There is only one thing essential to thorough appreciation of The Indian Runner. Unzip your trousers. Peek inside. Is there evidence of a Y chromosome? Okay, you'll do.<br /><br />This film has all the male requisites: blood, guns, car chases, fond women, death, multiple tattoos, cigarettes, liquor, violence, pyrotechnics -- what have I left out? -- oh, yeah, blowtorches.<br /><br />As a woman, I seriously hope Sean Penn regards this as a `when I was a child...' kind of effort. Since he both wrote and directed the thing, he's nearly solely responsible. An uneven cast (Viggo Mortensen as usual demonstrating brilliantly how the job's supposed to be done) tries to save Penn. Too late. The lines and action are there. Even devoted, skilled acting can't change those.<br /><br />I found this movie puerile and silly, as well as predictable. The dialogue staggers along -- Sandy Dennis has my respect for trying to breathe life into a woodenly maternal monologue without motherly authenticity. Then she dies. After a bit, so does the protagonists' father, played by Charles Bronson. Their absence is hardly noticeable.<br /><br />At intervals, the pyrotechnics, etc., noted above appear to liven things up and scare the audience into thinking something significant is occurring.<br /><br />If you're male and under 25, you may adore this film. Plan to return to it at 35. Think you'll still like it?<br /><br />I don't think so.