You live in a city that the studio suits consider a mid-sized market, so you've likely noticed that sometimes, when you want to see a particularly hyped film, that's just too damn bad. Unlike music and books, which are released in such a way that they're available to almost everyone once they're unleashed on the public, certain movies can take their sweet time getting to you. Now, until the sad day that digital projection becomes the industry norm, this practice makes financial sense; it costs a few thousand dollars to strike a print, so the idea is to roll the film out slowly just in case it tanks. Platforming, as it's called, also serves a second, slyer purpose: buzz. The problem, though, with too much advance praise is that not every film can actually deliver on it.

Before director Jason Reitman's "Up In The Air" opened in our lowly locale, the film had received six Golden Globe nominations and enough year-end awards from the various critics' associations to make a person believe that one single viewing might permanently alter their life for the better. The same thing, you may recall, happened with Reitman's previous film, "Juno," which either plucked your heartstrings or tried your patience. (Me = latter.) Are you immune to the promise of buzz? Because I'm not; I get as excited as anyone to see The Next Big Thing. The real question is whether buzz creates unrealistic expectations, and I say no: Outside forces cannot prevent a work of art from truly speaking to you. But "Up In The Air," while beautifully acted and carefully crafted, has surprisingly little to say.

George Clooney stars as Ryan Bingham, and in the opening sequence we learn, through smooth voiceover and crisply edited shots of rolling suitcases and gleaming airports, about Ryan's efficient existence as a professional corporate downsizer. Or: he fires people for spineless companies who won't nut up and do it themselves. On the road 322 days a year ("43 miserable days at home"), Ryan loves his life, which is completely free of attachment to both possessions and people. (He also moonlights as a motivational speaker extolling the virtues of a proverbially empty backpack.) The monkey wrench arrives in the form of Natalie Keener (the gifted Anna Kendrick, "Twilight"), all brisk business suit and low-slung ponytail, who hopes to save money for Bingham's boss (Jason Bateman, slimy) by sacking people via videoconference.

Besides the fact that this would essentially ground our (anti-)hero, Ryan prides himself on the personal touch and face time with those undergoing a euphemistically titled "career transition." So Ryan and Natalie wing their way through the Midwest, the seasoned pro showing the green upstart how it's done as they form a tentative, bickering bond. Rather than reduce their relationship to romance, however, Reitman throws the fascinating, leggy Alex (Vera Farmiga, "The Departed") into Ryan's path. They meet-cute in a hotel bar, throwing down plastic perks cards like Rene Russo and Mel Gibson compared scars in "Lethal Weapon 3." On the surface a mirror image of Ryan, Alex's narrative purpose is to show Ryan the error of his rootless ways. But if that doesn't work, there's also a maudlin subplot about Ryan's familial obligations that wastes the talents of Danny McBride.

Amoral corporate shark with a code who begins to question his choices thanks to a similarly bankrupt woman and patient loved ones? Reitman told this story before with his first (and best) film, 2006's "Thank You For Smoking." It helped that Aaron Eckhart could disappear into his role, because that's becoming an issue for Clooney, unless he's buried under a "Syriana" beard or fantastic fox fur. It's a reliable, decent performance; he enjoys some refreshingly grown-up chemistry with the sexy Farmiga, but without blowing the ending, emotional evolution is ambiguous. Maybe this is considered gutsy filmmaking, but it isn't dramatically satisfying.

Loosely adapted from the 2001 novel by Walter Kim, "Up In The Air" is certainly topical; Reitman put out a casting call in a few cities for recently laid-off workers, and he includes their very real reactions to being downsized in the film. But sandwiched in between fictional fires like the great J.K. Simmons and Zach Galafianakis from "The Hangover," this device doesn't hit the verité mark that Reitman probably intended, instead feeling opportunistic, like we're feasting on the bones of misfortune for our entertainment. "That's a shame," we'll murmur, wondering when it will happen to us. But then the camera pans to the biggest movie star in the world; the disconnect is jarring and the necessary resonance is lost.