Cloverfield: B+

Something has taken over. Something - some wunderkind maestro of our pop-addled times - is accomplishing astonishing feats where none were thought workable before. As you may or may not (ok, may) have already guessed, this "Something" I'm referring to isn't the roving, homicidal creature of Matt Reeve's Cloverfield, but rather the film's producer: J.J. Abrams - he of the golden touch in genres as wide-ranging as the interpersonal tension of college drama Felicity or that mysterious box-locked-within-a-riddle-tied-up-in-a-safe called Lost. Abrams, the writer-director of M:I 3 and creator of a host of hit television shows, has a unique pop aesthetic - unique because it constantly changes: he broke in big writing the script to 1998's ridiculously bombastic Armageddon and leapt from their to the intimate (and critically adored) Felicity; from that he produced the murky spy drama Alias, the show that launched Jennifer Garner, and went on to be at the center of a slew of films and shows (most recently the Star Trek-reboot and the upcoming Fringe for t.v) as the latest demi-god/producer in Hollywood.

Abrams is obviously multi-faceted, but it was nonetheless a shocker to witness the birthing process of his latest gem Cloverfield, the story of Manhattan twentysomethings trying to survive a monster attack, as it was a process shrouded in secrecy and revealed, at last, with a rapid flourish and a quick shove onstage. But regardless (or because of) his methods, the film works; Reeves ShakyCam gimmickry (e.g. the film is shot entirely from the POV of one of the yuppies - T.J. Miller - attempting to survive the attack) and Drew Goddard's script give this tense, enthralling beaut real breath...by stealing all the audience's.

We begin with Rob Hawkins (Michael Stahl-David) filming the house of a friend he's currently staying with; the camera shifts then to his bed, with his latest conquest, Beth (Odette Yustman), flirtatiously situated inside. They exchange some pithy banter and then plan the ensuing day (the idea of a Coney Island visit is tossed around). Suddenly,the film cuts out and then back in on a harried couple - Lily (Jessica Lucas) and Jason (Mike Vogel), Rob's brother - preparing for a surprise gowing-away party for Rob (apparently he's been given a VP job in Tokyo). The couple exchange dialogue in much the same manner as Rob and Beth and right after their finished, so too does the film cut out again; see a pattern?

You should, because Cloverfield, a ferociously well-structured entertainment, is all about shifting patterns - how the camera systematically cuts in and out of the action, back and forth over several different events - and the semi-brilliant way Reeves and Goddard subvert them in service of a classic big-scale Monster Movie gone contemporary and small-scale. Part of this downsizing can be seen in the oddly unmemorable characters now at the forefront of the action. Each is played with grungy grace by grungy non-actors and each has their own stream-lined quarks and punchlines; such a blase center as this quartet (or quintet, depending on the scene) may seem to weaken the film, but remember that bit about subversion? As the movie goes on, terror and torment stacking up - a move stolen silently from the master, Steven Speilberg, in his War of the Worlds days - the twentysomethingnothings become somebodies, so much so that by the end (a well-tempered pastiche of bleakness and sentimental irony) I was tempted even to label Cloverfield "heartfelt".

But foremost on the film's list of attributes isn't its heart (or the lack thereof on its sleeve), but rather its willing-and-readiness to shock and entertain. From perhaps the twentieth of these bite-sized 85-minutes, when the Godzilla/Alien thing first appears, the movie taunts and teases with the best of them: scaring you with things that leap from dark places; unsettling you with the untimely deaths of cheeky and well-liked characters; and portraying the destruction of a city from within the annals of 21st-century relationships. That's a lot of stuff skitering around the edges of a movie proclaimed to be such popcorn-blockbuster material, but it never underperforms or overreaches. Instead, guided by Abrams, Reeves, and Goddard (whose script keeps turning tricks I never saw coming), Cloverfield becomes as multi-talented as its producer; satisfying on levels a movie about a Big Creepy shouldn't be able, and making me jump during a movie about a bunch of Friends and Lovers when I have no right to. Sounds schizophrenic? Try oodles of thrilling, intense, fun.