Being a huge Eastwood fan, I was looking forward to this flick, all the more so since it was being shown on the Warner Bros lot (usually these premieres take place in Westwood or in Hollywood, so the change was welcome), with the party just a few steps away from the theater.

Sitting down in our prearranged places, my wife and I noted two very full of themselves “ladies” heatedly blithering away to the ushers, after which they absconded with the seats next to me. Moments later, an elderly couple pointed out that those were their seats, but the bimbo-twins refused to budge. I imagined those two self-righteous girls thinking, “Yes, you are very old and can barely stand, but we are blonde and, therefore, worthwhile.”

New ushers were called in, but once the large-breasted egos on legs announced that they represented some important magazine, the outraged octogenarians -- no doubt reliving scenes from Soylent Green in their confused minds -- were dragged away, never to be seen again.

The movie started 10 minutes later, but it never reached the heights that the little drama next to me had attained. In fact, the opening moments set a certain intellectually vacant tone for the rest of the film. Picture this: a long in the tooth FBI profiler (Eastwood playing Terry McCaleb) is called in to see a serial killer’s latest crime scene. The obligatory cryptic message in blood was written on the wall, dead people littered the floor (at least I think they littered the floor -- I admit to being momentarily distracted when the horrible woman next to me mistakenly put her popcorn down on my hand), and the press gibbered madly outside, dying to get tidbits for their respective rags. The geniuses on the scene, noting the many shoe prints in the blood (that’s why they pay them the big bucks), concluded that the killer was wearing a certain kind of sneaker, and out went McCaleb to face the microphones and cameras.

So far, everything was acceptable, but now we are dragged down the rabbit hole of stupidity: While shunting questions by the hoards of reporters, McCaleb notices a man watching the goings on. This in itself, of course, wouldn’t warrant any special attention. But our ever-vigilant hero realizes that this stranger is wearing sneakers covered in blood! Astutely sensing that the man with the bloody sneakers might have something to do with the crime, McCaleb rushes after the suspect. Do members of the press join the chase? No, they stand around gawking. Do other officers give their ancient comrade a helping hand? No, his actions are ignored. So, the chase begins -- and a slow one it is. Since McCaleb can’t do more than lightly jog, the suspect purposely never allowed himself to get more than three feet ahead of the man pursuing him. They find themselves doing this ridiculous dance through various alleys, and it soon becomes clear that McCaleb’s getting very, very tired.

Allow me a short digression. We all know that most police officers love their guns. In fact, if they see a man stealing a Hostess Twinkie, they are trained to pull their weapons and say, “For God’s sake, put the Twinkie down!” So, with police habits clearly burned into our minds, I would have expected McCaleb to pull his gun, aim it at the brutal killer he was chasing mere inches away, and say, “Stop or I’ll shoot!”

This logical act would have ended the film on the spot, which explains why he left his gun in its holster and kept running, until he finally collapsed in the throws of a massive heart attack (only then pulling it out and taking an errant shot).

The rest of the movie -- his heart transplant, the “surprise” killer (Was there really anyone in the theater who didn’t know who the killer was the moment he appeared on the screen?), Anjelica Huston’s non-role (What in the world was the point of using this talented actress in such a limited manner?), the obligatory sex scene, the out of place gibbering of Paul Rodriguez -- had a tired, contrived, old fashioned feel to it, and I won’t burden you further with more celluloid facts. Instead, let’s now leap into the one good thing that came from this premiere: yes, you’ve guessed right…the food!

With my mind numbed by the mediocrity of the film I had just witnessed, I stumbled out of the theater and into a world (the party was spread over a full block of a New York set) of pleasant conversation and fine dining. I must admit that the quality of gastronomical delights at Warner Bros parties (though always good) varies from one event to the next. Here, though, I was dumbfounded by the intricate flavors of each dish. Swordfish (so luscious that I felt I must be in some sort of fever dream), chicken (more subtle flavors for the educated palate), calamari, roast lamb, and…well, suffice it to say that I went back two more times.

Sitting quietly, my well-fed mind began to analyze the movie. “Why couldn’t the screenwriter come up with something better than that mentally deficient chase scene?” I asked myself. “And what compelled him to overwhelm us with clichés?” Thinking about what he must have been paid, I began to pace the length of the party so further hysteria wouldn’t have its way with me. It was then that I spotted my doom -- the dessert table.

I can’t really be sure what happened next. I dimly recall wolfing down six Crispy Crème donuts. Did a slice of chocolate cake and three pear tarts follow? Yes, I believe so. And even I can’t forget the many scoops of incredible green tea and ginger ice cream that I packed into the edible chocolate-cookie bowl.

My wife, seeing that I had been overwhelmed by intellectual/creative horror and an almost fatal case of sugar-shock, forced me to stand on bandy legs, propped me up on her shoulders, and led me to our car. And here -- I am embarrassed to admit -- I leapt into the driver’s seat, revved the engine (giving her time to get in), and took off at warp speed singing, “Veins full of sugar, heart devoid of fear!” Ah, how I love a good Warner Bros party.

MY RECOMMENDATION: avoid the movie, but contact Warner Bros and demand to know who fed us!