This ambitious film suffers most from writer/director Paul Thomas Anderson's delusions of grandeur. Highly derivative of much better material (Altman's "Nashville," Lumet's "Network"), this lumbering elephant takes far too long to get nowhere. A couple of misguided detours along the way (an embarrassing musical interlude, a biblical plague) don't help matters. Neither does the uneven level of performances. Especially bad: William H. Macy, whose character and storyline could easily have been eliminated altogether; Julianne Moore, for her unconvincing angst. And how many times must we see John C. Reilly's Sad Sack shtick ("Chicago" and "The Hours" will suffice)? Tom Cruise comes off well by comparison  his misogynist, foul-mouthed Holy Roller was rather amusing. Speaking of foul mouths, the script was so loaded with "F" bombs, they lost their impact in no time. Don't even talk about that awful soundtrack, full of insipid and annoying vocals by Aimee Mann. Her extended rendition of "One," a maudlin number to begin with, drove me to distraction at the start of the film. I should have heeded the handwriting on the wall and saved myself three more hours, by which time I'd been pushed to the brink of hell. One redeeming feature, which I haven't seen mentioned in other reviews, is the best performance in the bunch, by unknown Melora Walters in the role of Claudia, the damaged coke fiend bent on self-destruction. Her credibility exceeded all others by far. This film took itself way too seriously and just didn't know when to end.
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