As a viewing experience and not as a kabbalistic colloquium among Potterians (who will overlook its scant values and over-digitization), Phoenix is crammed and quick, a shorthand version of a thick-as-a-brick pulp tale already well understood by the initiated and of no consequence to the trifling rest of humanity. Daniel Radcliffe, as the increasingly fuzzy-scrotumed HP, remains a standard-issue Luke Skywalker type, opaque and dull so the bestiary around him can look spectacular. The beasts in question are, of course, plummy British thespians enjoying a light work week and reliable franchise checks — how disappointed Gary Oldman must have been to read two years ago that Rowling bumped Sirius Black off, whereas Remus Lupin, Severus Snape, Sybil Trelawney, and Mad-Eye Moody live on to earn for their actors in two more movies.
