MIDNIGHT IN THE GARDEN OF GOOD AND EVIL (41)

Directed by: Clint Eastwood

Starring: John Cusack, Kevin Spacey, Jack Thompson, the Lady Chablis

The Pitch: Polite society in Savannah, Georgia is scandalised by a rich antique-dealer's trial for the murder of a young man alleged to be his lover.

[Note: I saw this at a preview where the reels got hopelessly mixed up, so that most of the middle third appeared after the final credits. If you think that makes the following opinion hopelessly unreliable, I'll understand ; on the other hand I have absolutely no inclination to go and see it again in the right order, and that's got to count for something...]

Theo Sez: An experience roughly akin to driving through a strange new town in the company of a listless, soporific old bore - stuck in the car, gawping from a distance at intriguing-looking people walking by, as the old bore occasionally breaks his silence to say, in a lifeless monotone, "That there's a transsexual drag-queen" or "That's a man with horseflies tied to his body". It's both dull and frustrating (and, at two-and-a-half hours, a very long haul), sparked only by Spacey's elegant performance - impeccable suavity, topped off with a slight cat-that-swallowed-the-canary smugness - and the pleasing combination of assorted eccentricities side by side with the high living and elaborate courtesies ("Oh my land, where are my manners?") of the antebellum South. Its general attitude is otherwise disappointing and inexplicable, apparently uninterested in making anything of the material (the trial scenes are stop-and-start, and the accused man's testimony - built up as the defining moment - a complete non sequitur), or in affording its audience any pleasures whether narrative or visual (not even the sun-dappled loveliness of that other Southern-set drama, THE RAINMAKER) ; the implication is perhaps that you can't hope for firm answers where real life is concerned - but it feels like a cop-out when the film doesn't even try for them. It seems to be aiming for the languid rhythms of a small, old-fashioned town - but it's not so much languid as dead on its feet.