It's odd to think that this is only the fifth Phillip K Dick story adapted for the big screen. Given the huge success of Blade Runner and Total Recall, and the man's astonishingly prolific output (five chunky volumes of short stories alone), there has to be a reason why Hollywood has left him largely unexploited.

I think, for the most part, it's because his stories are too intelligent, too dense, too weird, and have way too little heroism. They always feature small, confused, compromised and unfulfilled people struggling with horribly twisted realities. Minority Report is no exception.

Furthermore, the written story is, by Dick's very high standards, not that great. Rereading it hurriedly at home before going out to watch the film, I found myself, for once, in the odd position of hoping that the dream machine would take undue liberties and would give the excellent premise a rather grander workout than did Dick himself. With Total Recall I much preferred the whimsical, low-key ending of the book, but this tale was just crying out for funkier treatment.

And I got everything I wanted. It's fast, slick, clever, very funny indeed in places (until you've seen Tom Cruise chase his own eyeballs down a sloping corridor your life is just not complete), has some great tongue-in-cheek action set pieces (and I normally hate action set pieces) and the gadgets and gizmos of 2054 are compelling, especially the "sick sticks" and the spiders, and the computer gloves and the cars and and and etc etc etc.

The premise is simple, sort of. Precrime is an organisation which prevents murder in Washington through the abilities of three "precogs". They pick up the homicidal vibes before a killing happens, and the agents move in and stop it. Those put away for intent have not actually done anything wrong, but no-one apart from them really minds.

The scheme is up for national approval, so murky politics is bound to creep in. Add to this the fact that Chief Anderton (Cruise) is still mourning the loss of his son six years ago, is "on the whiff", i.e. addicted to a street-drug of the future, and is about to be investigated by the Attorney General's people and you know it's going to get all twisted.

And so it does. Anderton's desperate, fugitive search for truth, while wanted for a crime his own office says he is going to commit, is by turns, surreal, hilarious, gross, touching (Agatha the precog is an amazing presence) and sinister. I was more or less enthralled, a half-eaten bag of Revels ( if you think this is product placement, you should see the film! ) forgotten at my feet.

Then of course, you get the Hollywood ending, which, like all Hollywood endings, sucks big time. The last fifteen or twenty minutes drag a bit, as justice is finally served, how it was all done is explained twice where once would have been enough, and the final three minutes are appalling processed cheese. But that's the price you pay, especially with Spielberg, and on this occasion it's well worth it. The scene in the greenhouse alone provides suitable compensation, as does the whole surgery bit, and several other segments. You'll see.

I knew that I would end this review by recommending that you go forth and buy everything that Phillip K Dick ever wrote. It will only cost you two or three hundred pounds, if you shop carefully, and will well reward the investment.

What I'm surprised about is that I'm recommending this film with equal vigour. Cheaper, too.

IAN THREADGILL
5 / 7 / 02