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BY TOM MEEK
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In David Koepp’s taut psychological thriller, Johnny Depp plays Mort Rainey, a Salinger-esque recluse suffering from writer’s block and a failed marriage. He lolls about his lakeside cabin in mid-state New York — his wife (a thankless role for Maria Bello, who was so good in The Cooler) got the house — hoping for a thread of inspiration until John Shooter (John Turturro), a weird country bumpkin from Mississippi, crops up and accuses Mort of plagiarism. Shooter’s evidence is perplexing, as is his ability to be everywhere and nowhere. Then Mort’s dog winds up with a screwdriver in its head, as does a friendly neighbor. No one buys Mort’s story about the deadly stranger, and this being based on a Stephen King yarn, the writer descends into a personal hell of alcoholic paranoia. The edgy synergy between Depp and Turturro goes a long way, as does the lush cinematography by Fred Murphy and Koepp’s assured direction. Tension and suspense mount, but the secret of this window is that, in the end, it doesn’t make sense. (106 minutes)
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