Director : Michael Mann Starring : Tom Cruise, Jamie Foxx, Jada Pinkett Smith, Mark Ruffalo

Let's get it out of the way first – yes, Tom Cruise is pretty good in Collateral, but practically everyone else in the movie is better than him. This isn't Cruise's movie -- it's Jamie Foxx's movie. And then it's Mark Ruffalo's movie. And then Jada Pinkett Smith's. And then Javier Bardem's. And then even Bruce McGill, Peter Berg and Irma P. Hall's movie. They all do what Cruise seems unable to do – make it look easy.

And no one makes it look more easy than director Michael Mann, who takes a worn-out thriller outline, filled with contrivances galore, and fashions it into the kind of filmmaking that sends your heart soaring and gives you hope for the future of cinema. Until he gets bogged down into some overt symbolism (what, in a Michael Mann film?! I know you're shocked) and existentialist claptrap (again, shocking), Collateral glides along on one of this year's most memorable movie highs. His camera soaring far above Los Angeles, Mann crafts a kind of love poem towards the parts of the city that, unless you've lived there for years, you've probably never seen – the alleys, the overpasses, parking garages, all shot on high-definition video, have an otherworldly light to them. It's pretty darn magical to behold.

Magic is pretty much what Mann undertakes here, as the tale of Collateral seems so old and hackneyed that you can almost hear it creaking; with a few extraneous technological exceptions, this is a noir story that could have been filmed in the 40s or 50s, perhaps starring Burt Lancaster as the lunky good guy, with Barbara Stanwyck standing by as the damsel in distress. Though it revolves on discussions of chance vs. fate and tries to mine a way existentialist vibe throughout its two hour running time, Collateral is at its heart just a thriller – and one that's rather easy to make fun of -- but one that lives up to the edicts of the genre and keeps your blood pumping almost nonstop.

The easy, unforced opening of Collateral is perhaps its best part, with Cruise making his first appearance as the menacing Vincent, a contract killer in a gray suit and helmet-like salt-and-pepper haircut. As streamlined as a shark, his arrival in LA is marked by a suave hand-off that, unlike everything else Cruise will do in the movie, is a nifty little nugget of minimalist cool. The focus then immediately jumps to Foxx, whose Max, a good-guy, hardworking cabbie, is as much a caricature as Cruise's amoral assassin. Still, Foxx proves himself a fantastic actor, one attuned to the smallest aspects of his character, as he readies his cab for another night's work. His most memorable fare is a beautiful yet distracted woman (Pinkett Smith) whom he slowly draws out of her work-enforced shell. Foxx and Smith have a marvelous chemistry that's as smooth and supple as a slow jazz song, and they play all the right notes even as they venture into tentative romantic territory. When she gives him her card, it looks as if Max's night has reached its peak.

And then Cruise comes along. In a scene where Mann practically underlines the coincidence (or is it?) that will unite these two men, Cruise raps on the window, gets no response from Foxx, and then walks away, only to have Foxx call him back. Oh! It almost didn't happen! Oh, the vagaries of fate! How life hangs by a thread! In retrospect, it's easy to mock the unsubtle unfolding of the plot and its boldfaced schematics, but while you're watching it, you're pretty much entranced by Mann's camera and the smooth moviemaking charisma that seems to emanate from the screen. Vincent slides into the cab, engages in some back-and-forth patter with Max, then promptly (and showily) offers him $600 for a night-long engagement, ferrying Vincent to and from five separate destinations and back to LAX in the morning. Saving up money for his own limo service, Max is entranced by the green that Vincent offers – that is, until a rather large dead man falls onto the roof the cab at Vincent's first stop, and Max finds out he's got a rather unusual and deadly fare.

It's at about this point, maybe 30 minutes into the movie, that you'll come to realize the disparate acting styles of Cruise and Foxx, the studied, hardworking focus of the established star and the effortless, free-flowing style of the up-and-comer. Cruise practically grinds his teeth he's working so hard, and you can almost see the machinery under his skin shifting into gear as he revs up Vincent's amorality and the killer glint in his eye. He gamely takes on the hard-boiled dialogue that's supposed to mark Vincent as a smart, predatory animal you shouldn't really mess with, and manages to eke out a few visceral moments; it's not perfect acting, but you want to applaud him for at least giving it all he's got. Foxx, on the other hand, seems to be playing things almost spontaneously, and Max's panic is sharp, quick, and constantly ebbing and flowing; his performance is almost organic, and its naturalness (watch Foxx's unfussy manner as he messes with the safety on a handgun) contrasts sharply with Cruise's neatly defined delineations of character.

It may be intentional; Mann may be trying to show the chasm between the good guy and the bad guy, contrasting acting styles to point up how they're from very separate worlds. (Stephen Frears did something like this in Dangerous Liaisons, playing the stage-trained formality of John Malkovich against the natural luminescence of Michelle Pfeiffer.) Obviously Vincent and Max are meant to be a kind of yin and yang who will ultimately complement each other, with Max's humanity rubbing off on Vincent and the killer teaching the Walter Mitty-esque cabbie some hard-core life lessons. But despite their obvious respect for each other, Foxx and Cruise don't really click down to the last notch; a lot of things come together between them, but it's ultimately not a perfect meshing of actors or styles. And Foxx's amazing interaction with Smith (the brief hints of romance that can make you giddy just off of the fumes) only underscores that more.

Fortunately, there's enough distraction to be had with the set action pieces that come up and the marvelous supporting cast Mann's assembled to fill out the pockets of the story. There are a few surprises along the way – a seemingly important character is offed, a reckless drive through downtown LA ends in an unexpected manner – but this is mostly a by-the-book thriller with a few far-too-familiar plot shadings. There's the good cop (Ruffalo, outstanding in a second-tier role; his delivery of "mezzo mezzo" to a standard how-are-you question is perfectly attuned to his character's frustration and energy) who figures out the plot before everyone else; the world-weary partner (the lanky Berg, better than he's been in ages); the officious FBI bigwig (McGill, doing snotty authoritarianism perfectly); and on and on. Still, inside most stereotypical characters there's a nice surprise, like Javier Bardem's lyrical and threatening mob boss, who has a priceless monologue about, of all things, Santa Claus. And it's not in Stuart Beattie's screenplay that you'll find these small joys – it's all Mann's doing.

Until the last half hour of the movie – which could have been lifted from almost any Brian De Palma 80s thriller or even the director's own Manhunter – Mann keeps up the shadow play that distracts you from the clunkier elements of the story. But once he latches on to some far too heavy symbolism – the feral coyote Vincent spies crossing the street, the Existentialist Train to Nowhere that ferries the final characters to their destiny (or lack thereof), and the Dawning of the New Day – Collateral never reaches the previous heights it once scaled. But for a brief moment, it will take you out of yourself and remind you of the wild ride that movies can take you on. For that at the very least, Mann deserves a very big tip.