Part of Eastwood's knack for adaptation is knowing what and what not to take seriously. Among the former are blithe narrative economy, visual wit, irony, and performances that elevate stereotypes into something resembling human beings. All these virtues are exhibited in the film's opening sequence, which begins with a slow pan of Renaissance paintings and a glance over the shoulder of Luther Whitney (Eastwood, grizzled and bespectacled and looking more like an avuncular Jack Lemmon than Dirty Harry), calmly sketching details from the masterworks. Later, dining home alone, he peruses the sketchpad, and one of the drawings materializes into billionaire philanthropist Walter Sullivan (E.G. Marshall), whom Whitney has meticulously prepared to rob.

It's a gem of sly disclosure and exquisite exposition, as is the sequence that follows, which is in its own way as outrageous and provocative as the closet scene in David Lynch's Blue Velvet. Surprised mid robbery by the return of Sullivan's wife, Christy (Melora Hardin, who proves to have a powerful right hook), with Sullivan's protégé Alan Richmond (Gene Hackman) in tow, Whitney hides out in a secret closet vault in the bedroom -- a vault that, it turns out, is equipped with a one-way mirror. From there he watches the inebriated couple grope and paw. Richmond, though, has a taste for the rough stuff, and Christy is no pushover. The would-be tryst explodes into a bloody row; Christy is poised with a letter opener over Richmond's heart when she's suddenly blown away by a pair of gunshots.

Eastwood as tense, bemused, horrified voyeur is a novel concept, and the alternating cuts between his reactions in the darkened room and the drama enacted through the mirror's screen elevate a generic thriller into something creepier and more thought-provoking. Perhaps this represents a comment on the passive nature of his profession and the incriminating complicity of those who passively enjoy its products.

Then again, probably not. What follows is, in any case, a lot more entertaining. The two shooters are Bill Burton (Scott Glenn) and Tim Collin (Dennis Haysbert), and they're joined by Gloria Russell (Judy Davis, again giving good ball-busting bitch), who supervises a cover-up. They'll make it look as if Christy surprised a burglar (a classic reaction shot from Eastwood here) and was murdered. Too late they realize they've left a key piece of evidence, and a real burglar who witnessed everything, behind.

It's a shame to give away a detail that Eastwood discloses brilliantly with a simple camera tilt -- but then, the movie posters have already given it away. Richmond is the president of the United States, and Absolute Power is a kind of inversion of In the Line of Fire. Whitney's in deep trouble. Not only are the two Secret Service agents who did in Christy after him, but so is ace police detective Seth Frank (Ed Harris) and a hitman hired by Sullivan. He decides to assume a new identity and flee, but when he sees Richmond hypocritically cozying up to Sullivan on TV, those familiar Harry Callahan veins start popping out of his forehead. "You heartless whore," he growls. "I'm not about to run from you."

So, in a sense, he does change identities, from the quiet and studious Whitney to the vigilante of old. No .44 Magnum, though -- his weapon this time is a genius for disguises and breaking into places. The mordant humor remains, including one pointed Dr. Kevorkian joke that brings the house down. In the end, Whitney is just a bit too omnipotent, but his unlikely triumphs are still great fun. Eastwood might be seen in this as taking a shot at the much maligned Executive Office and its current occupant, but Clinton has more important things to worry about. Its weighty issues secondary to its sense of play, the film takes seriously only the absolute power of entertainment.