Gyllenhaal is a sweet yet spicy companion for Ferrell’s Crick, exposing feistiness throughout the runtime. Moreover, she is a strong and developed love interest, which is lacking in so many films today. Dustin Hoffman returns to his lovable quirky psyche for the role of Dr. Jules Hibbert, a wise-cracking yet somewhat oblivious professor who wouldn’t seem like the right catalyst for Ferrell. Emma Thompson is underused yet effective as the depressed Eiffel, and Queen Latifah’s role as her assistant seems completely misplaced.

Director Marc Forster constructs his movie much like Harold Crick’s life - adding acute mental visuals into the final cut, as to further explain something much simpler. Every locale, city street, or crowd is cut and trimmed to minimalist perfection, to the degree that is everything is detailed in a very thoughtful fashion. As Harold makes his way to the bus stop, Thompson’s omniscient voice carefully notes the way he ties his necktie, leaving the audience to actually ponder about our own little habits. It’s Forster’s tiring scène work that leaves the final product to be a simplistic blank canvas for us to study. It argues the choices given by life, its drive, and the need to break new ground. Moreover, Stranger than Fiction is a cross between comedy and tragedy, an argument that the story itself tries to understand. After the credits roll, you’ll smile - you’ll get your happy ending. What it is, I won’t say, but it will surprise. Best of all, Fiction’s happy ending not only satisfies, but justifies itself. That, quite simply, justified the purpose of me even seeing the film.

Stranger than Fiction is a short artistic work that never becomes pretentious or too bland, never loses a comedic opportunity, and can hit some heartstrings if you’re willing to open up. Ferrell and the cast please, and I strongly suggest you take a wide open mind into the theater with you.