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THE TRIPLETTES OF BELLEVILLE
12.26.03 (3:39 pm)   [edit]
THE TRIPLETTES OF BELLEVILLE
Cast: Michčle Caucheteux, Jean-Claude Donda, Michel Robin and Monica Viegas
Directed by: Sylvain Chomet
Written by: Sylvain Chomet
Distributor: Sony Pictures Classics (US 2003)
Rated: PG-13 for images involving sensuality, violence and crude humor

As Reviewed by: GABRIEL SHANKS

If Salvador Dali had been inspired by forward motion -- or by Disney's [i]The Rescuers Down Under[/i] -- he might have created something similar to Sylvain Chomet's sweetly quirky animated drama [b]THE TRIPLETTES OF BELLEVILLE[/b]. And what a fresh breath of air it is; Chomet, who first garnered international attention with 1998's [i]The Old Lady and the Pigeons[/i], makes cartoons that are almost wholly intended for adult audiences. And by adult, I don't mean sleazy, I mean mature -- these are animated stories about loss and time, broken families and wish fulfillment, concepts well beyond preteen understanding (or interest). The rapturous imagination of Chomet shares an inventive, experimental storytelling found in the works of Miyazaki and the Wachowskis. What a joy to watch a cartoon with your brain turned on.

With a toe-tapping score by Benoit Charest and Mathieu Chedid, [b]THE TRIPLETTES OF BELLEVILLE[/b] lives in the realm of images. There's barely any dialogue to speak of. (If one had to select the character that speaks most, it would undoubtedly be the incessantly barking dog Bruno.) With sound but not text, Chomet's visual world adds the textures, vibrantly stretched out of proportion -- impossibly tall steamships sail past shorter skyscrapers, while rushing trains slow and speed up in less than a second, pushed by an unseen energy. In some ways, [b]BELLEVILLE [/b]is a metaphor about forward motion: how machines move, how cities change, how children become adults, how age complicates us all. This preoccupation with motion is especially rich for a hand-drawn cartoon, because it opens our own imaginations. Suddenly, we see how Bruno's stick-thin legs can hold up his enormous girth -- because we dream it so.

The story of [b]THE TRIPLETTES OF BELLEVILLE[/b] is as unusual as its animation. Madame Souza has lovingly raised her orphan grandson from youth; a despondent child, his life was forever changed with her gift of a three-wheel bicycle. Fast-forward to adulthood: as Souza's grandson competes in the Tour De France, he is kidnapped by the French Mafia and taken to the mysterious gotham called Belleville. Worried and confused, Souza and her trusted pooch, Bruno, team up with an aging trio of wartime singers -- the Belleville Triplettes -- to save him from their nefarious clutches.

Emotion is conveyed through the eyes in [b]BELLEVILLE[/b], a remarkable feat for an animator to achieve; without words to fall back on, the expressiveness of each character becomes paramount. The swooping architecture and flowing clothes imbue the film with an almost classicist grace; even the Mafia bodyguards exhibit a balletic power, turning into blockish hunks of intimidation before our eyes, recalling sculptures of the Third Reich. There is little magic in the story proper, but very much in its telling -- the film often reaches beyond the boundaries of the possible to swallow us deliciously in its creative whirlpool. A welcome respite in the continuing CGI takeover of the animation industry, [b]THE TRIPLETTES OF BELLEVILLE[/b] remind us what's possible with a pen, some ink, and a staggeringly creative visionary.
 
THE COOLER
12.24.03 (3:24 pm)   [edit]
THE COOLER
Cast: William H. Macy, Alec Baldwin, Maria Bello, Ron Livingston, Shawn Hatosy, Estella Warren, and Paul Sorvino
Directed by: Wayne Kramer
Written by: Frank Hannah and Wayne Kramer
Distributor: Lions Gate Films (US 2003)
Rated: R for strong sexuality, violence, language and some drug use

As Reviewed by: GABRIEL SHANKS

In the romanticized mythology of Wayne Kramer's drama [b]THE COOLER[/b], Las Vegas is a precariously dichotomous town -- a city both gratuitously blessed and unforgivingly damned by Lady Luck. In the opening credits, the skyline reveals Vegas to be a neon-encrusted smorgasbord of entertainment, but its marquees and casinos bear the barely-covered stretch marks of sleazy ethics and recent Disney-fication. Vegas is, in Kramer's view, one very big mess, teeming with humanity and overrun with its baser natures. It is Eden [i]and[/i] Sodom, all rolled into one.

Which leaves us in need of an Adam, or a Lot, or at least an Everyman to catalyze Vegas' dramatic potential. [b]THE COOLER[/b], an engrossing but stilted analysis of the human condition, provides us with just such a hero in Bernie Lootz (William H. Macy). A charming loser, Bernie has one humdinger of a personality quirk -- he has unremittingly (almost supernaturally) bad luck follow him wherever he goes. What's worse, he can pass on the bad luck to others simply by being in their presence. This unique trait has not gone unnoticed by Shelley Kaplow (Alec Baldwin), the old-school boss of the Golden Shangri-La Casino, who for many years has hired Berine as a 'cooler' -- a man who puts the nix on winning players and hot tables.

Stealing people's luck is depressing business, and Bernie has told Shelley he's leaving...that is, until he falls in love with a mysterious cocktail waitress, Natalie (Maria Bello). And as Lady Lucky rears her capricious head, Bernie's long losing streak comes to an end...with devastating consequences.

Emotional turmoil and magic realism make up most of [b]THE COOLER[/b], although Bernie's son (Shawn Hatosy) and his pregnant wife (Estella Warren) do figure in a sizeable subplot. The performances without exception are top-notch, and in truth, better than the film probably deserves. For [b]THE COOLER[/b] itches like a new wool sweater -- there's a glossy sheen to Kramer's film that reeks of film school or television productions. Showy camera tricks in the casinos, visible makeup on all of the actors, and a gratingly irritating, shmaltzy-saxophone score by Mark Isham (the jazz-music equivalent of Chinese water torture) all distract from the central story in great degree.

It's not that [b]THE COOLER[/b] is amateurish, exactly; it's just too affected. The surfaces are indeed beautiful in Kramer's direction -- dewy closeups on rolling dice, beads of sweat on a junkie's forehead, a giggle-worthy rainshower of coins at a slot machine -- but there's nothing deeper underneath the slick images. As if to cement affectation into the screenplay itself, there's also a ridiculous ending to the film, meant to underscore the themes of the film...but one that simply elicited guffaws of laughter at the screening I attended. Such lapses in professionalism are a major problem in a film that is, essentially, a quiet actors' chamber piece set against a colorful background.

Cliches and directorial inability aside, there's some great acting on display in [b]THE COOLER[/b], making it well worth your time. Leading the list is Alec Baldwin, who infuses Shelley with a near demonic control of his kingdom. Violent but loyal, Shelley understands that he is rapidly becoming a dinosaur, unable to grow or change in the face of Las Vegas' family-vacation future. His rage is that of any man who realizes he no longer has a place in the world, but its operatic bluster makes it awe-inspiring. It may truly be the best performance of Baldwin's career.

Maria Bello has quickly transitioned from her television roots on [i]E.R.[/i] to a film career, most notably in last year's [i]Auto Focus[/i]. Still, nothing she's done quite prepares you for her intensity or depth as Natalie in [b]THE COOLER[/b]. As a woman slowly cracking at her core, Bello exhibits star-making complexity. Ron Livingston contributes a spritely turn as Larry Sokolov, a young whippersnapper determined to bring down Baldwin's rule. As the titular character, William H. Macy hits a smooth, hazy groove as the good-natured, put-upon Bernie, a charming shlub who clearly doesn't deserve the bad (or the good) luck that comes his way.

There's a long list of films about Las Vegas that attempt to encapsulize its essence: [i]Casino [/i]and [i]Bugsy [/i]pop immediately to mind. But unlike those two (better) films, [b]THE COOLER[/b] can't seem to figure out how to extrapolate larger ideas from its smaller, human tale. It would like to see Vegas as a metaphor itself, a wild, unpredictable force that governs lives even as they govern the city. But Vegas is, in the end, just a town...a great one maybe, a colorful one certainly, but still just a town. And here, like everywhere else, there are good guys and bad guys, and some people win and some people don't. It isn't a mystery; it's life. In the end, [b]THE COOLER[/b] is a victim of its own mythology, a marvelous romantic drama drowning in a sea of cards, chips, and dreams.
 
SHATTERED GLASS
12.23.03 (6:26 pm)   [edit]
SHATTERED GLASS
Cast: Hayden Christensen, Peter Sarsgaard, Chloe Sevigny, Rosario Dawson, Steve Zahn, and Melanie Lynskey
Directed by: Billy Ray
Written by: Billy Ray
Distributor: Lions Gate Films (US 2003)
Rated: PG-13 for language, sexual references and brief drug use

As Reviewed by: GABRIEL SHANKS

It's obvious to nearly everyone (except Rush Limbaugh's Dittoheads) that journalistic integrity has seen better days. Bloodied and battered, the future of ethical news reporting is now in a steel-cage death match with Big Media, and the winner will determine the economics, politics, and social ethics for generations to come. Once, a noble adherence to facts ruled the day, but now slanted perspective runs many a newsroom (and garners the advertising dollars). And lest you're already tsk-tsking about Rather and Co., let's be clear that journalists aren't the only ones to blame. Americans no longer desire stoic news reporting, prefering news filtered through the political point of view they share. It is an NPR vs. Fox world, and it's only a matter of time before truth becomes a roadside casualty. (My off-topic remedy: watch the BBC.)

In the face of these competing, savage forces holding sway over the industry...what's a young, hungry reporter to do? Follow the time-honored ethical tradition, or reach for the spotlight of celebrity news? Aspire to be Edward R. Murrow or Keith Olbermann? Learn from William Safire or Bill O'Reilly? Where's the payoff, a new generation might rightly ask, in ethics?

The question was quite disconcertingly posed last year in the celebrated case of Jayson Blair, who wrote false facts into his stories at the [i]New York Times[/i]...stories that not-incidentally had moved him furthur up the ladder of success at the world's most distinguished newspaper. The resulting embarrassment for the [i]Times [/i]-- a publication that has prided itself on its unsmirched reputation and holier-than-thou history -- is not dissimilar to the fate that befell the [i]New Republic[/i] in the late 1990's. That fate, and that story, is dramatized in Billy Ray's engrossing new film [b]SHATTERED GLASS[/b]. The glass in the title is metaphorical, of course, but also literal, in the form of Stephen Glass, the promising youthful associated editor who fabricated almost two dozen articles over many years. The dramatic potential in the scenario is complicated and important, and Ray's assured direction and heady screenplay make the most of the resulting moral miasma. [b]SHATTERED GLASS[/b] asks us what today's journalists cannot: what service does modern news have to the objective truth? Can objectivity ever be achieved by a for-profit entity with economic interests? And most importantly...what is the fate of our world if we cannot depend upon the news media to report events accurately?

Glass, played with twitchy brio by Hayden Christensen (the young Anakin from the Star Wars prequels), is the kid every parent wanted. As a cinematic character, he has a rare combination of traits that make him irresistible on screen: emotionally needy but verbally adept, with an air of nerdy-chic that makes it difficult to dislike him, even after his ethical breaches are revealed. Rising to his editorial position while still in his mid-20's, Glass is both ambitiously gifted and woefully inept, a master of the double-bind and passive-aggressive questioning. In his screenplay, Ray makes it clear that Glass creates his fantastical fabrications from a desire to be liked -- by his colleagues, by his friends, and by the editors who routinely scout him for big-time freelance positions. As the lies begin to shred like tissue paper, one can only feel torn watching this...torn between disapproval of the harsh crimes Glass committed and understanding of the heartbreaking immaturity that bred them. Like most good drama, we have trouble condeming the sin when we understand the sinner's good intentions.

A loophole in the editing process allows Glass to create his fabulist tales, although both his former editor (Hank Azaria) and Chuck, his new one (Peter Sarsgaard) suspect something amiss with Glass' reporting. But in an industry where trust and truthfulness are not only necessary but assumed as the standard, how can one process wholesale lying? Not well. As Glass' friends (including a tremulous Melanie Lynsky and a headstrong Chloe Sevigny) rally around him, it is up to Chuck to hold the editorial and moral line. Still, with the good name and possible downfall of the entire publication resting on his shoulders, [b]SHATTERED GLASS[/b] gives its most breathtaking moments to Chuck's tortured decision about Glass' deceit.

[b]SHATTERED GLASS[/b] is a film for serious thinkers, but that doesn't mean that it sacrifices its juicy suspense. The drama is as good as real-life stories get, portrayed without a trace of sentimentality. Sarsgaard, a formidable actor who made great impact in Boys Don't Cry, spars with Christensen in deliriously complex turns-of-phrase that recall early-career Mamet. It's a film for people of all political persuasions, who need to see why neither Left nor Right Wings have a place in the newspaper. See it with someone you love, or even better, with someone you hate. Reach across the divide, and eliminate it.

Check out Jill's take on Shattered Glass.
 
The Oscar Season Is Upon Us!
12.21.03 (4:03 pm)   [edit]
Don't miss the awards season mania going on at our site, Mixed Reviews, including:

Gabriel's exploration of throne fatigue in
[b][url=http://mixedreviews.net/maind...]LORD OF THE RINGS: THE RETURN OF THE KING[/url] [/b]
The movie as art exhibit on display in
[b][url=http://mixedreviews.net/maind...]GIRL WITH A PEARL EARRING[/url] [/b]
Tim Burton trying to have it both ways in
[b][url=http://mixedreviews.net/maind...]BIG FISH[/url] [/b]

Coming soon -- Jill and Gabriel's Top Movies of 2003! Also, the [b][url=www.cinemarati.org/roundtable]Cinemarati Awards[/url] [/b] begin on Monday, December 29th...hit the link on the left to join in the voting fun!
 
COLD MOUNTAIN
12.16.03 (9:18 pm)   [edit]
COLD MOUNTAIN
Cast: Jude Law, Nicole Kidman, Renee Zellwegger, Brendan Gleeson, Philip Seymour Hoffman, Eileen Atkins, Charlie Hunnam, Giovanni Ribisi, Donald Sutherland, Kathy Baker and Natalie Portman
Directed by: Anthony Minghella
Written by: Anthony Minghella
Distributor: Miramax Films (US 2003)
Rated: R for violence and sexuality

As Reviewed by: JEFF HUSTON

[b]NEW! Read Another View From [url=http://www.mixedreviews.net/m...]Gabriel Shanks Here[/url] ![/b]

[b]Cold Mountain[/b] is yet another champion of studio mediocrity to emerge in 2004’s Oscar campaign. It’s unfortunate, too, considering the collaboration of talent involved, but nevertheless here we are. Like [i]The Missing[/i], [i]The Last Samurai[/i], and [i]Master and Commander[/i] before it, [b]Cold Mountain[/b] fails on the hope of classic-style filmmaking. Neither awful nor transcendent, [b]Cold Mountain[/b] is that most unique form of vile: it just sits there.

Anthony Minghella is probably the last person you’d expect to screw up a project like this. After adapting the [i]The English Patient[/i] to 9 Oscars, he followed up with the better [i]The Talented Mr. Ripley[/i]—both taken from literary sources considered “unfilmable”. Take a bit more straightforward [i]Odyssey[/i]-esque epic like [b]Cold Mountain[/b] and the end result is virtually pre-destined; it’s going to be good. You can bet on it. I did. And I lost.

While not quite the shameless Oscar-bait its release date (or Weinstein producers) might suggest, [b]Cold Mountain[/b] is, nevertheless, more “product” than “art”. It is handsomely crafted, to be sure, but boasts little authenticity and zero credibility. Earnest it is, ambitious it is, but generic it also is. From filtered golden hues (Nicole Kidman’s Ada is always beautiful, even when working in the fields) to forced line readings, [b]Cold Mountain[/b] is an achievement of epic filmmaking that lacks epic conviction.

In plainer terms, you just don’t buy it. Any of it. After an admittedly gripping war scene opener where Minghella captures the mosh-pit mayhem of battle unlike virtually any war film you’ve seen, [b]Cold Mountain[/b] quickly falls off into Harlequin territory. Horrific comparisons to [i]Legends of the Fall[/i] never materialize, thank God, but it never rises to its overly-apparent lofty expectations.

The performances are clearly that—performances; ones breathlessly aware of the fact that they’re in “an important Oscar movie”. Nicole Kidman is too mannered, Renee Zellweger too cutesy (even if a “gruff” role), and Jude Law—while believable—doesn’t bring any recognizable subtext to a role that so desperately needs it. And Minghella, known for crafting complex and conflicted characters in his screenplays, gives his actors little to work with. He forces all-too poetic recitations upon them, ones that leave you thinking, “Nobody talks like that!” They lack any serious history, nor are they given any internal conflict beyond longing for each other. Even though the poetic flourishes in Ada’s letters (that we hear in recurring voice-overs) could possibly do the trick, the delivery Minghella requires of Kidman is too beautiful, as if she were recording a CD of the letters rather than writing them from the heart.

Compounding this stiffness is the fact that we recognize so many of these actors. It’s like a melodramatic cavalcade of stars from the studio era of old, seeing one famous actor trotted out after another. It’s hard to lose yourself in a story when you feel like you’re flipping through [i]People [/i]magazine. Put a talented face in your two main roles, but beyond that an episodic film like this should stick with no-names. Recognizable leads are fine, but as they encounter characters for the first time, so should we. Indeed, the lesser known cameo appearances make for the film’s most effective moments. But just when you’re about to immerse, thoughts like "hey, that’s Queen Amidala!" detach you once more. [b]Cold Mountain[/b] is replete with headlining cameos—a studio staple that reeks of a producer’s, rather than director’s, hand.

Still, it’s Minghella who ends up crafting such a soulless, predictable dud. As if some key moments with Ada’s father aren’t obvious enough, the ham-fisted execution of those scenes pound like a foreshadowing hammer. We know what’s in store for our star-crossed lovers torn apart by war; worse yet, we end up realizing we could really care less. There are more important things than two lovers—who’ve met only once—being reunited…like, say, I dunno, defeating slavery. [b]Cold Mountain[/b] is a movie that needs to get over its pedigree, its expectations and, basically, itself. It never does, unfortunately, and in the end it’s simply gone with the wind.
 
HOUSE OF SAND AND FOG
12.05.03 (9:12 am)   [edit]
HOUSE OF SAND AND FOG
Cast: Ben Kingsley, Jennifer Connolly, Ron Eldard, Shohreh Aghdashloo, Jonathan Ahdout, and Frances Fisher
Directed by: Vadim Perelman
Written by: Shawn Lawrence Otto and Vadim Perelman
Distributor: DreamWorks SKG (US 2003)
Rated: for some violence/disturbing images, language and a scene of sexuality

As Reviewed by: GABRIEL SHANKS

The peeling wallpaper, the leaky faucet, the water-stained ceiling -- even the architecture cries tears in HOUSE OF SAND AND FOG, the unremittingly sad drama that brings together two Oscar winners of different generations, Ben Kingsley (Gandhi) and Jennifer Connelly (A Beautiful Mind) for a run at more awards glory. The pervasive melancholy ripples around the corners of Vadim Perelman's directorial debut like the creeping fog invoked in its title; the hazy atmospherics imbue the film's domestic squabbles with an aura of tragic majesty while (almost) concealing its flaws. It is the kind of film that, puffed up with its own weepy self-importance, suffers from the delusion that it is a great film, destined for great things. Perhaps the greatest sadness of HOUSE OF SAND AND FOG is the realization that it is merely a good one.

Based on the award-winning bestseller by Andre Dubus III, the story does indeed center on a house -- particularly, the beachside bungalow owned by recovering addict Kathy Niccolo (Connelly). But it is also the home of Iranian immigrant Massoud Amir Behrani (Kingsley), a deposed former general who left his homeland under duress, and now works menial jobs to support his family in, approximately, the manner to which they were accustomed in Iran. Through a bureaucratic property tax error, Niccolo's home is repossessed and immediately sold at auction to Behrani, who sees the house not only as a chance to provide for his family, but as the fulfillment of his own personal American Dream. Ah, that dream: the lofty, completely bogus principle that hard work equals wealth, wealth equals happiness, and happiness equals everything you could ever want. It is the lovely, rose-colored hagiography that both fuels America's greatest achievements -- the Industrial and Technological Revolutions, civil rights successes -- and contributes to this country's worst ongoing failures -- class warfare, homelessness, and bigotry. In HOUSE OF SAND AND FOG, the house on Bisgrove Street becomes much more than four walls and a roof. For the characters, it becomes a symbol of their self-worth, of their value to the larger society, of the success and/or failure of their lives. For the audience, the house becomes a dismaying, tragic statement about the fallacy of the individual's ability to determine their destiny.

Lester Burdon (Ron Eldard), the conflicted deputy sheriff sent to evict Kathy from her house, says at one point, "It feels like I'm finally moving forward." Never underestimate the power of self-delusion: nearly every character in HOUSE OF SAND AND FOG is stuck physically, emotionally, and socially, unable to figure out that most important quality of life -- how to move on. Director Perelman has chosen to highlight the story's implacable stagnation, and the human cost of such intractable living: the racial and class politics of an increasingly multicultural America, the terrible legacies of divorce and death, the implications of one generation's ambition upon the next. The weight of these subjects is palpable...you may, even as you read this description, begin to feel your shoulders sag. Neither Dubus' book nor Perelman's film is a light work; rather, they are heavy works about light things, Greek tragedies about suburban living, epically devastating struggles between very ordinary people. It is the mundane, reaching for grandiosity.

Such leaps of grandeur often require other leaps: leaps of logic, for instance, and leaps of plausibility, for another. It is in these leaps that HOUSE OF SAND AND FOG loses its focus and strength. Indeed, there are at times things so ludicrously required of the characters that one wonders why the actors didn't revolt in protest. The city government, which mistakenly repossessed Kathy's house, moves it to public auction at the speed of light -- literally twenty-four hours from eviction to sale, with the new owners moved in by week's end. Would that all local government moved at this speed. (The idea that Niccolo, grieving for her deceased father and absent boyfriend, wouldn't answer her tax-assessor mail for eight months seems suspect as well.) As the enmity builds between Kathy and Massoud, the screenplay struggles mightily to get them in the same space together -- creating an accidental foot injury, a preposterous romance between Burdon and Kathy, and endless driveway-stalking scenes. While there's a tension to such encounters, the circumlocutions necessary for them to occur almost negates their impact.

For those who enjoy three-hanky excesses, however, there is one unquestionably magnificent component of HOUSE OF SAND AND FOG that makes it worth your time: Ben Kingsley. One marvels at how Kingsley can -- after Gandhi, after Schindler's List, after Bugsy, after Sexy Beast -- continue to surprise with iconic, watershed performances. As Behrani, Kingsley creates a crusty, overbearing warmonger who has been humiliatingly humbled by life, a man of spiritual and moral code who has catastrophically lost his way. Slightly larger than life, his humanity conflicts with his vision of the world, and it is only at the end of the film, when the devastating consequences are finally evident, that he sees clearly the truly important things. It is the very definition of genius to watch him work.

The structure of HOUSE OF SAND AND FOG calls for equal greatness in Behrani's nemesis, but unfortunately, Perelman has made the fatal mistake of casting Jennifer Connelly, perhaps the most overrated actress since Melanie Griffith's brief run in the late 1980's. I admit a slack-jawed befuddlement at Connelly's career success; her vacuity and soulessness is plainly visible onscreen, and her ability to repeatedly cry on cue is better done by many of her contemporaries. Perhaps it's the ability to depress an audience that attracted the filmmakers to her, as she does that job all too well -- devolving into tearstained addiction, she loses any resonance or relationship to the tale, unconcerned with narrative or coherence. She is a mess, basically, albeit a physically beautiful one. Yes, on some level, being a mess is the basic requirement of this tale; in the hands of a Cate Blanchett or a Julianne Moore, however, the experience of Kathy could have elevated HOUSE OF SAND AND FOG to the classic status it so desperately desires.

It needs to be clearly stated that the film, despite its many flaws, still has much to recommend it. Cinematographer Roger Deakins strips the film of all pomp and circumstance, allowing the viewer inside the crucible of this home unencumbered by flashy camera tricks or overblown lighting. Maya Javan's production design is seductive and complex; the beachfront, dingy-chic house quietly scratches against the overelegant Iranian furnishings, subtly underscoring the difficulties of the immigrant experience through the very furniture. The supporting performances are a mixed bag. Although Iranian film star Shohreh Aghdashloo and acting novice Jonathan Ahdout turn in impressively textured performances as Behrani's wife and son, poor Ron Eldard is saddled with a completely unmotivated set of choices foisted upon his incomprehensible sheriff. Similarly, Frances Fisher, as Kathy's legal aid lawyer, merely goes through the motions before her role is discarded halfway through the film.

The power of HOUSE OF SAND AND FOG is in the poignant presentation of the unanswerable question...can America, and Americans, live up to the ideals (and ideologies) it sets for itself? Can America, with its motley collection of ethniticies and histories, truly be a place where all men are not only created equal...but treated as such? Can the example of democratic communication and understanding stem our imperialism and curb our more violent tendencies, either in Iraq, Afghanistan, or in a beach house in Los Angeles? It is not an unimportant question to be asked. It is a question, in fact, that needs firm, clear heads addressing it...not ones that stand shakily on sand or cloud themselves in fog. When addressing the question of America, even in microcosm, we need more than HOUSE OF SAND AND FOG delivers.
 
The Zen of Making Shit Up
12.03.03 (6:57 am)   [edit]
If you're Ann Coulter, you get book contracts and ubiquitous appearances on talk shows for Making Shit Up. If you're a little nebbish with really severe self-esteem issues, you end up with your career in ruins, but you do get a book published and cute-as-a-button Hayden Christensen plays you in the movie.

We at Mixed Reviews were enthralled with SHATTERED GLASS.
 

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