Another eruption of neo-noir. Maybe not quite so "neo-" when you notice it's a remake of a Golden Age noir. But at the same time, and for the same reason, all the more noir. The original, Criss Cross (1948), was directed by Robert Siodmak, not just generically Germanic but genuinely German, and written by the lamentably unremembered Daniel Fuchs, who is here accorded co-screenwriting credit with newcomer Sam Lowry. It is the consistently high quality of the dialogue, the cuttingly honed edge, the jabbing and counterpunching wit ("Can we not turn this into a Eugene O'Neill play?"), that lifts the movie a head taller than most of the "neo-" mob. (Some of it, by virtue of its topicality, must be credited alone to Lowry, as for instance the hero's girlfriend questioning the safety of the swimming-pool-sized satellite dish being installed in her backyard: "Yeah, it's safe," the workman reassures her. "Just don't stand in front of it.") The early puzzlement as to time zones is soon sorted out: the bearded Peter Gallagher signifies past tense; the green-tinted Peter Gallagher in guardsman's uniform, future tense; the full-color and clean-shaven Peter Gallagher, present tense. But a possible larger obstacle to enjoyment still looms ahead. The unsympathetic central quartet -- the shiftless hero, his badgering badge-wearing brother ("I can't believe you wore Dad's suit to Mom's wedding"), the amoral femme fatale, her abusive new crooked boyfriend -- offer nothing for the childlike moviegoer whose sole requirement is somebody to "identify with." Nothing, that is, as long as "identification" equates to "self-flattery." Film noir, needless to say, was never designed for the pure-in-heart. The jaded adult, meanwhile, should have no difficulty finding a little of himself, a lot of his society, in the movie's merciless delineation of the something-for-nothing mentality, the logical escalation from lottery-playing to illegal football-betting to out-and-out thieving. With Alison Elliott, Elisabeth Shue; directed by Steven Soderbergh. (1995) — Duncan Shepherd
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