The film is a mesmerizing spectacle, precisely because it doesn’t seem to obey many of the rules of either populist or “serious” cinema of this current era. Though the story is full of the kind of material habitually milked for melodrama—betrayals, moral crises, deaths—it almost always refuses to take easy advantage of these opportunities. In refusing to do so, what might seem on the surface a simple tale of espionage and its consequences becomes something altogether else: something imbued with a deliberately stiffer, more constrained poetry, one that doesn’t imagine that truth, freedom, wild horses, and the wind always flow together. One in which, maybe, the fewer words a man says and the less his face gives away, the better he describes the box that surrounds and imprisons him.

For your consideration: the narrative of a poor schmuck forced to interview Robert De Niro, the story of a journalist who, prevailing against all odds, still manages to kiss some serious ass. The Good Shepherd? Not quite so good as A Bronx Tale, which we assume is much better, though we’ve never bothered to see it.

We’re also pretty sure that “stiff” and “constrained” poetry is not “good” poetry. Chris Heath seems to be a professional writer, not a college freshman groping for a thesaurus at crunch-time, so we assume that if Mr. Heath had actually seen a “good” film, his professional vocabulary would have instantaneously supplied him with a score of far better qualifiers: “understated,” “stark," "subtle," "minimalist," "good," etc.

Better luck next time, Bobbo!

AND NOW, 972 WORDS FROM ROBERT DE NIRO [GQ]

We didn't exactly get dragged to see Grindhouse. We'll admit we were curious; that we're fans of Robert Rodriguez's earlier work, and his cooking; and when it comes down to it, we're not all that averse to watching Rose McGowan go-go dance. But we really weren't all that excited—didn't have those ridiculous fan-boy expectations—because, honestly, we don't like Quentin Tarantino all that much. After watching his half of the double feature, entitled Death Proof, we like him even less.

Which is too bad, because we really like the idea of QT. We enjoy the same movies he does, especially appreciated the Shaw Brothers references in the first Kill Bill (Intimate Confessions of a Chinese Courtesan? anyone?), and thought there was a real spark to Pulp Fiction. And we were under the impression Grindhouse was going to be another loving homage to schlock. While Rodriguez's Planet Terror is fucking great—boasting the most per capita bloodiness and sheer wtf-ness of perhaps any movie we've ever seen—Death Proof is no fun at all.