The first 3/4 of George Romero's Kafka-esque, existential meditation on identity is so terrific, it's all the more frustrating that it falls apart with such a chintzy, uninspired last act. But until then, it ranks high in the Romero canon. It has a fascinating, irresistible plotline--similar to "Martin"--about one man's journey to discover his own identity, fine acting (particularly from Jason Flemyng and Leslie Hope, though Peter Stormare's goofy scenery chewing is an acquired taste), and beautiful production values, echoing the autumn of the protagonist's soul. (There is, in particular, one unforgettably haunting shot of shadows falling like tears on Flemyng's blank visage.) But Romero lets himself down with an unenthusiastic, the-well-ran-dry conclusion. It's as though he left the Toronto set to go back to Pittsburgh for the weekend when these scenes were shot. Despite those who claim that Romero's films are merely E.C. comic books brought to life, his films are always much deeper than that and reflect a very sophisticated philosophical view of life and the universe, in the manner of Greek or Shakespearean tragedy. In any event, this is a film whose reputation should soar about ten years from now.
