Warner Bros.

Theaters. Theaters Everywhere.

148 minutes

Director Christopher Nolan’s last film outside of his rebooted Batman franchise was 2006’s “The Prestige,” a mystery on the mortal rivalry between two Victorian-era magicians. It opened and closed with the same question: “Are you watching closely?” That question has been the motto of Nolan’s filmmaking career since he debuted the expanses of his intellect with 2000’s “Memento.” Above all other sensory engagements, Nolan requires his audience’s undivided attention. Never has this been truer than with “Inception.” Because so much of his directorial work has been adapted from existing sources, Nolan’s ability to make his audience expand the boundaries of their perception has been only partially showcased. With “Inception,” an original work wholly his own, Nolan has the audience all to himself, and he doesn’t waste the opportunity.

The plot of Inception is too dense to encapsulate and too polished to spoil. In Nolan’s world exists the technology to invade, populate, and manipulate the human subconscious through dreams. Leonardo DiCaprio (“Shutter Island”) is Cobb, an expert practitioner of this invasion and fugitive for reasons unknown. He has a chance to clear his besmirched name via one last impossible job.

As a heist film, “Inception” relies on an ensemble of thieves; they even have titles that reflect their responsibilities. Ariadne is the Architect. Eames is the Forger. Yusuf is the Chemist. Arthur, well, shoot, he’s just Arthur. But he’s no less important than the rest of the gang. Joseph Gordon-Levitt (“500 Days of Summer”) fills the role with a clenched jaw, cherishing efficiency and precision above all. He steals the film with a fight scene, perhaps the best — and certainly the most creative — in years. It’s the technical centerpiece of the film and may not be topped in a lifetime.

Tom Hardy is Eames, a charmer. The mad glint in Hardy’s eye might be a spot of leftover psychopathy from his murderous performance in “Bronson,” a maniacal indie drama about Britain’s most violent criminal. In his big budget debut, Hardy belies no anxiety. His levity and argumentative rapport with Gordon-Levitt are welcome in a film that would otherwise detonate the audience’s adrenal glands. Until, that is, he abandons his smile and outshines even Leo in combat.

But Leo’s Cobb is incontrovertibly the emotional core of the film. It’s not difficult to feel the weight on his shoulders. He’s wracked with guilt, and he’s losing control over the one thing we’d all like to think is always safe: his memories. They betray him at every turn. While the whole team rises above the mere requirements of their duties, Cobb’s stakes are highest.

It’s no surprise that a brain like Nolan’s would deliver such spotless production. Disregard the exposition—“Inception” is viscerally thrilling beyond what many of Nolan’s contemporaries might have thought possible. How he and his cinematographer, fellow genius Wally Pfister, created some of the shots are anyone’s guess. In an age of endless digital shortcuts, when films spend more of their lives on hard drives than in the can, Nolan’s best work is physical. His vision for action photography is not merely to be respected; it is an awesome talent, in the most elemental sense of the word.

David Cronenberg’s films are notorious for their graphic violence. The director received particularly pointed commentary for his lingering shot on a close-range bullet wound in “A History of Violence.” Blood flowed from a mushy hole while bits of smoky bone swam in the plasma gathering on the linoleum floor and some unidentifiable chunk of flesh remained hanging delicately from what was once a face. The victim wasn’t even dead; he sputtered and gagged and blew bubbles in his own blood. Surely this imagery would indicate Cronenberg’s relative comfort with all things gruesome. Yet the director insists that he abhors bloodshed. Cronenberg claims he shows the bullet wound as closely as he can so as not to glamorize the weapon that creates it. He wields his fake violence as a deterrent to those who would commit it in the real world by safely and non-lethally demonstrating its consequences.

In contrast, Christopher Nolan is clearly a lifelong fan of action cinema. That’s not to say that he’s a misanthrope hell-bent on turning the viewer’s stomach, but he doesn’t employ car chases and fight scenes and gunplay as a necessity to appease the mindless box office contributors; he has a genuine appreciation for the ballet of exhilarating and purposeful action. No other filmmaker can assault the audience’s endocrine system quite like Nolan, not even at the expense of the narrative. “Inception” only solidifies Nolan’s status as an aesthetic genius. He’s making a pretty strong case as a literary one, too.

Inception is at once thrilling and meditative. Nolan presents his material neither lightly nor mortally; there’s no cheese to his art. He doesn’t demand that the viewer question reality or ponder the meaning of life, nor does he inhibit it; the viewer is free to interpret the film however he wants. Nolan’s contribution is an honest hypothesis on the strata of human consciousness. Nolan – at considerable risk – respects the intelligence of his audience. He makes films for people who cannot leave their crosswords unfinished. Ariadne’s job in the film is to construct mazes. Nolan does the same for his audience.

If there’s one word to describe Hollywood these days, it’s derivative. Nothing that can’t be packaged and sold in Burger King gets the green light. Successful foreign films get reshot in English with a bigger budget and bigger stars with more collagen in their lips after the original taps the European box office. But, once upon a time, at least a year or two passed before a film got reheated and tossed on our placemat. “Inception” shared its opening weekend with “The Sorcerer’s Apprentice,” the CGI-laden sugary crotch-punch raped corpse of a Disney classic starring Nicolas Cage’s forehead and the human sinus cavity, Jay Baruchel. “Inception,” by some miracle, exists. That it might thrive in this ever-slackening jaw of an industry is a dream we can only pray becomes reality.

1. Rachel Uchitel:  As the #1 Skank in the power rankings, this celeb slopping “Party Planner” is more than the tabloids first thought.  Accusations of her running a NYC escort service have began to arise out of this skanktastic scandal and the alleged $1 million dollar payout by Woods Inc. doesn’t make any of it sound better.  She is the top player holding all the cards.  She may not only have Tiger sending her jealous emails about her possibly “cheating?” on him, but she could have a black book of multiple skanks Woods has put the driver to. 
2. Joslyn James: One of two pornstars who has yet to speak up much about her skins game with the pro golfer.  There are allegations of multiple porn practice sessions between the two and with her chosen profession you know there must be some video footage with a high price tag on it for Woods Inc. to hide.  Look for her career to explode more than Tiger on a golf outing in Los Angeles (not on the golf course).
3. Jamiee Grubbs:  Already paid an alleged $300,000 for her text messages and hilarious voicemail “Hey, it’s Tiger”, this reality star and cocktail waitress from San Diego has plenty of info to make Mrs. Woods reach for the nearest 7 iron.  The text messages alone bring Tiger’s image of the unfaithful golfer guy to a full blown nerd with a sex addiction.  “I will wear you out” is soon to be the newest bootytext message sent to skanks and loved ones all across the nation.
4. Kalika Moquin: The Las Vegas nightclub executive was Tigers #1 connection to skank festivals when visiting Sin City.  Her actually important job will now be in jeopardy after spilling the beans about Tiger sticking it in the hole from her bunker.  Having multiple relations with the golfer and a strong desire for fancy shit, this 27 year old can produce a fine list of reasons her sex story buyout could reach 7 figures.
5. Cori Rist:  A sleeper in the power rankings that recently came out of the clubhouse about her relations with Tiger.  Allegedly flown to multiple tournaments, stayed in adjacent rooms at the hotel and shacked up with Tiger for only a 6 month period.  Why only 6 months?  Because she wanted more and the PGA superstar wouldn’t play by her rules.  The only skank of 8 to actually dump Tiger woods has plenty more to say and is most likely seething at the opportunity to cash in along with her Tiger Skank Sorority sister.
6. Holly Sampson:  In May, 2009 she was actually the first to speak up about cleaning Tigers “Club” at a bachelor party on the website “Naughty America” during a live interview (topless of course) with other porn stars.  Because this was in the shadows until now it means 1 of 2 things, golf fans don’t subscribe to porn sites, or they just don’t talk about it.  Most likely the latter of the two.   This xxx star is about as smart as a box of rocks but willing to put it all out there. Her profession gives her an upper hand due to the fact that she has an excellent porn dialect which could cause Elin Woods to jump into another club swinging rage in 3.5 seconds.  Her payout may not be as handsome and she probably could care less. 
7. Jamie Jungers: Cocktail waitress from Vegas, engaged during her affair with Tiger to a young man who idolized Tiger woods.  It’s sad but true, her ex-fiancé had a shrine of Woods memorabilia in their home and because of her possible family values and normal picture she would be the least likely have a high buyout in this sex-octagon.
8. Mindy Lawton: Manger at a Perkins restaurant in the Orlando area and the least attractive of the 8 skanks to speak of Tiger’s philandering.  Her power ranking is low for 2 reasons.  1, It’s hard to believe a guy worth 1 billion dollars would hit that and 2, She has changed the image of Perkins from “Family Dining” to “I just played golf, time to go to Perkins and get me a turkey sandwich with a side of skank.”

I’m anxiously awaiting the first wave of articles that proclaim Tiger is in for a struggle this upcoming golf season due to the “distractions” his little incident has caused him.

If they are traditionally golf writers, I’ll mark them as page-click hungry idiots. If it’s Rick Reilly, I’ll shrug and continue assembling the nail bomb I’m sending to his office. If it’s someone who doesn’t normally write about golf I’ll just give them a pass on general stupidity.

You see, golf is a pretty hard sport. I don’t feel like arguing with people about this, especially meathead HURRRRR ALL THEY DO IS SWING HURRRR types, so ahead and mosey on over to ESPN.com or something if that’s your thing.

Anyway, back to golf. I have something called The Tiger Law. The Tiger Law states that no person, at any time, can be a perfect golfer. While there is always technically room for improvement until you manage to score an 18 over 18, you can only realistically be so good. Tiger has been programmed from birth for golf, and he has long ago reached his peak. At this point it’s simply a matter of the chips falling his way to decide whether or not he notches a victory.

Golf, itself, is a distracting career. Every golfer, even the worst of the worst, needs to understand three distinct swings. The sweeping driver swing, the downward swing of the iron that is completely counter-intuitive to most at first, and the putt. These are essential movements and all require different skills. You must be able to switch between them throughout the round – and this is why the Tiger Law exists. As you master these, you’ll inevitably notice that some days your drives are far better than your putts or that your irons are awesome. Even if you master all three, you’ll only be a ridiculously terrible player.

To improve, you’ll need to learn to hit from the sand, and how to chip. Add two more distinct movements. To improve from there, you’ll need to learn to fade and draw the ball on command from the tee and with the irons. This pattern continues – to score well, you’ll always need to learn new shots, thus increasing the chances of one of them escaping you during a round.

So while it’s true that Tiger occasionally loses a tournament he could have realistically won by putting better or driving better, he’s never going to be a robot golfer who is on all the time. Neither will anyone else. The guy can play a PGA Tournament in his sleep at this point. Some weeks will be better than others.

Now I’m supposed to believe this controversy is going to be so distracting he can’t play golf? Let me ask you what would be more distracting – sneaking around on your wife with multiple women and trying to keep it hidden from her, your friends, and the constantly hunting media – OR – having everyone know what you did and … well, that’s it.

Maybe I’m crazy, and I’m definitely inexperienced in being a multi-millionaire golf prodigy with a taste for mildly attractive reality show skanks, but it seems to me that having it all out in the open might be less of a burden for Tiger than having his seven iron chucking Stepford Wife hunting through his phone for suspicious numbers.

That’s why I’m here to give you some inside betting advice – take Woods to win every single god damn major this year. You think he won’t have this tuned out by March? The only way to redeem himself is to throttle those other douchewads on the PGA Tour. I half-think he concocted this whole situation to put himself in the pressure cooker.

In conclusion, I don’t care where Tiger Woods sticks his dick. Only where he hits the pi … dammit there’s no good cutesy wordplay to end this with.