Although Metropolitan's production values are nothing to write home about, at least it enjoyed the distinction of perhaps the most awful acting ever. Someone should have told Stillman that a film so dependent on its carefully crafted dialogue might also depend on the performance of said dialogue. If only it had been a short story, I might have enjoyed the read.<br /><br />Once upon a time, while reviewing a director's reel, an agency creative laughingly remarked, "My God, it's like porno dialogue!" Metropolitan seemed to go out of its way to prove that bad delivery needs no nudity to make it to the screen. Such stilted performances could only come from one of two places: the actors' first time in front of a camera, or incredibly bad direction. Metropolitan must have had both ingredients.<br /><br />I hope the comparatively enormous budget of Barcelona, Stillman's next film, healed the wounds he must have suffered in viewing this one. At least the folks responsible for Metropolitan's lighting and art direction were kind to his first effort.<br /><br />After enduring what seemed hours of such stagey performances, I was sure that somewhere out in the world, the writer was still hunting down Metropolitan's director, with murder as his sole intent. Then I learned that the writer directed it. That explains everything.