Phil Spector

A frustrating film that leaves the questions--pretty much all of them--unanswered.

As good as the performances are and as fascinating it might be to see the inner workings of a celebrity trial where money was apparently no object, Phil Spector plays like a docudrama.

Phil Spector is missing dramatic tension. It’s staged as a movie but it’s constructed more like a play, with plenty of scenes of two people exchanging Mametian dialogue in claustrophobic spaces.

Both actors [Al Pacino and Helen Mirren] could thrive with this story (Pacino's a ringer for Spector) but Mamet speculates a bit too much. Had he eliminated the title character entirely, it might have been more intriguing.

Despite the more honest pleasures of something like You Don't Know Jack, Phil Spector's nominal entertainment value proceeds almost entirely from its status as an explosive camp object, buoyed by the promise of seeing Pacino yell his way through Mamet's dialogue as the eccentric record producer turned convicted murderer in an overstated wall of sound.

In Phil Spector the facts of the case and the characters are molded to allow viewers to doubt Mr. Spector’s guilt. But even with a Mamet screenplay and actors like Mr. Pacino and Ms. Mirren there is not much anyone can do to make the audience care.

Claustrophobic, stagey and muddled, the movie offers two memorable set pieces.

Phil Spector is watchable, but given the lofty expectations raised by HBO movies, it’s also the cinematic equivalent of a bad hair day.

Phil Spector is a wordy and unappealingly clinical character sketch.