Usually we stick to bellyslappers, romantic comedies and the occasional political zinger guised as a Franco-era fairytale but this weekend saw us feeling bold enough to cough up an Alexander Hamilton and some change to go see David Fincher’s Zodiac. We'd read some serious mouth-frothers about how ripping the film was and though we went in wearing our houndstooth Skeptic’s hat, we basically have to hit the big red CONCUR button on this one. A) The movie looks great—Harris Savides’ cinematography is all oily and slick and noir and Hopper-ish, Chloe Sevigny is rocking overalls, like, exclusively, and Mark Ruffalo totes works a bowtie for what appears to be about 17 years. B) Robert Downey Jr. is maybe our generation’s finest actor? Not saying, just saying. Could Bogart slide down the drain riding cokers, booze, jazz cigarettes and a jean shirt with iron on decals??? C) The Zodiac shit was creepy! All those weird, reverby Crimson & Clover jams from the ’70s? Unwittingly composed soundtracks for a bloodbath! Who knew? Sure there’s a lot of useless-but-definitely-fascinating-Inside the Mind of a Serial Killer-type details but you are not going to catch us blowing the winds of hatred like our friend Gene Shalit bka the Well-Fed Groucho Marx. Gene: Gyllenhall is not your Waterloo. The mustache is.