With pleasing silence a spat turns slapstick, amplified by two fellas named Stan and Oliver.

In a building flurry of sugar stoppages and deliberate cigarette streams, our dubious duelists are expertly slotted between the credits that begin Stanley Tucci’s spirited farce, The Impostors. The snappy conclusion, a vibrant cross-screen leap, is the director jumping in with both feet. We’re better off for it.