use the word "masterpiece." Careless, lazy usage of terms like that does everyone a disservice. It's not Mr. Eastwood's masterpiece by a long shot, much less on a par with the likes of real masterpieces like Citizen Kane, Casablanca, Lawrence of Arabia, 2001, and more than 1000 others from around the world. It shouldn't make anyone's best 20 list in this fallow year alone. No wonder the press ranks so low on the list of trusted professions. Calling this a masterpiece is like paying a career .230 hitter $10 million-a-year. Perspective anyone?

Many have called Mystic River a great "American" film. Bush's America? American in that it implies violence is inevitable? In America is a great American film. It also deals with the difficulties of the Irish Catholic working poor. But it soars, while Mystic River sinks. No doubt, the intent of Mystic River is to address issues of higher purpose than popular American blow-em-up-real-good kiddie porn like Kill Bill, Matrix Overloaded, Texas Chainsaw Revisited ad nauseam. Unfortunately, the spotty writing is over-matched by the fine production qualities in much the same way as these popcorn movies, resulting in beautiful noise. This film, represents that larger issue. That is the great imbalance between the writing and the production in American-made films today. Screenwriting is plunging toward its nadir, while craftsmanship and technology are approaching their zenith. The talent of the crew is overpowering the talent of the screenwriter. The sword has become mightier than the pen [or Penn]. Just ask Uma, Tom, or Sir Ian Gandalf.

Are critics so jaded by the obvious examples of this Hollywood reality, that they are too quick to jump on the bandwagon in support of a film like Mystic River, which upon sober reflection, contains many of the same traits as these lesser films? Is it too hard for them to find any real gems to champion this year? Are they therefore willing to settle for less, because the right names are attached? At first glance, this does look like a well-made indie, delving into hard-to-look-at human behaviour. That it has Hollywood polish and panache seems a bonus. However, under closer scrutiny, this film tries to have it both ways and comes up with a net of nil.

A few of the "deeper" critics have expressed appreciation for Eastwood's ambivalence about the ambiguous ending, citing it as further evidence of his conscious growth regarding the subject of violence in America. They believe that denial of a neat, moral, happy ending adds complexity, while also proffering art, truth, and a realistic view of the pitiless world we inhabit. Pompous poppycock. Actually, the resolution is a simple-minded perpetuation of the good vs. evil, us vs. them, with-us-or-agin-us mantra that persists in America's unilateral political policies. The "grayishness" of the final scene is not artistic ambivalence; rather, it is lazy, old-fashioned cliché. "I'm gonna bring you down, punk." "Come and get me, copper." It is about an easy out, not profundity. A "moral" ending is not necessary, but an intelligent resolution is preferred.

Some critics are turned around that the native West Coast Eastwood would adapt an East Coast novel, give it a Western flavor, and bring Hollywood Eastward. Many prattle on about his maturation and his evolving intellect. These are erroneous observations. As evidenced by this film, he is a man of action, not of ideas. While he can produce highly entertaining films, he remains a man more aptly described as "intellectual lite."

Considering all of this, how can so many savvy arbiters of filmic tastes be so wrong-headed? Did they suspend their own intellects, dismissing plot contrivances and hollow characters as insignificant? If the misguided reviews on this film influence the Academy voters in any way, that would indicate incestuous relationships in Hollywood not unlike the many found in either this fictional Boston neighborhood or the ones between corporations like Enron, their Wall Street bankers & accountants, and our current quid pro quo system of government. If this film wins "Best Picture," most critics and members of the Academy should be unforgiven. Mr. Eastwood and this esteemed cast deserve our adulation and appreciation for countless contributions to enriching our lives through films. Hollywood Films. Just not for this one.

BlackNotes:

I subscribe to the notion that a film is a film and a book is a book, and they are completely different media. If they happen to tell similar stories, so be it. I have always turned a deaf ear to the critic or viewer who complains, "The book is better," and, "The movie ruins the story." People who make these statements are usually avid readers who enjoy the book first and see movies as secondary entertainment. I judge a film based on its own merit, not on its source.

But the storyline in this film is such a disconnect, and the book so highly acclaimed, that I couldn't reconcile the vast abyss separating the two. So, even though I am not a novel reader - the last one I read was Catcher in the Rye for the third time back in 1991, I felt compelled to purchase Lehane's paperback. I needed to see what the filmmakers did with the book, creating this seeming discrepancy in what I saw on screen and what the book reviewers experienced. Reading the novel is a revelation. It answers many of the questions posed in my film analysis and changes some of the assumptions. But rather than change that analysis with the new-found data, I will let it stand as written and address the book/film relationship here, maintaining the separation of film and book. That should keep the ACLU off my back. But I will cross the bridge here and compare the two, pros and cons.

Book

Pros and Cons, while antonyms for analytical purposes, are synonymous in the lexicon of the street featured in this book's genre. I will not attempt to invade Mr. Lehane's domain. I haven't read many of the book reviews and will not try to add to their number. Here's my short take:

Cons
First and foremost is plausibility. The biggest problem is the murder of Katie. Facts given: Brendan shares a room with Ray. He's home from 9:00 pm until 9:00 am. He says he fell asleep about 3:00 am, goes with Ray to the Cottage store before 8:00 am, and has breakfast with mom and Ray about 9:00 am. Yet, Ray is out at 1:30 am killing Katie with his hockey stick and calling 911 before 6:00 am from a pay phone. Huh? At 13, he goes where he wants in the middle of the night without Brendan knowing? Ray & Johnny walk in on the cops interviewing Brendan at the Harris home without missing a step? If these kids are that callous, why did they call 911 at all? And how did Ray find the gun? This whole scenario seems a conceit of contrivance and a con job on the reader. I don't buy any glib implicating shrug "that's the way the Columbine vidiot kids of today are" attitude. Since this murder is the core of the book that ties all the families together in the modern day in the same way Dave's abduction does throughout, it's important that the timeline and context make chronological sense.

Considering the toughness of the neighborhood, Dave's childhood experience pales when compared to the murders, deaths by preventable disease, and the tedious drone of everyday life in the Flats. Put into perspective, based on a real-life incident, consider the case of Elizabeth Smart. She was abducted and sexually used for more than nine months, far longer than 4 days. She was a few years older than Dave when abducted but from a much more exclusive neighborhood where crime occurs far less, making the impact far greater given the weight of the circumstances. Rather than haunt her, and contrary to the opine whine of Bill O'Reilly (who was adverse to the TV movie based on the incident for fear it would stigmatize her even further), she was angry that she wasn't considered for the role of playing herself. Of course her already wealthy Mormon family cashed in on the movie rights and the uncles have book deals. Reality is stranger than fiction.

Another quibble is that sometimes Lehane puts a word that is too complex into a character's mouth or references to obscure historical facts into their discussions. Other character unevenness occurs with Jimmy, called a strategic genius by the cops and the cons alike. Why doesn't he pursue a higher calling than spa owner? Why doesn't he own a home? He is touted for his uncanny ability to intuit the truth yet doesn't know whom his own daughter is dating, that she is blowing town, or that Dave is telling the truth on the shore of the Mystic. Also, that he has knowledge of the incident at the Last Drop while ignoring Dave's referrals to it in his confession.

The book is written in a rambling style, crosscutting characters and ideas with flashbacks and ruminations that gets a bit much at times. It belabors some points, taking away from the flow of the whole story. But that's about it. Two major plot problems, some character inconsistencies, and a bit of needed editing.

Pros
The novel takes you into a complicated world with florid detail and intimacy, sharing richly thought-out insights into what makes people tick. For the most part, Lehane's characters are multi-dimensional and alive. There is a balance between the amusement of everyday observations with the darkness of the deeds perpetrated by and upon the characters presented. The story's complexities are handled in a way that allows the reader to follow the storylines and personality threads without too much effort, although careless reading could cause confusion.

While Lehane presents many stereotypical characters, he breathes some intelligence into their heads and allows them leeway to break the binds of those stereotypes, keeping the reader interested all the way to the end, far beyond the conclusion of the murder mystery. Overall, it's a nice read and it slips in some astute insights about life to which anyone can relate. It might even get me to read a novel more than once in a decade. When I get some time between movies.

Book vs. Film

There are so many differences that I could spend at least another 5 pages listing and discussing the effect of each one. I won't. I'll just include the most important:

Hollywood Inventions (in the movie, not in the book): Scene of road rage on the Tobin bridge. This was based on a short background story that wasn't important but it gave Eastwood a chance to give visual perspective from over the Mystic and over "East Bucky." The concrete slab with the names. In the book, they merely scratched it with sticks. The abductors showed up when Jimmy and Sean were rolling around fighting in the street. The movie needed a "touchstone" to represent the three friends, provide a flashback moment for Dave, and to artily imply that DAve lived an unfinished childhood/life. Some wags speculate that the DA was purposely used because it is the Irish expression for father, which Dave didn't have. What say you, Mulder & Scully?

Hollywood License (movie changes to the book): Book: Jimmy's dad was fired and not present the day of the abduction. Film: He's there. Book: the present-day story takes place one week in May. Film: it's October. Book: Jimmy's last name is Marcus. Film: Markum. Book: Whitey Powers is a stocky 50-something Caucasian from the old school (Sean and Whitey go so far as to figure that Brian Dennehy would play him in the film - I kid you not!). Film: a politically correct man of color used to balance the cast and be the butt of a Clint insider joke. Also, Sean is given some of Whitey's best lines. By allowing Penn to go over the top at the crime scene of Katie's death and by leaving her in a ravine instead of a small indoor space as in the book, we lose the genuine emotion felt reading the book. Book: Katie gives her dad (Jimmy) a peck on the cheek. Film: a sensuous groping. Book: Theo, the Savage patriarch, is a huge man. Film: a little guy. Dave is only 5'10, 165 lbs. Robbins is 6'5, 225. Film: puts Dave in the back seat of the Savage's car, 2 brothers in front. Book: there is only Val Savage, and Dave rides in the front. Book: ends on Wednesday night - Jimmy kills Dave, then ends up on Gannon street in front of Sean's childhood home in the Point where Dave was abducted, with a bottle in his hand; Sean gets a confession out of the two boys and goes looking for Jimmy, beer in hand, and figures he might be on Gannon where the two hash things out, ending with Sean directly confronting Jimmy and telling him he's going down for the murder of Dave; Jimmy then goes home to Annabeth's soliloquy (in the kitchen, like Celeste's sex scene - not in the bedroom like the movie). This is followed by an epilogue, centered on Jimmy returning to the life of crime and the events of the rest of the week leading up to the annual East Buckingham historical pride parade (held in May) on Sunday (one week after Katie was found dead), which ends on a compassionate, hopeful note. It's a far more realistic and satisfying resolution than that bollixed up, cut & paste job in the film. The movie throws the Jimmy & Sean scene, Annabeth's & Jimmy's chat and consummation, Lauren's return, and the parade [film uses Columbus Day parade in October to be consistent with shooting schedule and autumn colors] into one long, illogical, messy sequence.

Hollywood in Abstention (in the book, not in the movie): The film doesn't explain the difference between the Point and the Flats and the economic difference between Sean (Point) and Jimmy & Dave (the Flats). It doesn't show the opening sequence of Jimmy going down on the subway tracks getting them all in trouble while setting up the day of the abduction and demonstrating how wild yet calculating Jimmy is. It doesn't explain that Sean was on probation the week before being handed the case, or anything about his wife Lauren or their background as a couple. In the book, Lauren is a viable character. The film doesn't show the white brass of the State Troopers and the insightful discussions held on the scene of the crime. The book shows Sean visiting his parents and a telling, intelligent discussion between Sean and his dad. It provides the parental background of all the main characters, which adds greatly to the understanding of their motivations. Most importantly, missing in the film are the ruminations going on continually within each of the character's minds. This is where Lehane shines. This is where the real writing occurs and why the film is so sorely lacking. A narrator, or other clever device, could have done wonders here. Celeste's character is robbed of all intelligence and balance. She's a fairly insecure and slightly neurotic working wife and mother from a dysfunctional family, but not the complete basket case shown in the film. Besides her regret about how illogical she was in telling Jimmy her doubt about Dave, she attacks him at Katie's wake, accusing him of killing Dave, telling Sean the same at the parade. Even Annabeth is more balanced and nuanced. She is the only daughter with 7 Savage brothers. Her involvement is consistent, not gapped like in the film where her soliloquy appears to come out of left field. The film doesn't show the Last Drop, a seedy dive where both Dave and Katie went after McGills. It's where Dave kills a gay john in the parking lot and where Katie gets harassed by her ex-boyfriend's partner in crime. Many clues in the book are lost on the film. Dave's biggest fear is that he may be a wolf (molester) himself, and that he sorta liked that kind of sex, demonstrating that the stigma attached to under-18 sex comes from a "civilized" society based on religious tenets and not the natural universe. The teenage hustler who was doin' Dave's victim actually enjoys the sex a lot! Also gone missing is most of the epilogue, which adds much clarification to the story and features Jimmy's inner demons, arguments with dead Dave in his mind, his rationalizations, and his determination to take back the town as a manly man. By eliminating the context of the epilogue and the most important parts of the parade, Eastwood misses a perfectly natural dénouement and a satisfying ending. What a waste.

The book is filled with sex. The film is a virgin. The book is filled with racism. The film is politically correct. The book is filled with religious superstitions. The film only hints at the connections. The book is almost real. The film is almost surreal. The book is smart. The film is stupid. The book makes you feel human. The film makes you feel like a vampire. The book is alive. The film is dead. The ending in the book satisfies. The ending in the film disappoints.

I realize that there are time and expense considerations in adapting a fairly lengthy, complex novel for the screen. But it seems to me that a much better adaptation could have been transferred without undue financial impact or adding too much length to the total time elapsed. Eastwood's legendary economy of resources does not serve him or the story well in the making of Mystic River. Lehane disagrees with me, according to an interview he did with Helgeland on NPR recently. He supports (at least publicly) the party line, that the book is too long to transfer directly to screenplay and that Helgeland did a proficient job. I still feel the depth of the story told in the book would support a longer screenplay that would be far superior to the one we see on screen. The book is far more balanced, nuanced, and logical than the film, and any suspect plot plausibility could have been worked out by a good writer. Hell, get James Ellroy to consult.

Conclusions

Lehane's to blame for the main plot contrivance, and for the relative weight given Dave's ordeal, making it the corrosive component of the central theme. But not for the shallow, two-dimensional dregs we see on the screen, or for the lack of context required to make this story work as well as it does in the book. He gives the filmmakers a solid story and structure; therefore a good screenwriter could have fixed the few weaknesses. Lehane also may be guilty of being star-struck by Hollywood's embrace (checkout all the cinematic references in the book - he's almost begging for a movie deal - although he claims to the contrary in the website interview), seeking all the new publicity generated by the film's release, not to mention the fattening of his wallet. I doubt, however, contrary to what he says in that same interview, that deep inside, he is pleased with the abortive butchering done to his baby. I think he realizes on an intellectual level, that he got screwed by this miscalculated Hollywood marriage. His A- book is stripped of most of its inherent intelligence and insights, while being turned into a stylistic, insubstantial C grade film. What a tragedy. He is exonerated of causing most of the problems associated with the screenplay as discussed in my film analysis, as his book covers many of its shortcomings.

After reading the book, I can see why the cast would jump at the chance to play these well-written characters. Despite their critical acclaim in the film, they must be sorry that their characters were grossly stripped of context and depth by the screenplay/editing. For whichever reason, they can't be satisfied. There is nothing more the cast could do, given the script.

Helgeland/Eastwood can't be separated by me for all the individual decisions made to abridge and change the story, especially the context. Together, they did a mostly copy & paste job, to the extent that I wonder if Lehane turned over his word processing document to them, making it easier for them to distill the novel into what they considered the gist of the story. But without the details and context, the screenplay they turned out is a house of cards. The dialog and speeches presented in the film, while verbatim in many cases, lose their depth and humaneness by their isolation from the extensive backstories within the novel, ringing hollow on the screen. The film version of the story is like a great-looking trophy wife/husband. You want them on your arm in public, but, Gwen Stefani says it best, "Don't speak." I have no way of knowing how much film is lying on the cutting room floor, but the essence of the story has been sliced worse than what Jimmy does to Dave on the Mystic's shore. The duo needed the help of a disinterested third party.

Since Mr. Eastwood is getting the lion's share of credit from the obsequious critics, he must shoulder the blame for this film's ultimate failure. To do this novel/story justice, he needed to decide whether to make it a B-film noir, possibly produce and give the reins to an inspired director like Carl Franklin with a cast of unknowns, which might have been somewhat unfair to the author, or go the full nine yards and follow his mentor, Sergio Leone, making it into an epic like Once Upon a Time in America. This 1984 film was released in the U.S. by the Ladd Company, who hacked the 4-hour feature down to 2:19, creating a disjointed mess, panned by all, seen by few. After that abysmal failure, the original version was finally released in America and correctly declared a masterpiece. That lesson goes unheeded by student Eastwood. While many critics laud the "spare" script, I feel Eastwood and Helgeland were far too parsimonious. They had the material in this book; they just needed to rectify a few plausibility problems, refocus the import of Dave's dungeon, and bring to life the extensive backstories as is from the novel. Had they done that, and had Eastwood ditched his politically correct tendencies [bad precedent - is Warners' chief, Alan Horn, a liberal censor, behind this sterilized white-wash?], he would deserve the raves he's getting. Instead, he took the middle of the road, coming up with a Ladd-like mutilation lacking essence and soul. A mortal sin considering Eastwood's penchant for pure jazz. Emphasizing style and cast work well with a simple story as in last year's fine Road to Perdition by Sam Mendes. But using a similar treatment could not and does not work with this complex story. Eastwood hits more foul balls than Teddy Ballgame working a pitcher to get his pitch. Maybe it's time for Eastwood and Helgeland to throw in the towel and retire.

Some of the critics who really like this film seem to use the book, or parts of it, or book reviews as a crutch to fill in all the missing details vital to the story. For me, though, the movie is even worse after having read the book, knowing what could have been and isn't. Some critics applaud Eastwood's ambition for attempting to bring this book to the screen. Actually, the book is ambitious and mostly succeeds. Helgeland and Eastwood show little ambition by cutting out context, the heart and soul of the story, winding up with mediocrity. Producing films that celebrate style over substance should not be rewarded with critical acclaim. I dare these same critics to take another look at Leone's 'America', re-view Mystic River and tell us all which is the ambitious masterpiece and which is the conservative, constricted work of the master's apprentice. Oscar needs to look elsewhere this year.

                                                                 © FILM JOURNAL 2002