Starring Pierce Brosnan, Greg Kinnear, Hope Davis, and Philip Baker Hall. Rated 14A.

The term buddy picture is surely in need of reevaluation in today's Brokeback Mountain world. There has always been, however, an unspoken homoerotic subtext in male-bonding films, and although there is no overtly sexual bond in Richard Shepard's new film, The Matador, there does exist a mutual attraction between the two male lead characters.

Pierce Brosnan is oddly engaging as Julian Noble, a burned-out hit man whose last name betrays his own lack of dignity. He may also be the funnest character Brosnan has sunk his teeth into since the dim but debonair Remington Steele, with permanent stubble, terrible fashion sense, a boozy slur, and a can't-read-a-room lewd sense of humour. "I wouldn't do that," he cracks at one point, "for all the teenage twat in Thailand." Charming.

No wonder Greg Kinnear's Danny Wright-a salesman on a last-chance business trip to Mexico City, where the reluctant buddies meet in a sterile hotel bar-is so drawn to his callous charisma. Refreshingly, Kinnear resists making Danny a stereotype; after he discovers Julian's true line of work, Kinnear doesn't devolve into the panicky desperation of, say, William H. Macy's Jerry Lundegaard from Fargo.

Shepard's direction is as stylized as his screenplay is subtle. Music cues, from the Jam's "A Town Called Malice" to Asia's "Heat of the Moment", crank up the tempo, and screen-filling block-lettered titles establish locations: DENVER, BUDAPEST, and MEXICO CITY. Hit man Julian envies the camaraderie that salesman Danny shares with his faithful wife, Bean, played with understated warmth by the great Hope Davis. As Julian puts it: "You're the total opposite of me; that's the reason I like you." Danny sees in Julian a man who would literally kill to get ahead; that is, until the panic attacks kick in and Julian loses his edge. Timid Danny is forced to step up. This role reversal and exploration of machismo under fire are what raise The Matador into the loftier realms of David Fincher's Fight Club, another film whose psychological underpinnings made it more than just another two-fisted frat party. Funny yet unsettling, warm yet detached, The Matador is a charmingly postmodern buddy picture that hits more than it misses.