Samuel L. Jackson and Ben Affleck get into a fender-bender on the FDR on their separate ways to the courthouse, the one to divorce court, the other to probate court. The first, an operatically repentant alcoholic, unable to drive away from the scene of the accident, loses custody of his children by default. (Kim Staunton has some ferocious moments as the fed-up wife.) The second, a self-important Wall Street up-and-comer, drives off with an airy "Better luck next time," leaving behind a blank check and, inadvertently, the key document to his shady dealings in court. Thus begins a grim-faced game of Laurel-and-Hardy tit-for-tat, and a didactic lesson in the fragility of the social covenant and the constant nearness of chaos. (The casting of the leads, plus a gratuitous barroom altercation over Tiger Woods, tends inevitably to channel the allegory down restrictive racial straits.) No doubt it's something a little different, something a little serious and a little somber, but not enough so to justify the respectfulness of its reception from some critics. Both men behave badly -- that's good. But the escalation of hostilities ends in a loss of artistic nerve and an eleventh-hour parachute leap into a feather bed. Even Laurel and Hardy left a stronger aftertaste. And the sheer amount of hostilities, never mind the altitude of them, seems much too much to fit into a single day. British filmmaker Roger Michell's best evidence of his contemporary "relevance" consists of nothing more than his fitful jiggles of the camera. Toni Collette, Amanda Peet, Sydney Pollack, William Hurt. (2002) — Duncan Shepherd