JFK.

THERE ARE three distinct angles from which Oliver Stone's JFK must be considered: artistic, historical, and political. For it is not only a feature film but also a polemic revision of history and an incentive to political action. Oliver Stone clearly implies that he has given us a riveting entertainment, the probable (or, more likely, definitive) reconstruction of the assassination of John F. Kennedy, and a clarion call for the release of documents ordered sealed until 2029--and thus started a political process that will lead to truth and justice and better government.

One can no more oppose these motives than be against sunlight, fresh air, and good health. But one may question the credibility of Stone's movie, based on the books On the Trail of the Assassins, by Jim Garrison, and Crossfire: The Plot that Killed Kennedy, by Jim Marrs. Many, including prominent journalistic and political figures, have done that, finally rejecting the film as hogwash. There is, to be sure, an aura of arrogance and sensationalism about the filmmaker that invites skepticism and dismissal.

Personally, I know very little about the Kennedy assasination and, worse yet, am open to charges of political analphabetism. I have always sympathized with the autobiographical hero of Anatole France's Le Lys rouge who declares, "I am not so devoid of all talents as to occupy myself with politics." Yet this credo, which makes some sense coming from a French artist and intellectual, would foul the breath of an American speaker. For if politics has been one of the two enervating preoccupations in France (need I name the other?), it has trailed just about everything, notably sports, in this country.

Now, I have nothing against sports, but for an entire nation to be besotted with them to the point where for every thousand Americans who can rattle off a litany of football scores and batting averages there may be one who can name his representatives in Congress is another matter. If a fraction of the time America spends on rehashing a basketball game could be reclaimed for informed political discussion, the quality of life would improve immeasurably. This is why I consider JFK, even if it makes a slice of Swiss cheese, by comparison, as solid as a glass brick, a salutary phenomenon.

By all means let us reconsider the assassination, remove the seal from all documents for qualified examiners (scholars, elected officials, journalists), and question the motives of all who might have been involved. Even the most far-fetched questioning seems to me healthier than indifference and complacency. And if it takes a movie such as JFK to get the ball rolling--well, did anyone ever claim that Uncle Tom's Cabin was a work of art? Stowe or Stone, blue stocking or loudmouth, nemesis or nudge, the also serve.

JFK, though sometimes long-winded, ponderous, or hard to follow, is not to be sloughed off easily. It makes its troubling points forcefully, and at the very least persuades that a single assassin could not have done it all. That it turns Jim Garrison into a much more appetizing figure than he seems to have been or be strikes me as a footling misdemeanor. Whatever its short-comings, the film conveys the sense of confusion, panic, and impotence at such a dread event, the way witnesses cannot sort out what they have seen. A similar problem confronts me as I try to make sense of what this three-hour movie kept thrusting at me. The trouble with JFK is that whereas it solicits a second seeing to unscramble it, it does not offer enough aesthetic compensation to warrant the effort of reimmersion.

Yet what technical knowhow! The interweaving of documentary footage (the Zapruder film) and the stuff shot by Stone, the feel of authenticity and immediacy as these historic scenes are recreated (thanks in large part to Robert Richardson's canny cinematography), and the highly charged, redolent work of performers in small roles--all these dazzle. There are exceptions, though. Garrison himself turns Earl Warren into a denizen of the ghoulhaunted woodlands of Weir, and the gifted English actor Gary Oldman is too rich a presence for the puny Oswald. It may also have been a mistake to cast stars in cameo roles, e.g., Ed Asner (who at least tries to act), Walter Matthau, Donald Sutherland (who are just themselves), and John Candy and Jack Lemmon (who overact).

But what might have been the biggest miscalculation, the casting of Kevin Costner as Jim Garrison, proves a coup. Costner not only delivers a sound performance, but also, by being cast against type, manages to make us--and even himself--forget that he is Kevin Costner. As Mrs. Garrison, Sissy Spacek cannot, for all her good efforts, save the part of the workaholic's neglected wife from the cliches with which Stone and Zachary Sklar's script has bedizened it. Stunning work, however, from Laurie Metcalf, Jay O. Sanders, Kevin Bacon, and many others. Most impressive is Tommy Lee Jones as the smooth, homosexual businessman-playboy Clay Shaw, followed closely by Joe Pesci as David Ferrie, one of those seemingly over-the-top Pesci performances that, in the end, register concusively right.

Mr. Simon, NR's film critic, is also theater critic for New York magazine.