The problem is, there is nothing in the universe with that kind of power. Okay, sure, a bleeding statue pales in comparison to Melanie Griffith suddenly being able to act her way out of a wet paper bag, but it's still impossible to believe. That's why it's also hard to care that Father Frank Shore (Ed Harris) is depressed because a disproved miracle has destroyed the belief structure of an entire small town. Too bad for them. The nutty townsfolk are barely up to speed on women's equality and are still firmly committed to the idea that parades are a "good" thing. They needed the dose of reality. Jumping in a pool of blessed water does not cure paralysis. What's so tough about that?

The whole experience causes Frank to question his professional choices, so director Agnieszka ("Washington Square") Holland gives him the pursuit of a real miracle and a love affair with Anne Heche to renew his faith. I don't know about the miracle, but I'm sure sleeping with Anne Heche would turn somebody to God real fast. This is dirty pool if you ask me. I say throw Father Frank in a room with Salma Hayek, a case of Cool Whip and some circus midgets, and I bet God is playing second fiddle faster than he can say Charlie Daniels.

Apparently it takes three miracles to qualify for sainthood and the film never gets to the third one, which is a rip-off. If I'm going to see a film called "The Third Miracle" I better get three miracles, just like if I order a Double Whopper at Burger King I better see two beef patties on that sandwich.