The Icicle Thief is a meta-film about a mundane Italian soap opera which is forcefully twisted into a mundane comedy. At least that is what I thought for the first half of the movie. It is better than that, but I’m not sure how much better; it is weird. I call it a meta-film because it is a movie in which one movie is being watched, commented upon, and—its redeeming grace—entered into by its director. Unfortunately, I don’t think I was as amused by how convoluted the plot becomes as I was bemused by how odd a man would have to be to dream of such a screenplay. There are many clever little jabs at Italian neo-realism (indulging the name of the movie), some of which are the best moments of the movie, a slam dunk representation of film academia seduces a wry smile, and the very bizarre commentary of advertisement’s despicable destruction of taste is spot on, but may demand Spot-Off to forget. Once when I was watching one of those world series the Dodgers lost, I was struck by how ugly and pervasive the ads were, and everyone sat and watched them. I’ve since wondered just how responsible product-pushing has been in the destruction of our taste…perhaps another sin to lay at the feet of mammon?