If you are into films that are original and make you think as you leave the theater, this is the film to see while it is still in theaters. Christopher Denham and Nicole Vicius portray a couple attempting to infiltrate and expose a cult led by Brit Marling's Maggie but find themselves in too deep.

The film, presented with little back story and minor music cues leaves only the actors and scenes to bring the emotion and interest. All the actors do a good job with the material and if you go with the scenario being presented it's quite engrossing. The end result is a film that forces the viewer to do some of the heavy lifting to determine if Maggie is who she says she is or if it is all a scam.

That rating -- seven -- is tentative because I nodded out about half way through. It was certainly not the fault of the film, which begins slowly but gradually turns fairly gripping.

Two journalists -- a young couple -- decide to investigate a cult in Los Angeles, using spy cams and writing notes on the sly, while pretending to become devoted members. After they are introduced to the basics -- the complicated handshakes, the mandated pre-meeting shower, the wearing of flowing white garb -- they are introduced to "Maggie," who claims to be from the future, having been born in something like 2040.

The male mole is Christopher Denham and he seems to enter the thrall of Maggie, weeping while she explores his past at a meeting, vomiting on cue, and so forth. He's accused by his partner, Nicole Vicius, of becoming brainwashed, but although his performances during the sessions are convincing, so are his explanations to Vicius - that it's all part of the act, designed to maintain rapport with the cult.

Vicius finally decides that the rapport he's trying to achieve has more to do with Maggi than with the cult and she throws him out of her apartment on his behind. This is a reasonable enough conclusion on her part. Denham may be good at rationalization but Maggie is something else. She's play by Brit Marling, who also had a hand in the screenplay. You ought to see her. She has a fine figure, strong, arresting features, long tresses the color of a Van Gogh wheat field, and a soothing but penetrating FM-radio kind of voice. Any normal man would want to throw himself at her feet and grovel while licking her tarsals.

However, she doesn't like cyncism and although she never obviously floods out with anger, she tosses out one poor Chinese kid who asks her to sing a song from the future. After she complies and comes up with some feel-good folksy tune, getting the whole group to sing along with her on the second run, the Oriental gentleman points out that this song was written in the 1990s. She has a ready explanation, she continues smiling, her mien remains unruffled, but boy does she get rid of that Wog kid fast.

I was getting drowsy about the time she invited Denham into her private boudoir. I was hoping for the usual orgiastic coupling but instead, Maggie whips out a cigarette and tells Denham that either he kidnaps one of his eight-year-old students (he's a teacher) or he's blackballed. At that point, eurythmic breathing set in. This damned narcolepsy.

Not being able to see the wind up was really a nuisance too. The story had a personal fascination built into it. For one thing, I'd known one of the girls who was a suicide in the Heaven's Gate Cult. For another I'd taught a seminar on cult behavior and nobody could come up with any consistent explanations for cult formation and recruitment. And the head of my committee in graduate school was the world's leading authority on institutionalized vomiting. Finally, with the exception of Brit Marling's magnetism, which her cock eyes and slight lisp only enhance, it was beginning to remind me a great deal of Ayn Rand's clique back in the 40s and 50s.

If it's on again, I'll certainly try to catch it. It looked promising.