not a movie review

Unexpectedly alone home for the evening (B. was called into work on her night off, again), I stopped on the way home from a hard afternoon's bashing away at the temple library database (guess what "Bubke" is some hapless data-entry volunteer's typo for) at the Redbox box and browsed through the offerings. Hmm, there's The Conspirator, Redford's movie about Mary Surratt. Should be good.

It wasn't. The astonishingly verisimilar* sets and costumes clashed vertiginously with the inane, "So here we are in the Nineteenth Century" dialogue. "Look! There's Ed Stanton! He's the Secretary of War, you know." Well, it was almost like that. Also: lawyer who can't wrap his head around the idea of defending a client he thinks is guilty? Rapid descent into unwatchability.

*I had to look it up to determine that was the proper adjective. I almost went with "verisimilitudinal".