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A Los Angeles taxi driver picks up a professional hit man in the dead of night. My expectations for this film were up there. I mean, look at the heights Michael Mann achieved with The Insider and Heat, both great films that I didn't want to end. But I guess there's farther to fall after such success, and Collateral crumbles with a quiet, perfectly crafted roar. Now, Mann's cinematography still rocks. He still chooses his soundtrack with absolute emotional precision. And he still introduces his characters with his trademark, wordless expressionism. But two major, deep flaws cripple this movie from about minute fifteen.

First: the script. Its tone veered all over the place. At its best, it captivated the audience with its dreamy seriousness (a jazzman's brilliant performance; coyotes crossing the streets of South Central). At its worst, it was unintentionally funny, causing bursts of laughter during what should have been a horrifying seige. Blame it on the strangely witty banter, which often was too stylized and polished for this type of story. Or, blame it on bizarre scene choices, such as when the duo visit the cabbie's mother in the hospital (Oh, the audience hooted at that one). The writing stole its own dramatic thunder to the point where the film no longer felt like an all-night gauntlet. In fact, it had a strong hint of the rambling wackiness found in insomniac flicks such as Night on Earth or Mystery Train. Collateral didn't know what it wanted to be. I actually still can't figure out why it was called Collateral in the first place.

Second: the casting. What's usually only a pitfall for the likes of Ben Affleck now officially applies to Tom Cruise and yes, as admirable as his performance was, Jamie Foxx. Cruise, ever the cocky "best-at" (best fighter pilot, best bartender, best emotionally-conflicted motivational speaker, and now, best contract killer), still barks his lines in italics; Foxx scrambles about in an overacted fit of panic. That deadly combo of barely-contained celebrity egos hopelessly distracted the audience. I kept thinking how much better things would have been if Mann had chosen absolute no-name actors. Two strangers encountering at night.

I considered lots of other ways to improve the film. What if the dialogue had been written with the appropriate gravtas? What if the hitman were less swaggering and more sinister, gentlemanly? What if Luc Besson (The Professional, La Femme Nikita) had made the film instead? And on and on. But playing a post-movie game of What-If, I've found, can only do so much to assuage my disappointment.

This is the cleanest cab I've ever been in.

The greatest metal band in the world enters group therapy to overcome their creative differences. So. What Christopher Guest once prophesied has finally come true in a documentary about the core trio of drama queens that is Metallica. We have the lion-like lead singer Jason Hetfield, who struggles with alcoholism and his own control issues. There's drummer Lars Ulrich, who spends most of the movie throwing contrarian tantrums in order to protect an ego scarred from years of criticism by his father. And then there's axe-man Kirk Hammet, the band's idiot-philosopher who just wants to be left alone to do his solos. Seriously, just replace their faces with those of David St. Hubbins, Nigel Tufnel, and Derek Smalls, and you've got a heart-wrenching reality-TV remake of the classic Spinal Tap. This rock documentary, this rockumentary, is basically a study in the utter failure of male communication skills. I mean, three years of constant bickering and storming out of studios just to realize that all they needed to do was give each other more creative freedom? Jesus! Their inability to grapple with their own emotions, while key to their success as perfectionists with a wolf's instinct for crafting metal anthems, also produces remarkably revealing moments. Like when Lars, also a painter, waxes proletarian about how it wouldn't matter if his paintings sold for only a dollar, just as long as it made a connection with another soul; but in the next scene, we see him frantically drinking away his performance anxiety as those same paintings are placed on the block of a Christy's auction (where they fetched upwards of $5 million, much to his great relief.). Or when ex-guitarist Dave Mustaine, who was ejected from the band in 1983 and went on to form the perenially second-banana Megadeth, meets with Lars and Kirk for the first time in years to tell them about his feelings of rejection, failure, and isolation (Metallica fans still spit barbs at him on the street). To which Lars simply says, "Dude, I had no idea." I got the impression that all of that turmoil could've been avoided if they had simply, you know, held a rational discussion as creative professionals.

It's hilarious and heartbreaking at the same time. Me and the rest of the audience tempered our snickering with sympathy for these bone-headed rockers, all of whom wrestle with the responsibiliies of adulthood and their own relentless fear of obsolescence. When the film finally ends with footage of their first live performance on their St. Anger concert tour, I felt a triumphant rush. And more than one audience member reflexively shot their arms skyward to give the three-finger salute.

Do I wish that I could go back to 1982, just for the chance to have you guys tell me "Dave [Mustaine], you really should go to AA"? Yeah, I would give anything for that chance.