Take your cue from the title, for it’s wise to remember that nothing is what it seems in The Illusionist. This, glossy turn-of-the-century thriller is most devious indeed, concocted as it is from smoke and mirrors: beware of the spell it casts. Theatrical shenanigans, emotional haggling and intellectual intrigue abound in 19^th century Vienna where illusionist Eisenheim is a celebrity. A chance encounter brings him face to face with childhood sweetheart Sophie, now consort to the vicious Crown Prince Leopold. Thus far, The Illusionist is distinct from a similarly toned magic-act, The Prestige, in as much as Eisenheim actually appears to be calling upon unholy powers. No more so than when he begins conjuring up the dead and, to Leopold’s horror, the now-late Sophie. The forward-looking Prince has had enough and calls in his sceptical Chief of Police.

There’s much to like about Burger’s deceptively complex film. It promises much and delivers just that as the story builds deliberately toward a complex finale. Burger compounds events with historical comparison – the Prince’s traditional methods to foster a modern Empire, the emerging battle between science and spirituality. Burger’s lush style is hauntingly erotic while Norton and Giamatti confirm why they’re among the finest actors of their generation. Yet these parts somehow deplete the whole. Neither Giamatti’s urgency or Rufus Sewell’s belligerent Leopold can break through an unwelcome chill that gathers like a Victorian fog. Despite, or perhaps in spite of, Norton’s carefully nuanced performance, The Illusionist is frustratingly distant. Come a hasty, thread-tying end, we’re left with a vague sense of having been cheated. Like one of Eisenheim’s subjects suddenly free of his mesmerising spell, you can’t help but wonder what it was all about.

// COLIN FRASER