Knowing the truth about this film ahead of time is going to save you at least fifty bucks.

            Here it is: Don’t go. It stinks.

            There. Hopefully I’ve just stopped you from buying two adult tickets at eleven dollars a pop, a Jacuzzi class tub of popcorn for eight dollars, a garbage pail sized cup of Diet Coke for six dollars, ten bucks for parking, and four for an I’m So Very Sorry, Darling card from Hallmark to give your spouse for dragging him or her along.

            That’s it. The end.

            Oh, you want me to write some more?

            Okay. Here’s the plot: Back in 1959, a crazy little girl writes down a list containing the dates and locations of the next fifty years’ worth of planetary disasters. She then stuffs it in her elementary school’s time capsule. Fifty years later, the time capsule is opened. A little boy sees the list and shows it to his widowed science professor father (Nicolas Cage). The father recognizes it for what it is and tries to prevent the next catastrophes in the sequence from taking place. The father is on the outs with his own dad—the pastor of a church. They have argued over whether there is a purpose to life, to the cosmos, and so forth.

            The son, a precociously (read: annoyingly) responsible, hearing-impaired wunderkind, is being visited by blond, trench-coat wearing men who whisper to him telepathically of the impending destruction of the world, and look like out-of-work German fashion models—pouty and comically chiseled.

            Knowing is another one of those uncomfortable blends of routine science fiction and bland non-denominational religiosity we see every once and a while. I like to think of it as Left Behind meets Close Encounters of the Third Kind, with a little bit of The Forge of God and Miracle Mile thrown in to boot.  In other words, it is hopelessly compromised; never able to find its own voice. It regurgitates the ideas of (mostly) better but jarringly disparate material in the hopes of bootstrapping some meaning onto itself by sheer mimicry.

            There are some great scenes: the plane crash, the subway accident, the Firestorm, and that spectacular final image of the glowing silver tree (one that will stay with me for a long time, actually, and one that is almost—almost—worth the price of admission). But stacked against the dreary bulk of the film, they don’t help much.

            Cage delivers a marginally interesting performance. However, rather than seeming anguished by his wife’s off-screen, and pre-story death, he appears more disgruntled or peeved by it. To be honest, he looks like his underwear is too tight.

            The rest of the cast, especially the see-through Rose Byrne, are painfully irrelevant and need not be commented upon.

            What I wish is that director Alex Proyas, who can do damn good work, could somehow go back and completely reedit and reimagine this monster—take an axe to it, chop off the gangrene, and thereby allow the living, full-blooded story that’s rotting underneath to breathe and thrive.

            First, the entire concept of the prophetic little girl and her list of numbers can be dispensed with. The funny thing is, if you really follow the story, the list is meaningless. The German fashion models, oh, I’m sorry, the aliens, no wait, I mean the angels, oh hell, whatever they are, will take care of things—that’s why they’re there. The prophecy serves absolutely no purpose.

            Second, the story should start with a massive solar disturbance, and go from there. Make the real issue clear from the get-go, not introduce it late, like some Diabolus Ex Machina.

            Third, the German models should be smartened-up. These super-advanced dudes have apparently traveled thousands of light years to help us out (albeit in their own lame way). Yet the best cover they can come up with is a bunch of creepy leather-jacket whack jobs driving around in a used Ford LTD?

            Fourth, explain the aliens’ children-only policy—as, on the face of it, it simply makes them look like pricks.

            Fifth, and last, ditch the religious angle, or jack it up so it works. Since it is not developed deeply or realistically, it comes off as syrupy and pretentious

            But, I digress. This is all purely academic. It is too late for any of that. Way too late.

            We are stuck with the movie that actually got made, not the one we’d like to have seen.

            Well, no—that’s not precisely true. I’m stuck with it, because I saw it.

            You lucky folks draw a bye this time around—on me.

Escape Artists
U.S. Release Date: March 20, 2009
Director: Alex Proyas
Screen writer: Ryne Douglas Pearson, Juliet Snowden, Stiles White and Stuart Hazeldine
Running Time: 130 minutes