The film tries to be two things: a "found footage" horror film, and a psychological thriller playing on the fear of no one believing you. The problem is that these two concepts are fundamentally at odds with each other. In order for no one to believe you there cannot be any convincing evidence. "Found footage" is by definition convincing evidence. So either the film has to have shitty found footage or unreasonable characters. This film manages to have both. Yahtzee!

"Found footage" films like The Blair Witch Project or Paranormal Activity can stretch you into a taut and vibrating string of nerves if done right because they do two things. First, they set themselves in surroundings so banal that when you leave the theater, you constantly feel a need to look over your shoulder, check in the closet that night, investigate every little noise. The second thing that they do is to never ever ever break with the fiction that what you are seeing is absolutely genuine footage. The success of "found footage" depends psychologically on the audience getting drawn in and feeling as if what they are seeing is real, regardless of whether they actually are gullible enough to believe so. The instant there's a break in that feeling, the boundary goes back up between audience and movie and the effectiveness of the spell dissipates.

The Fourth Kind takes a hybrid approach by combining what they claim to be real footage and audio recordings with "reenactments" by actual actors. It's the same sort of thing they do on the History channel, except with real actors and fake evidence instead of bad actors and real evidence. It just doesn't work, because the jerking back and forth constantly breaks the suspension of disbelief. The "real" footage is vaguely creepy at times, as is the "reenactment" footage, but the flipping (often within the same scene) just makes you constantly aware that you are watching a movie instead of drawing you into the atmosphere of the film. This is further compounded by the constant use of flashbacks and the wrapping of the overall narrative within an interview. By the end of the film, it unintentionally echoed The Usual Suspects in that you had a feeling that nothing that had been shown actually happened. They really should have taken one route and gone with it. "Found footage" or traditional narrative could have told this story, but combining the two was to the detriment of both.

The shame is that there's an interesting story of paranoia buried in there. The film is called "The Fourth Kind," which means that anyone who's ever watched a movie says to themselves "you mean like a close encounter?" The cat's out of the bag from the title of the movie what we're dealing with, so the big reveal shouldn't just be your run of the mill Gray with an anal probe. To their credit, it's not. And also to their credit, they never show the shark. The film manages a mishmash of possession, Sumerian, UFOs, abduction, freaky-ass owls, hypnosis, and the Cthulu-esque idea of being driven insane just by remembering the unspeakable horror you witnessed while asleep.

There's a place in sci-fi horror for an updating of Lovecraft for the alien abduction mythos, but this film simply doesn't succeed at establishing enough of a tension. The best way to describe it is that it tells a very dark and nihilistic story, but looking back on it, it never really felt particularly dark while watching it. The writing just wasn't up to the task of taking this film to the next level, every conversation feeling just like it was setting up the pieces in order to be knocked down. The film never takes its time to establish mood and tension, instead bursting right into big weird stuff happening with firm evidence appearing almost immediately with little or no effort.

A constant sense that you could do something smarter or better than the characters is never a good sign and it pervades the film. Without getting into scene by scene nitpicks let's just toss out the giant obvious one: if I recover repressed memories that aliens are kidnapping and sodomizing my family every night, then I for one am sleeping in a hotel that night, if I ever sleep again.

Meh. I'm going to go dig out some old "X-Files" episodes.

Steven Lloyd Wilson is a hopeless romantic and the last scion of Norse warriors and the forbidden elder gods. His novel, ramblings, and assorted fictions coalesce at www.burningviolin.com. You can email him here.

It's not the formula we hate. It's the predictability. It's the lousy conceits. It's the stupid plot contrivances. And it's the annoying two-dimensional characters. But if you take out the lousy conceits, the predictability, the plot contrivances, and the poor character development, you're still not going to have much of a movie if you don't place it into one of the half-a-dozen existing formulas. Those formulas work, damnit. They're tried and true, scientifically proven to prey upon our emotions. You can twist the formula, poke it, prod it, subvert it, flatten it out and stomp on it, but you still have to ride it. Otherwise, you're going to be left with a flat, listless film that meanders aimlessly from one point to another and never really pushes any of your emotional buttons.

That's the case here with Grant Heslov's The Men Who Stare at Goats, a movie that never really goes anywhere, butts up against anything, or plays on our sympathies, our pre-existing notions, our sense of right or wrong, or our desire to see someone succeed or fail. It's just a sequence of events that portend no task to complete up and until that task is being completed.

Granted, it's a movie with excellent actors who turn in solid, if staid, performances. Ewan McGregor plays Bob Wilton, a Michigan reporter who decides -- after his wife left him for the newspaper editor -- to go out an uncover a story. Any story, really. And what better place than Iraq. There, he meets Lyn Cassady (George Clooney), a name Bob is familiar with because of an earlier story he investigated about a nutjob (Stephen Root) back in Michigan who claims that there was a secret psychic unit in the army that could stare animals to death and "remote view," or use their minds to observe a distant place.

Lyn was something of the Master Jedi of this group (and there is a cute irony to the fact that Ewan McGregor is dealing with "Jedis" and "The Force," a novelty that is lost after the 47th reference). He's now retired, but claims to be working for a private contractor. He agrees to help Bob get into Iraq, although to what end is unclear and continues to remain so for most of the film. They crash their car; they're abducted by Iraqis; they escape; and they continue on their road to an unknown destination.

Meanwhile, while all of this is happening, we're also privy to the large backstory on the psychic unit that was created back in the '80s to compete with an alleged Russian psychic unit. Mostly it involves Bill Django (Jeff Bridges) filling his unit with a lot of new-age, hippie ideas. The goal, apparently, was to use "peace and love" as weapons of war. It's not until the very end of the movie, when that backstory converges with the present, that we understand the point of the entire film. Unfortunately, it's not really a point worth understanding.

The notions behind The Men Who Stare at Goats are compelling in the abstract -- a psychic military unit that explores the potential military application of new-age concepts. Unfortunately, it doesn't actually translate into very compelling story. Screenwriter Peter Straughan was apparently intrigued by Jon Ronson's non-fiction book of the same name, and decided to try his hand at writing a script around some of the material that Ronson uncovered, like the apparent facts that the military used the "Barney" theme song on prisoners-of-war and that special forces had smuggled hundreds of de-bleated goats into the country. But Straughan has a difficult time of trying to connect his two main characters' inadvertent road trip to Ronson's discoveries, and the result is messy and far-fetched. Moreover, Heslov -- making his feature directing debut -- plays it too straight to extract much comedy out of the situation, but not straight enough to make it a serious-minded examination of the unit.

But the worst part is, we don't care about their journeys. It's meant to be a movie about redemption, I suppose, but redemption from what is unclear. There's no intriguing villain, either. Kevin Spacey is meant to fill that role, but his character is seriously underdeveloped, and we never get a real understanding for why we're supposed to dislike him, other than the fact that most Kevin Spacey characters are unlikable. However, the biggest sin of The Men Who Stare at Goats is that there are no heroes, no real victories -- literal or moral -- and no ideas that are examined except in the most superficial kind of ways. The movie never gains any momentum; it just putters along until it finally runs out of gas.

But more likely than not, once the glory of the festival has faded, we find out that some filmmakers only had one good one in them. Sure, they may go on to make two or three more films, but the luster has long since gone lack.

The following is a list of ten writer-directors who pretty much gave up the ghost. I specifically left Richard Kelly off the list because The Box shows promise. You've been warned. Honorable mention also goes to Nicole Kassell (The Woodsman) and Billy Morissette (Scotland, PA) because I enjoyed the hell out of their flicks, and I kind of desperately hope they'll make something else. Well, mostly Kassell, because The Woodsman was scary fucking good.

10. Simon West, Good Film: Con Air

As bad as that buh-niegh slurring accent is on Nic Cage, with a supporting cast of sonsabitches and savages, it's hard to dislike the ridiculous fun of Die Hard on a prison aeroplane. West was supposed to be the next coming of Michael Bay and the Ratt-a-Tat-Splat Pack, but he steadily made slightly crappier films, like The General's Daughter and the incredibly unwatchable Lara Croft: Tomb Raider. How you fuck up Angelina Jolie in tight shorts and a boob shirt is beyond me. He's got some promise with Human Target, due out next year, which looks like it might be a vaguely badass television series.

9. Vincent Gallo, Good Film: Buffalo '66

Alright, well, maybe I'm the only one who liked Buffalo '66, but I'm still fucking mesmerized by Christina Ricci tapdancing on the bowling alley. It could easily be sloughed off as typical arthouse fare, which is pretty much what Gallo made from then on out. As much as I hate Harmony Korine, at least that little fucker didn't make Chloe Sevigny suck his cock on camera.

8. Chris Kentis, Good Film: Open Water

I remember seeing this in a relatively empty theater with my friend Bob, and basically twitching with tension. Which is hard to deal with when it's essentially two people stranded in water for an hour a half. Most people were bored senseless by the film, because it was two people. In water. Forever. Kentis hasn't tried to do a follow-up film, so we don't know if there's anything. However, the studios had no problem doing a direct to DVD sequel. Which probably involves sharks with fricking lasers on their heads or some shit, jumping off cruise ships with jet-skis, I don't know.

7. Dominic Sena, Good Film: Gone in 60 Seconds

Some people would posit that Kalifornia should be on here. They're called film studies majors and you should hit them soundly with socks full of subway tokens. For my money, you can't beat the slick, casual action. It was The Fast and the Furious with a sense of humor. Sure, the bad guys weren't that bad, but it was mostly about seeing Angelina Jolie in giant blonde dreadlocks. And really, Sena couldn't beat this, as he moved on to making more and more tepid action-y dreck like Swordfish and Whiteout.

6. Jared and Jerusha Hess, Good Film: Napoleon Dynamite

When first I left the theater, I couldn't decide if I'd seen the best movie ever made or the worst piece of crap imaginable. Upon further viewing, I realized the subtle genius. The Hessians created a film devoid almost entirely of plot, being all character and environment. Nothing happens of any import in ND, we just follow this idiot around. And it's mesmerizing. But they followed it up with the tragically bad Nacho Libre, which made Charlton Heston finally look like a passable Mexican. And this year, they manage to go worse with Gentlemen Broncos. If you watch Broncos and Adventures of Power back to back, the next time you see an elder in the white shirt and black slacks and tie, you'll actually run him down with your car. True story.

5. John Fawcett, Good Film: Ginger Snaps

It seems like monsters have been done to death. It's very hard to put a fresh spin on zombies, or especially fucking vampires these days. So it was pretty astounding to see Ginger Snaps, an incredibly smart werewolf flick about two teenage sisters coping with turning furry. Fawcett has done tons of television since, and a few scattered films, but really he's not been able to recapture the magic. And neither has the series, despite a few sequels.

4. Eduardo Sanchez & Daniel Myrick, Good Film: The Blair Witch Project

The Blair Witch was a precedent. Jittery cam hatred, cinematic blueballs up until the fascinating final five minutes, but the movie itself became iconic. Sanchez and Myrick have done exactly fuck-all since. I guess they ran out of ideas after they stole their concept whole cloth from the makers of The Last Broadcast, a documentary about The Jersey Devil. So maybe it's karmic retribution. God willing.

3. Michael Cimino, Good Film: The Deer Hunter

The Deer Hunter isn't just a good film; it's a pretty epic fucking film. Granted, similar to Full Metal Jacket, the entire piece isn't spectacular, rather only its portions. But by God those portions are fucking incredible. Cimino followed up The Deer Hunter with the legendary tankzilla of Heaven's Gate. He killed a fucking studio, and in the aftermath, his career. But if you're going to go out with a bang, I say take a page from David Byrne and burn down the fucking house.

2. Lucky McKee, Good Film: May

You notice there are quite a few horror films on this list. Horror seems to be most popular for spawning those one-flick pricks. I remember hearing about Lucky McKee as the future of horror, and how genius May was. There are quite a few people who hold May in high esteem, and I'll admit it was interesting. But then McKee epically crapped out, unable to create anything watchable. He got all kinds of obsessed with Angela Bettis, who became a muse of sorts akin to what's been eating Tim Burton. He made a kind of neat episode for Masters of Horror, but he's never been able to deliver since. He was even yanked from the film Red.

1. Zach Braff, Good Film: Garden State

Before there was a preggo to be eggo, there was Braff and his darling little hipster flick. I adore Garden State, but I know I am in the minority. People thought it was too precious, too quirky, too derivative, too lazy. It changed my life, but hey, I'm weird like that. Braff's never been able to capitalize on a follow up. Now that "Scrubs" is coming to an end (or is it? That's motherfucker's like Bebe's Kids), perhaps he'll take a chance behind the camera again. Because let's face it. "Scrubs" was the best he got. His acting career peaked and then plummeted behind a streak of odiously terrible films. So, he really won't have to worry about that getting in the way. I look forward to sitting next to him in a coffeeshop in 2012. Right before Roland Emmerich blows us up.

In yet another foreshadowing of the plot of Idiocracy coming true, Kevin Federline is reportedly going to be a father for the fifth christforsaken time. (Litelysalted)

I don't do this sort of thing often, but last night I saw my favorite newly discovered band of 2009, Gentleman Reg -- who should be huge but aren't. So check out a couple of their music videos and then go buy their records and stuff. (YouTube) & (YouTube)

So since I was out last night, once again I totally missed "The Office" and am now having to forcibly restrain myself not to spoiler anything with Dan's weekly recap. But going by the title alone, I take it Ryan upped the creepiness factor this week? (Hairballs)

Hey nerds, Dr. Horrible is soon going to be making his comic book debut and here's an exclusive first look. (Splashpage)

Agent Bedhead is running a special on Princess Leias today -- two for the price of one. Sheesh, that was a bad joke even for me. (Agent Bedhead)

Sharon Osbourne, ever the epitome of grace and class, railed against Susan Boyle calling her an "hairy arsehole" -- even though she ironically looked eerily similar to Boyle prior to $200,000 worth of plastic surgery. (Celebitchy)

Here are some photos of ah-mazing looking Barbies which were stripped down and refurbishes to look like celebrities. (Film Experience)

Conan O'Brien and William Shatner had the nerve to sully the good respectable name of Levi Johnston by reading twitters from a fake Levi Johnston twitter on "The Tonight Show," and he's now demanding an apology. Uh yeah, don't hold your breath there, Alaska. (Warming Glow)

I was totally on board with this list of the Top Ten Superhero Movies of All Time until I got to number one and literally yelled at my computer "WHAT IS THIS FUCKERY?" (Unreality)

Here are a bunch of "WTF?" dance scenes in non-musical movies. Are you kidding me I luh-oved that dance scene in Romy and Michelle. (Cinematical)

You know how you see high school yearbook photos of celebrities and they are like pretty much always huge dorks? Well not Jon Hamm. The guy was always a goddamn beefcake Adonis. (DListed)

Here's a great mash-up featuring films which say the titles of the film in the dialogue, just in case you forgot what the movie you were watching was called:

Pajiba Love brought to you by Stacey Nosek, who can be reached via email here.

I don't like procedurals.

There are two types of procedurals: the jocks and the nerds. The jocks are your typical "Law and Order" show, the guys that strut around and get confessions out of people to solve crimes. Oh there are lab techs and such, but they exist for nothing in the narrative but telling the detectives which guy looking to pick up his SAG card they should talk to next. Interrogation, interrogation, forensics says to talk to this guy, interrogation, confession, done! There's a lot of yelling at suspects to tell the truth, and eventually they usually do, generally because the third commercial break rolls around. Or they ask for a lawyer, which means that they're either guilty or just a slimy asshole.

The nerds are "CSI" and its variants. The only jocks (cops) around are either properly gelded and yoked to serve the scientists or are given a Ph.D from MIT (isn't it always MIT?) and a vague title like "forensic analyst" so everyone can pretend that they're smart while taking their sunglasses off ever so slowly. Technobabble, technobabble, streetwise cop says something stupid that holds the key to the case, technobabble, DNA match, done! There's a lot of intense staring into microscopes and clattering away at keyboards.

I really don't like procedurals. They're generally the narrative equivalent of a jigsaw puzzle. The pieces go together in a predetermined way that takes some nominal level of intelligence to master, but at the end of the exercise all you've got is the picture that was already printed on the damned box. I don't like jigsaw puzzles either for that matter. The problem with most procedurals is that they suck all of the mystery out of mysteries, they're about the procedure of solving a mystery without any of the thinking of solving a mystery.

I'm being so explicit about why I don't like procedurals in order to explain a terrifically counter-intuitive contradiction: I like "NCIS." At face value, a spin-off of "JAG" has about as much appeal to me as a rash spun off of herpes, but I happened to get stuck watching the reruns of it one night on USA while cooking dinner, if only because there wasn't anything else on. It was love, the sort of forbidden pleasure that makes you embarrassed to allow friends to work the TiVo remote lest they find your secret television joy. You find yourself actually being able to watch television with your parents and grandparents, which makes holidays easier, but you feel guilty about it as if you stepped out on your good taste with a cheap hooker for the night.

"NCIS" bridges the two types of procedurals, giving us legitimate jocks and nerds on the same team. The characters are the show's strongest suit, well developed and with evolving relationships. They all fit in broad classifications of course, but the actors do a superb job of bringing personable nuance to each character. Sure there's the computer geek, but he's also an author. You've got the shallow womanizer, but he's also a goofball with an encyclopedic obsession with movies that might be able to rival Drew Morton's.

The characterization feeds into humor, an element usually lacking in procedurals. So much of the episodes end up being the banter and interplay between the agents, the sort of interactions that grow more meaningful the more episodes that you see. It draws upon that humor most when it's at its most serious, taking to heart that lesson of storytelling that humor makes drama more acute, that if you remove humor from drama you're not left with something more dramatic, but rather something entirely somber.

And the humor is needed because this show makes a point of fucking with its characters more like a Joss Whedon franchise than a Law & Order clone. Over the six year run, two main characters died in cliff hangers along with a multitude of recurring guest stars, and that's not even getting into the glorious emotional traumas.

But the most important thing about "NCIS," the thing that leaves other procedurals in its wake, is the commitment to the scientific method. Other procedurals pay lip service to it, especially the various CSIs with their virtual fetishization of forensics, but they really aren't particularly scientific. Science is not simply plugging a [technobabble] into the [technobabble] and seeing that person A must have committed the crime. Science is rational thought and deduction, the logical inference of the unknown from what might indirectly be measured. It has nothing at all to do with gadgets, and everything to do with a way of thinking. Oh, "NCIS" plays fast and loose at times with particular technical details, but overall it does a superb job tracing the thinking of the characters. There doesn't tend to be the typical procedural shortcut of either having the random lab equipment just give the answer or having the interrogation lead to an inevitable confession. Have a recorded phone call, and you know where one caller's location is but not the other and hear a train in the background on both ends of the line? The difference in time of hearing the train on one end versus the other, cross referenced with the average speed of a train, and matched against the train time tables for the area will give you a rough idea of the other end of the call. No technobabble or $100,000 specialized equipment, just thinking.

For a show that you can watch with your grandparents, it's surprisingly open and liberal. The goth girl with tats, heavy metal and thigh-high boots. The various cases involving transgenders and gays who don't raise the slightest eyebrow. And of course, the women who can kick ass and take names.

Is it a great show? No, but it excels at exactly what it sets out to do: populate a world with relatable characters. Make them diverse, intelligent and likable. Kill some of them off now and then unexpectedly. Use your brains, laugh while you do it, then shoot some bad guys.

And if you don't like it, get off of my damn lawn.

"What if your job includes touching, ah, naked people... " -Palmer
"That is inappropriate at any time." -Sexual Harassment Trainer
"Even if they're dead?" -Palmer
"Why are you touching dead naked people?!" -Sexual Harassment Trainer
"I work in autopsy." -Palmer

Steven Lloyd Wilson is a hopeless romantic and the last scion of Norse warriors and the forbidden elder gods. His novel, ramblings, and assorted fictions coalesce at www.burningviolin.com. You can email him here.