Phone Booth is bogus on every level, right down to its half-hearted trick ending. The urban realism (foul-mouthed prostitutes and tough-talking cops) is as garishly cliched as the media circus that builds around the killing.
As a moral fable, Phone Booth is entirely meretricious. For one thing, Stu is awfully small potatoes compared with the big shots the sniper boasts of having executed in similar circumstances.
Stu may have lust in his heart, but technically he still hasn't cheated. When he finally blubbers out his failures, there's nothing on the list that ought to get a metaphysical vigilante so riled up.
Farrell, who resembles a younger, bushier-eyebrowed Brad Pitt, acquits himself decently enough as the scuffling Bronx-born hustler who favors Italian suits. But this likable Irish actor, touted as Hollywood's studly flavor of the last several months, ultimately lacks the soulful magnetism that signifies a major screen presence.
So what is Phone Booth good for? If you want to soak in some more bad urban vibes to add to the ones already floating around, the movie could be your masochistic treat.
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