Trifling crime comedy slash road movie which for some reason, out of the truckloads of scripts dumped at their individual doorsteps, captured the fancy of both Julia Roberts and Brad Pitt. (Typical Roberts line, spoken to her abductor: "You know, you're a very sensitive person for a cold-blooded killer." Typical Pitt line, spoken to his mule: "You're such an ass.") Clearly this is a match made in talent-agent heaven. The attraction for the stars, on the other hand, can scarcely have been the opportunity to work with director Gore Verbinski, whose credits to date stretch only from Mouse Hunt to the Budweiser frogs: one kind of cartoon to another kind of cartoon. Still less can the attraction have been the opportunity to work with each other: the aforesaid road almost immediately comes to a fork, one prong to Sin City, the other to South-of-the-Border. Even so, the proper complaint with the movie is not that Roberts and Pitt have but one scene together -- she on the third-floor balcony, he on the street below -- before they are split apart for the next hour and a quarter. (When, to be precise, they again come within shouting distance over the telephone.) Quite the contrary, the proper complaint would be that when you're not looking at one of them, you're looking at the other: his or her ego, his or her vanity, his or her falsity. The sturdy James Gandolfini, who might have brought some ballast if he hadn't been stunt-cast as a closet homosexual in addition to type-cast as a mob hitman, can't help. (2001) — Duncan Shepherd
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