Steven Soderbergh, working from fact, details an impenetrable case of corporate skullduggery blown open by an ambiguous black-hatted whistleblower: a kind of anti-Hitchcock suspense comedy, grudgingly putting any cards at all on the table, keeping the surprises coming only by keeping us in the dark, flouting the Master's tried-and-true method of fully briefing us. (It's also anti-Hitchcock in its rosy, fuzzy, vaporous image.) The hero's meandering stream-of-consciousness narration ("I like my hands. I think they're my favorite part of my body") gives us constant clues as to the variety of nut we are dealing with; and the exclamation point in the title, the anachronistic Groovy Sixties lettering, and the chipper Marvin Hamlisch background music, all to ensure that we know this is a comedy, seem outsized for the actual level of amusement: seldom laugh-out-loud but often lip-twisting. Matt Damon puts up some surprisingly strong competition for future William Macy roles, in a stick-on mustache and a crimpy hairpiece which he waits an hour and a half to tug at, giving up all pretense of fooling anyone, and waits all the way to the epilogue to remove altogether. Scott Bakula effortlessly upstages him as the flat-haired, furrowed-browed straight man, a straight-arrow FBI guy. Luckily for Damon, Bakula is much off-screen. (2009) — Duncan Shepherd
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