Michael Caine’s character tells us that every great magic trick consists of three acts: a beginning that shows you something ordinary, a middle in which the extraordinary is done with that ordinary thing, and an end, where you’re shocked by something you’ve never seen before. Unfortunately, The Prestige fails to follow this outline, providing a boiling-over beginning and a tepid end; the first 20 minutes are spent trying to catch up with the film’s premise, while the last 20 minutes are spent waiting to be shown something that we’ve already seen.

The out-of-sequence storytelling of the film, using a series of flashbacks centered around a pair of diaries, is one area that seems forced and maybe unnecessary. Director Christopher Nolan gained his fame via Memento, another movie that involved (and was dependent on) a non-sequential narrative. There, it worked, and had a strangely perforated elegance; here, it felt plodding.
Fortunately for us, the middle part is, if not extraordinary, at least entertaining. It is in this pleasing hour-and-a-half that the actors fit into their roles like gloves. Though Hugh Jackman and Christian Bale rarely appear onscreen together, the few moments that they intersect are electrifying. Relative unknown Rebecca Hall, playing Bale’s wife, does an amazing job with what little screen time she has, showing up Scarlett Johansson as a mistress shared by the two magicians. There is even room amidst the intrigue for pleasant surprises like David Bowie as Nikola Tesla and Andy Serkis (that’s Gollum and King Kong) as his assistant. It’s in the scenes with these two mysterious figures that the movie has great potential, as if promising disturbing questions and shocking revelations . . . but that potential is squandered with poor pacing and editing.

The only question is whether the bad choices made by the director were deliberate; it’s almost as if Nolan were more concerned with how the film would hold up under second and third viewings, as repeat watchers dug through the narrative looking for clues and evidence of the reveal, than he was with how it would be seen the first time around.

Zack Snyder’s 300 is filled with as many bad lines as it is unintentional ironies. The worst of the first: “My heart is filled with hate.” The most striking of the latter: that truth and freedom is represented by burly men with beards who all dress alike, while the deviants, body piercers, and transsexuals apparently side with tyranny and repression. Go figure. But that sort of thing is to be expected from a nearly neo-con like Frank Miller, the author of the graphic novel on which the film is based; we can forgive it, as long as there’s style and badass fights and an indefinable cool along with it.

Unfortunately, there isn’t. Unlike its older sibling, Sin City, this Miller adaptation does not translate smoothly to the big screen. Whereas Robert Rodriguez picked and chose from Miller’s collection of noir tales to make an effective, stylish, and uniquely cinematic experience, Zack Snyder remains slavishly adherent to Miller’s original pacing and narrative, and it costs him. The movie, which should be sweeping and action-packed, feels like it’s being viewed in static, rectangular blocks. We’re forced to wait for Snyder to turn the page, he reads a hell of a lot slower than we do. The few changes Snyder makes in his screenplay are pointless additions, including an irrelevant home front political sub-plot and several “big boss” videogame-style foes.

On the plus side, 300 has some good verbal sparring and some nifty choreography. But even those don’t feel original. The beautiful classical coloring and rural landscapes are right out of Gladiator; the swarms of arrows are right out of Hero; and the devil-may-care-yet-deadly-earnest attitude is right out of Braveheart. None of that is tied together, though, into a coherent whole. There’s no sense of environment or place, no frame of reference for the viewer. The spraying blood never lands on the ground, because there is no ground; it’s all CGI. When you create your own world, you have to tell the computer everything that you want to see, and remembering the little details is, apparently, too much work. Instead the filmmakers simply focus the camera on the actors in front of them, and forget to tell the computer to generate everything else that should be happening. Instead of there being a raging battle to the left, right, and behind our vision, instead of a real world out there of thrashing bodies and stray javelins, we have the feeling that the next wave of enemies is waiting in the wings, politely delaying their attack until the camera can get them in its field of view. Maybe they needed a bigger green screen.

Planter Seedspill, halfling druid of Ehlonna, ruffled the humongous eagle’s feathers with what he hoped was affection, but came off as frustrated. Animals were better at reading moods than people. The eagle gave a piercing but short, barking cry, which the halfling had come to associate with annoyance. He stopped ruffling her neck. She had a head as large as his body, so he had learned to be careful around her; even friendly nips drew blood. Pulling back, he let the dire eagle stalk off of the nest he had created for her, then hurriedly looked down. Nope, no eggs. Despite having released her to fly on mating flights in the Clatspurs among her old brood-mates. Planter heaved a sigh. Dogs bred so easily, by comparison.

“Still no luck, little one?” Illyana asked softly, walking up behind Planter and gazing with appreciation at the eagle’s form as she preened herself. Planter shook his head.

“Nothing,” the halfling muttered.

“Can you blame her, Planter?,” the normally cold and distant elf replied, an unusual level of emotion seeping into her voice as she spoke. “Look at her. She is a creature of the air, made to fly, to soar, to feel the touch of Aerdrie’s grace. Eggs growing within her would only burden her. Young in the nest would only tie her to the ground. Why, you strange little creature, are you so eager for her to breed?”

Planter shrugged. “It’s what we all should do, if we can. To celebrate Ehlonna’s blessing, to celebrate fertility. My dogs do it, why can’t she?”

Illyana’s face remained neutral, and the tone of her words held no bite, despite their blunt meaning. “You have a very narrow mind, Planter. Surprising, for one who follows two such diverse paths, one of arcane grimoires and the other of the wild divinity of nature.”

Planter turned, hands on his hips, a cross look on his face. “Look, miss ‘I’m afraid to go underground because all caves are evil,’ you’re one to talk about narrow minds. I like raising animals, that isn’t wrong. And so what if-”

Unmoved, Illyana interrupted “How often have you flown with her, Planter?”

Planter stopped. “What? Well, every time we travel, I’m rid-”

“No,” she interrupted again. “Not on missions. Not while traveling. How often have you flown with her out of joy?”

Planter sputtered. “Well, I have to take care of my animals, and Paladin’s new litter of puppies is about to be born, and Goodberry is always harassing me to study more spells, and . . .”

“What are you afraid of, Planter?” the elf asked him suddenly. “You said that I’m afraid of caves . . . but we place upon others the things that we do admit to feeling ourselves. You’re afraid of something, too, aren’t you?” Her eyes widened. “Why, you funny little man.” She began to laugh, a sound Planter had never before heard. “You,” she said, eyes sparkling, “are afraid of heights!”

Planter stopped, stunned. He looked at Bounty, as if afraid the eagle had overheard, then looked over his shoulders, making sure the two were alone. Then, finally, he hung his head. “I don’t . . . I wish I liked flying with her. But, I just, I get up there, and if we’re any higher than the trees, I just, I . . . I freeze.” He kicked a pebble, and muttered to himself “It’d be easier if Bounty just lived up to her name, and would lay some eggs.”

Illyana’s look of humor was replaced by one of disappointment and mild dislike. “For the love of the Seldarine, Planter, who is she to live up to a name that YOU’VE given her?” The elf shook her head, and turned away. “Well, this is your trial, and I have other things to do. But I wonder what the eagle herself would have to say about all this.” Over her shoulder, she added, “Why don’t you ask her?”