Unquestionably the finest product of the entire Canadian Tax Shelter era, the intensely grim yet bittersweet Christmastime caper The Silent Partner should be a holiday staple for those fed up with saccharine Christian sentimentality and 24-hour marathon reruns of A Christmas Story. Much like Bob Clark’s masterpiece Black Christmas, the Yuletide setting provides an ironic counterpoint to the nerve-wracking wintry paranoia that threatens to become overwhelming, with a villain who knows not the meaning of “Good Will Towards Men”. Or women, for that matter. Beneath its ice cold, pseudo-slasher surface is a genuinely heartwarming tale of love, spiritual redemption, and the temptation of all-consuming greed.

Based on Anders Bodelsen’s obscure potboiler Think of a Number, Curtis Hanson’s screenplay transposes the setting from Denmark to metropolitan Toronto, preserving the snowy atmosphere and excising a few subplots while adding a much-needed transfusion of good old fashioned Canadian charm. The story is deceptively simple: Miles Cullen (Elliott Gould), hapless everyman bank teller, discovers that a local Santa Claus is planning a holdup, and decides to skim a few grand from his till the next day. Predictably, Santa returns with a gun, scores, makes a clean getaway, and Cullen”s theft goes completely unnoticed. Neat. On top of that, he’s attracting the interest of his co-worker Julie (Susannah York), a longtime crush on which their sleazy sideburn-sporting boss has obvious designs.

In perhaps the only plot contrivance in an otherwise fiercely intelligent script, Miles is interviewed by a field crew for the TV news, becomes a little cocky, and discloses the exact sum total of money stolen, including the $48,000 he stuffed into his tin lunch box before it all went down. This is odd for a number of reasons, but perhaps Canadian reportage is really this candid; if the story took place in America, the bank would dispatch a suit who would then give a vague though undoubtedly inflated estimate of their losses in order to maximize insurance payouts. Stranger still, Miles must grapple with a new-found and unexpected celebrity, and take some lighthearted jabs from his extremely merry co-worker Simonsen (John God Damn Candy, on a break from SCTV). Will he work up the gumption to win Julie’s heart and shed his nebbish skin, or be content to live as a hermit collecting tropical fish?

More importantly, what is he going to do about Harry Reikle (Christopher Plummer), former disgruntled Santa turned bank robber, who thinks nothing of grand larceny and even less of common courtesy? It may be a coincidence that Reikle just happened to be watching the broadcast during Miles’ interview, but what thief wouldn’t want to experience the adrenaline rush of watching their own exploits on the news? While Miles is sensible enough to shuttle away his 48 grand in a safety deposit box, he’s powerless to prevent Reikle from bombarding his home with menacing phone calls and ransacking the place when he’s not there. Suffice it to say, the obsessive thief does not handle Miles’ lack of cooperation with much decorum, and the film contains more cruelty to fish than A Fish Called Wanda.

Despite the mayhem unfolding at home, Miles is still composed enough to come up with avoidance tactics when he’s not pursuing Julie, which involves going to a very depressing swingers’ party hosted by the sleazy boss and being the designated driver. The scene in her apartment is extremely well acted, not surprising given the deft touch director Daryl Duke has with actors: witness his ability to rein in Rip Torn’s unique brand of Method acting as his character becomes increasingly unhinged in the epic Payday. Likewise, Plummer’s performance is a masterwork of simmering rage manifesting from suppressed sexual frustration, alternately cool and terrifying, usually in the same scene. Gould plays it as low-key as possible, which is exactly the right thing to do.

Through an ingeniously executed plan that I dare not reveal, Miles succeeds in dealing with Harry, settles into his new life and begins building sandcastles in the sky, planning out exactly how to spend his 48 grand. Sure, he could only live a year or two on that much money, and the smart thing would be to invest the entire lump sum. But he’s starting to understand the allure of a life of crime, and paranoid about his skimming being found out. Around this time, he has a chance encounter with the stunningly gorgeous Elaine (Céline Lomez) and his burgeoning affair with Julie is jeopardized when the two strangers fall head over heels for each other.

For a short, blissful passage, The Silent Partner is sweet, romantic, and delicate; lest you think this quasi-love-triangle is an unnecessary detour (as it is in so many other Capers), think again. Gratuitous nudity and soft focus candlelit foreplay sequence aside, the secondary romance subplot is absolutely necessary not only for the brief levity it provides, but for the unexpected emotional payoff and tie-in to the A-plot. Oh yeah, also eye candy:

Nice as this flirtatious dalliance turns out to be, Miles does not have much time to enjoy his newfound status as a swaggering ladykiller. No, it’s not because it was approaching the end of the decade when someone like Elliott Gould could conceivably embody a suave Don Juan character, but rather when Harry returns, with a vengeance that is oftentimes vicious on a level nigh unseen outside of the horror genre. On top of that, Harry is such an asshole that most of his apoplectic rage is directed toward dainty, defenseless women; if we didn’t already hate him just on general principle of him being a greedy bank robber and all, his treatment of the fairer sex has drawn sharp criticism toward the film itself. Curtis Hanson’s script has been called misogynistic, sexist, and unnecessarily brutal, and while it’s hard to argue against the latter claim, the film itself is obviously not a celebration of machismo. Miles, in a sharp contrast to the antagonist, respects women so much that he’s intimidated by them; understandably so in the cases of headstrong, whip-smart British lass Julie and the ethereal Elaine.

The scene involving Elaine, Harry and the fish tank has often been referred to as one of the most repulsively violent scenes in all the sundry, seedy annals of exploitation, which is a bit of an overstatement. True, it’s protracted and uncomfortable, but that’s kind of the point of the scene: ratcheting up the tension and stakes to an unbearable fever pitch. Duke could have cut out a few seconds of beating and thrashing with no one wanting more, but perhaps he, like any typical viewer, was simply in awe at seeing Baron Von Trapp acting like Ike Turner during a PCP binge.

After a point, Harry’s rampage becomes less about recovering the 48 large and more about making Miles as miserable as humanly possible. You’d think a sensible bloke like our hero would cut ties and hightail it out of Toronto after a particular plot development, yet he doesn’t. Miles always has a plan, always has enough sand in him to stand up to his tormentor, even if he is deathly afraid the whole time. He’s a classic film noir protagonist, with several weaknesses and shades of gray complicating his character, while he undergoes misfortune after misfortune as a direct result of his dabbling in crime. He is also smart enough to realize the wide-ranging consequences of his actions, and humble enough to take drastic steps to correct his mistake.

Will there be a Christmas Miracle to save everything at the 11th hour? Will Miles and Julie’s be a romance for the ages? Will Miles learn that virtue is its own reward? Will Christopher Plummer be cross-dressing? We can disclose the answer to exactly one of these dilemmas. You’ll have to find out the rest.

Spartacus: Blood and Sand is not so much a television series as a state of mind. I immediately bring this caveat to the table because it is simply not enough to say Spartacus is “not for everyone.” Entering its world is a transcendent experience; Spartacus is so recklessly indulgent in its genre, so unashamed in its over-the-top, contraction-free dialog that you cannot help but grow fond of this ridiculous show in all its gaudy glory.

Comparisons to 300 and Gladiator are inevitable, both in the camerawork and dialog. But where these two films demanded us to take them seriously in their dull-witted adolescent gravity, Spartacus is a far more nuanced creature. For starters, the ideology behind Spartacus is decidedly angry and proletariat-driven, quickly dispensing with the rah-rah, quasi-fascist Dulce Et Decorum Est bullshit that ultimately sunk 300 and Gladiator.

Techno Viking makes a cameo appearance

Andy Whitfield plays the Thracian with No Name, to be eventually saddled with the moniker “Spartacus.” Spartacus is working as a mercenary for the Romans in hopes of defending his homeland against frequent raids from the Getae. Things go sour when the Romans refuse to engage a Getae contingent that razes Spartacus’s village. Justifiably pissed off, Spartacus leads a mutiny against his Roman employers. The Romans don’t appreciate Spartacus not handing in his two-week notice, so they sell his wife off to slavery and condemn Spartacus to death by gladiator in the arena of Capua. Capua is to Rome is what Cleveland is to New York City. It’s a backwater to be sure, but Capua is still infested with enough intrigue and power plays of people eager to hit the prime time of Imperial Roma.

Batiatus would put Dick Cheney to shame. If Dick had any shame.

Spartacus manages to keep himself alive in a series of slow-motion, blood-spurting duels that highlights the martial athleticism of Whitfield and his solid costars Peter Mensah, Manu Bennett, and Jai Courtney. But the heart and soul of Spartacus is the deliciously decadent performance of John Hannah, who plays the gladiators’ owner Batiatus. Hannah delivers that rare feral performance of a man so detestable and conscience-free that of course, he is far and away my favorite character. Hannah chews up and spits out his scenes with aplomb and grace, his ruthlessness more frightening than the muscle bound ferocity of his slaves. Another fabulous standout is Viva Bianca, who matches Hannah’s terrifying performance as the scheming general’s wife Ilithyia, who will stop at nothing at seeing Spartacus dead for humiliating her husband. Let’s just say Ilithyia has a bad temper. A very bad temper.

Why do all the hot ones have to be so psycho?

I’ll tell why I love Spartacus: Blood and Sand, despite the fact every episode is a full-on cheese factory with dialog lifted from some bad D&D role playing manual. Spartacus succeeds admirably in demonstrating just how patently absurd an inherently dysfunctional culture can become. Sociopathic behavior is consistently rewarded, and the most grievous crime in this society is not knowing your socioeconomic place. Karl Marx would approve of the class-driven struggle that is the constant undercurrent of this earnest series. You could accuse Spartacus of being big and stupid, but you can’t call it dishonest. In a world where evil is its own reward, Spartacus: Blood and Sand is a wonderfully campy clarion call for the relatively virtuous to rise up and kick ass.

Yes, Lucy Lawless gets nekkid