MoL went to see American Hustle. Excuse me, did we walk into the wrong movie? Mind you, they all say the same thing, the director, the actors, the critics, talking it up in smart ways, as though everything were a foregone conclusion. Screwball Scorsese! Wise guys! Scams! Seventies retro! Ha ha ha! Perms! Big hair! Drastic comb-overs! Donna Summer! Actresses kissing! Elton John! Last in line, the audience – whether it buys in or not – is in fact shown something utterly ordinary, all on the same note, not so ha ha ha, and, oh, was that really just the scene the director/actor/critic was trying to big up? You can hear Elton John in the shopping mall any day of the week. MoL says it’s a Burt Reynolds picture. Save your money and rent Hustle (Robert Aldrich, 1975). You can’t get more Seventies than Burt Reynolds and Catherine Deneuve! No one says De Niro is in American Hustle (for ten minutes), his tightest performance in years (speaking Arabic!), holding together the film as it is falling apart. MoL says, sorry, sloppy seconds. Next week, Robert Redford in the boat. MoL hears it has a great script.