De Palma's first film since the barely comprehensible Mission: Impossible opens confidently enough: a Scorsese-baiting 15-minute tracking shot shadows Nic Cage as he threads his way through the gathering chaos of the main event. He has a flutter on the fight, roughs up an `associate', expounds his ethical views to buddy Sinise (""If there's one thing I know, it's how to cover my ass...""), and takes calls from his wife, kid and girlfriend. The camera executes cute little swoops and scuttles, whip-pans and pull-backs, but the dialogue is flat and first-draftish. It's a warning of things to come. All surface, no feeling.
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