Good Night, and Good Luck.

Trekked up to The Grand Cinema in Tacoma with great trepidation, given my last cinematic experience (you can't trust the critics, ever).

As the wife and I walked into the theater, I remarked that most of the crowd was in the 50-plus demographic (common enough at The Grand). Many of these people, I mused, might have a better idea if David Strathairn's performance is as good as the critics are saying. As we stood in the ticket line, an older fellow behind me said, "These people don't even remember Ed Murrow." So there you go.

Pitch-perfect or no, Strathairn and Co. have all the gravitas needed to carry the film--with a worse cast, it might collapse under its moral weight. Shot in glaring black-and-white (every wrinkle on every face shines through), in the way that The Crucible's witch trials blasted McCarthyism, Good Night's recreated newscasts and aptly-chosen stock footage denounce post 9/11 fear-mongering. As a bonus, sultry Dianne Reeves torches some classic jazz numbers.

Best thing I can say: Good Night, and Good Luck got the smell of A History of Violence out of my clothes; nearly every character smokes, even when the TV cameras are running. Plus ça change...