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...you just might "get" this film. In my heart, Douglas Day Stewart is a genius. That he is capable of such sensitivity, instinct and passion just gives me chills, as said emotions are so pitifully rare in mainstream filmmaking (let's not even discuss the hollow garbage that has risen to the surface in the past decade). The infatuation, the sickness that plagues Scott Muller in this film is so clearly, so intensely conveyed through Stewart's meticulous direction (it's his frickin' script) and the thoroughly phenomenal performance of Steven Bauer. I'll grant certain persons there being plenty of "flash," (otherwise known as brilliant photography and an energetic soundtrack) but...welcome to the 80's. That "flash" epitomized the decade and I've seen no slicker example, no smarter implementation of it than in this little picture here. The film is tremendous, ridiculously moving, simply magical. Invariably, the final scene leaves me in tears--of frustration for the characters, of enchantment for the beauty that is Thief of Hearts. I love that it is Bruckheimer/Simpson's lowest grossing film. It only stands to prove what idiots make up the bulk of American audiences.

Everyone wants to give this film a bad rap because of its premise, which, okay, does border on the crass. So they go into it with their eyes and ears closed to all of the film's unique, quirky characterizations and undeniable charms, intent on hating it. As an ensemble, the players exude a magnificent chemistry and the screenplay is both hilarious and romantic. It's a real gem. And enough feminist criticism already. The film was scripted by two women. Veronica's character is dynamic and intriguing, one of my personal favorites.