As difficult as it is to sit through the slow-drawl that is the hallmark of every Eastwood movie, there is potency is this (lack of) timing -- it allows the viewer to immerse himself into every horse ride, bridge, or in this case, every porch and door of Boston in this what I truly believe deserves the Oscar for Best Director. This movie, had it not been for Eastwood's metaphoricism, stark lighting, tense dialogue and nervous buildup would have been just another crime movie watching no better than a good episode of CSI.

Penn is utter despair and grief, and one can easily understand -- no, empathize with -- the rage that drives him out of his shell. Even his appearance, ruddy face, long cross tattoo running down his spine, and a ripped physique, is a contradiction of youth and wear and tear. Yet more frightening is Laura Linney's portrayal of the "Queen" that would validate Penn's violence as love and compassion. At the end of the movie, the sum of all the tragedies can be overwhelming: there, a sexually-abused boy turns into a disturbed, brooding, brutal but innocent (at least of the death of Katie) wrongfully fingered by his own wife and is disemboweld and entombed into the River. There, two young boys and a misfiring gun was to blame in the end. There, a father, who has seemingly turned a leaf, reverts to his violent old in the face of an unbearable tragedy.

None of these would have mattered -- or would have even surfaced -- had Eastwood not let it become so. You would find yourself sitting in the cafeteria with the detectives, going over every agonizing detail of Penn's recollection of the last moment he saw Katie. You are in the dark, cowering in the corner, when Tim Robbins tells his wife, now trembling in fear, about vampires, wolves, and the little boy who got into the back of the car. The last time I remember seeing this much raw nuclear evil shaking the very screen was in The Sixth Sense. (Heck, even the lighting reminded me of that movie). You are right there in the heart of Boston, as good as an acquaintance as these men and women were when they were children playing hockey on the streets. You can almost see the cigarette smoke stains in the kitchen ceiling.

And, as heavy on the heart as it was, the realization that the film's very thesis was made so explicit by Penn's character leaves you grateful that there is a director like Eastwood; a director who can shape fear, rage, grief, despair and vengeance like they were uncomplicated emotions, by making them as forceful, unpalatable and blunt as possible.