Nolan barely wastes time establishing the rivalry between Bale’s Alfred Borden and Hugh Jackman’s Roger Angier (Borden indirectly kills Angier’s wife during a performance, but come on, the bitch basically brings it on herself) before the two magicians are waging an increasingly ridiculous battle of magic tricks, loading prop guns with real bullets, stealing each other’s secrets, and reviving real-life historical figures - in this case, Nikola Tesla, played by a frighteningly well-preserved David Bowie - to account for some highly dubious science fiction.  Throughout, Jackman doesn’t act so much as wish really, really hard that he could, so the task of carrying the film falls squarely on Bale, who bravely subverts his physical gorgeousness with a raw, slightly unpleasant intensity, like a hunter coaxing his prey.  Still, even he can’t save the film from its paper-thin character development, sagging middle chapters, and over-long finale.  To quote the film itself, it’s a prime example of a work whose reach exceeds its grasp.

The Illusionist, on the other hand, enjoys an “Honorable Mention”-level of success by setting its sights relatively low: It features a dirt-simple love story, a bloodless rivalry, and a painless “twist” that should come as no surprise to anyone familiar with the basic science of potions circa Romeo & Juliet.  Norton plays the fictitious Viennese magician Eisenheim, who finds himself the rival of the Crown Prince Leopold (perennial sourpuss Rufus Sewell) for the affections of his childhood friend, Sophie (played for no good reason at all by Jessica Biel).  The magic here is much more of the polite, garden-party variety than The Prestige’s violent mad-science, but it’s perfectly at home in the film’s dollhouse scale.  Norton’s deceptive delicateness is also an ideal fit for Eisenheim’s quick-handed magic and sly charm, and the film has a pretty, turn-of-the-century patina to it that leaves a dreamy, pleasant impression.  Both films are easily passable, but The Illusionist remains a welcome alternative to the thudding soullessness of its rival this movie season, even if its pleasures are light and forgettable as air.

Many fine actors fill the bill here, including Martin Sheen as Billy’s straight-shooting mentor, and Alec Baldwin, whose paunchy slickness wins some deserving laughs as Ellarby, the head of the police department.  Mark Wahlberg, in particular, is a minor revelation as Dignam, a senior detective in the police force.  Like that rare playground bully with actual smarts, he levels both DiCaprio and Damon with the film’s best, funniest lines, and steals every scene he’s in.  Unfortunately, these performances can’t cover for Jack Nicholson, who is woefully miscast as Costello.  As the film’s villain, he ought to strike chords of genuine fear, occasionally tempered with dark humor; instead, his bloated-clown schtick garners little more than a few chuckles.  It’s the sort of mistake that isn’t immediately obvious because Jack is Jack, but it’s what his performance should have been that highlights the film’s central problem.  Scorsese manages a cleaner, tighter direction to the whole affair, but he fails to express any of the psychological depth that he used to summon so beautifully; there’s no terror or emotion to trouble us long after we’ve walked out of the theater.  Had he cast former stand-bys like De Niro or Harvey Keitel as Costello, we might be discussing a different film altogether.  It’s an entertaining ride, no doubt, but ultimately just another footnote in a career once marked in chapters.

Needless to say, I derived a great deal of enjoyment from reading Janet Maslin’s review of Michael Baumberger’s new biography of Shyamalan.  It includes some priceless quotations, such as “Night’s shirt was half open — Tom Jones in his prime,” and “What kind of power could he have over me?,” which I imagine Baumberger delivering with a fist-shake towards the heavens.  And here’s a tasty passage that refers to Paul Giametti (the poor man’s Kevin Spacey, if that’s possible) when “Night” cast him in Lady in the Water:

Night got a call from Paul Giamatti.

‘’Dude, I am so Lady,'’ Giamatti said. This was in March, five months before shooting was supposed to begin, an eon in moviemaking.

‘’Stop it,'’ Night said playfully.

‘’I'm telling ya — I am.'’

Night didn’t need to ask Paul what had taken him so long. The thing was, he was in. And for a moment Night was healed.