They've done it at last: made a Liam Neeson-stomps-some-ass flick where, as the credits roll, there's more stuff to be glad you saw than Neeson himself. Based on one of those Lawrence Block novels that's pretty smart but also too invested in the mechanics of rape and torture, the movie's a grim beauty, shot like nobody told writer-director Scott Frank he's supposed to be churning out schedule-filling late-summer product. Instead, Frank has crafted the kind of thriller that Neeson's brooding elder-toughs have deserved all along, a tense and prickly picture more interested in shoe-leather investigative work than in making a lark of brutal deaths. Neeson's Matt Scudder — the glum ex-cop hero of many bloody Block books — bobs about Frank's colorless pre-millennial New York like a cigarette stub in a can's last spit of beer: He's forgotten and unwanted where no one... More >>>