While The Gift hardly represents Billy Bob Thornton's finest screenplay to date, this lavish helping of deep-fried, swamp-scented Southern Gothic hokum - based on Billy Bob's own dear old psychic momma - is fine, creepy, supernatural fun, and greatly enhanced by a host of knockout performances from a fine cast, most notably that of Cate Blanchett.

In the decidedly backwoods town of Brixton, Georgia, Annie Wilson (Blanchett) uses her supernatural clairvoyance to do readings for the neighbours, thereby providing for herself and her three sons. Given that this is the kind of place where you suspect even innocuous social programmes like meals-on-wheels are viewed with mighty suspicion as meddling interference from 'big brother in Washington', it's hardly surprising that Annie soon assumes the role of surrogate social worker to the many local troubled hicks. These include disturbed, apparently Tourette's-stricken car mechanic (Ribisi) and domestic abuse victim Valerie (Swank) who habitually looks as if she's gone several rounds with an articulated truck driven by Mike Tyson on speed.

Annie's burden is made all the more cumbersome by her brood's behaviour at school, which has taken a turn for the worse since their daddy done passed on. Hence, she makes the acquaintance of local headmaster Wayne(Kinnear) and his high-society fiancee Jessica (Holmes). The hopelessly untalented Holmes plays the latter with all due awfulness, affecting a hopelessly misbegotten Southern-belle accent worthy of an especially amateurish production of Streetcar Named Desire. It soon transpires that fidelity isn't her strong point - in fact, she's a certifiable slut, so when she thankfully goes missing, the list of suspects can be narrowed down to the entire male population of the State of Georgia.

This state of affairs leaves the local law enforcement authorities at a total loss, so driven to desperate measures, Wayne and the local sheriff enlist the help of Miss Annie's 'gift'. The result puts poor Annie in extreme jeopardy: she must discover Jessica's killer before she becomes his next victim, all the while being stalked by Valerie's malevolent menacing husband (a near-magnificent Reeves) who, together with his bearded Confederacy-flag-waving mates, is only too keen to accuse Annie of witchcraft and deal with her witch trial-style.

The Gift is undeniably formulaic, and even viewers dim enough to miss The Sixth Sense's key twist will still spot the film's ending at forty paces - but it's all deftly executed by director Sam Raimi, visibly happy to be back in the same Deliverance country that formed the backdrop to his magnificent A Simple Plan. Hence, The Gift is liberally peppered with visceral thrills, and underscored with the kind of supernatural knowingness (creepy trees, nightmarish visions, inbred straw-hatted fiddlers) that made Raimi's directorial breakthrough in The Evil Dead series so scary, teasing and sublime.

Above all else, The Gift is blessed with Thornton's remarkable, unparalleled ear for the whiter shade of trash dialect. It's not just the case that he has mastered the oeuvre , it's the incredible richness with which he invests it - Thornton could write for a cast of a thousand rednecks, and each would have their own unique voice. What more do you want: Hilary Swank teetering on white stilettos speaking fluent trailer-trashtalk and sporting a mullet worthy of Glenn Hoddle circa 1983? It's all here.

Worth the price of admission.