Catch 22 is a story set during World War II. A significant choice for what is, ostensibly, an anti-war satire, since that particular war was a universally popular one butressed by high moral motivations. But that is the point, for Catch 22 is not simply a lampoon of war, but a searing indictment of man's spiritual crisis in the modern world.

On all fronts, the main character, Yossarian, is assailed by the dehumanized absurdities of mondern life, manifested most concretely in that perfected science of death, modern warfare. Yossarian, like all of us, is chained by rationality that has been stripped of reason, engineered thus for the purpose of control. That is the essence of Catch 22.

The character of Milo Minderbinder represents the cold, opportunistic thinking of the corporate world, dead as it is to humanistic concerns in its tireless pursuit of profit and power. Chaplain Tappman embodies the impotence and self-doubt common to many people of faith who feel adrift in a culture of materialisticly driven insanity. But it is Yossarian's wanderings through Rome, the Eternal City, and as such, the representation of modern "civilized" society, that is the coup de grace. It is a moonlit, poetic scene lamenting the spiritual and humanistic decay and ultimate bankruptcy of modern Western society. Simply powerful stuff.

Properly speaking, Catch 22 is more a series of vignettes or short stories rather than a novel. But it is told with a humor that bristles with moral outrage. While not perfect, it is an excellent read, and definitely recommened.

How does someone miss the point of a REVIEW by such a vast margin? I agree with your and Mr. Bradbury's alarm about the state of politics and culture, but my review was not concerned with his message, but with his storytelling. Just because one agrees with an author's stance does not mean that one has to like the way in which the author conveyed that stance. Mine was a literary critique, not a political one, and those who rate this book so highly simply because of the gravity of the message are deeply misguided. Message aside, it's an awfully cheesy and childish book. Admit it.

Anyway, I said the DIALOGUE was wooden. The characters were flat. ;)

Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451 is the story of a man who rediscovers his humanity in a future where there is no genuine thought, no intimitate contact, no passionate emotion. His premise is interesting enough, especially in light of the present state of our culture, however his execution is embarrassingly bad.

The plot is predictable and hoaky, the characters are boringly flat, and the dialogue--perhaps the biggest drawback of the book--is wooden and unrealistic. Interspersed throughout all of this soap opera melodrama are dreary, quodlibetic references to Shakespeare, Bacon, Milton...you get the picture.

It dawned on me as I was nearing the end of this book that Bradbury could easily have been the child of Ayn Rand and Jacques Barzun. Hamfisted, cardboard fiction from mommy, and tired pedantry from daddy. To be fair, there are a few well-penned lines, and he definitely has a point. But if you're interested in nightmarish visions of a futuristic dystopia, check out Orwell or Huxley. Bradbury basically took their stories and mashed them together anyway.

Again, I can't stress enough the importance of this book's message. Nevertheless, this book, as vehicle for that message, definitely has a flat tire.

I had seen Dennis Miller in bits and pieces, and had heard so many people describe his humor as that for the "smart set." So his Raw Feed seemed promising.

I was for the most part completely disappointed. He reminded me of Michael Moore. As a liberal, I find Michael Moore a complete embarassment: vulgar, polemical, and utterly incapable of properly understanding the opposing team. This is Dennis Miller. In what must be an homage to the spaghetti western, he portrays conservatives as the champions of justice and the fonts of widsom (white hats), and liberals as drooling, weak-kneed morons (black hats). Not particularly funny, nor even all that original. It's not that I'm offended, it's just that if someone is so intelligent, he would realize that there is plenty to lampoon on both sides of the political aisle.

Yet even when he's not discussing politics, Miller just isn't particularly entertaining. His jokes are almost too byzantine. He does, on occasion, raise some interesting points, but his delivery is so long-winded that it kills the laugh. Exempli Gratia: Dennis Miller, who is so incogitably loquacious and prolix that his droleries become not risible but rather irksomely drudging, is unmitigatingly a pontificating and supercilious jerk. So Dennis went to college; that doesn't make him de facto funny.

Another weakness: much of his material is as hackneyed as the slips-on-banana or pie-in-the-face gags. Maybe I'm wrong, but jokes about the French and Catholics just aren't funny anymore--even with Miller's verbal window dressing.

To be fair, there are a few--a FEW--moments of genuine humor, and, in some inexplicable way I'm glad he's out there. I suppose that's because he's more intelligent than most. Yet for someone with so much obvious potential, he disappoints. The Raw Feed simply isn't worth the time.

I really would not have been surprised if one of Dan Brown's woefully inane characters made a similar statement.

The Davinci Code is an incredulous monument to ignorance, sensationalism, and utterly graceless writing. The latter fault is the biggest crime foisted upon the reading public. It astounds me when people laud this book as "well-written," when his style is virtually indistinguishable from that of any book from the Hardy Boys series. The characters are not compelling or even remotely likeable, and the "plot" is rammed down the reader's throat with no sense of aesthetic or pacing. It has the same intellectual and spiritual benefits as listening to the massacre of a litter of kittens at a high decibel. It reads not like a true novel, rather like a pitch for a made-for-TV movie.

Yet Brown's mockery of good taste does not end with childish storytelling or wooden language. Much of his history is suspect as well. While I will not pretend to know everything about the subject, what I do know about history conflicts with Brown's interpretation. It's not that Brown outright lies, rather misunderstands facts or takes them out of context. For example, he claims that Constantine was a die-hard pagan who only converted at his death-bed. Nevertheless, baptism on one's death-bed was the modus operandi for Christianity at the time; the thinking being that since baptism completely washes away one's sins and is a one-time only deal, being baptised moments before death was the best way to ensure eternal paradise. Thus, Constantine was like virtually every other Christian at the time. This is only one example of Brown's shallow understanding of history.

This book is a complete waste of time. Not only does it lack in any artistic merit, but its history is suspect, and moreover does not even have "entertainment value." If you're looking for entertainment, check out Monty Python.

When I saw the trailer for this film, I thought it was another inane sophomoric waste of time. How could I, pontifex maximus of the holy imperial priesthood of self-ordained movie critics, ever stoop to watch this movie?

My first viewing largely confirmed my original suspicion--it was an inane sophomoric piece, but I didn't feel like I wasted my time. The opening sequence is devastatingly funny, and there are enough clever antics to keep one interested. Yet it is only after repeated viewings that this movie grows on you.

Admittedly, this isn't for everyone. I suppose if one enjoyed watching Oprah and found Pretty Woman to be the epitome of filmmaking, then no, that person would not enjoy Super Troopers. If the uniformity and the sterility of suburbia have left your mind fit only for the cute and the maudlin of Hollywood, look elsewhere.

On the other hand, there are those who deride this movie as being of inferior quality. Poor plot, etc. I am a die-hard Monty Python fan, but I wouldn't consider the Holy Grail to be "High Art" in a strictly cinematic sense. It too is a loosely strung together series of skits, and "character development" is seriously lacking. Although not as brilliant as Monty Python, Broken Lizard is nevertheless a clever, entertaining group. This isn't great art, but that wasn't their intent either. Similarly, if one is too wrapped up in the insularity of the self-righteous high-brow, then he should look elsewhere.

Is Super Troopers a "Great" movie in the cannonical sense? No. But it is a damn entertaining one, especially if you still have the lively, irreverant spirit of youth. Inane and sophomoric? You betcha. But this one has enough wit and warmth to put it at the top of its class. Heartily recommended for what it's worth.

Ocean's Eleven, if you can get past the blinding glare of beautiful people, stylish costumes, and slick cinematography, is an extremely boring movie. The characters have no depth, or any genuine connection to one another, and the plot could be mistaken for that of a documentary. The viewer simply sees a group of guys plot and execute a robbery. Oooooh. Aaaaah. I hate using cheesy "criticspeak" cliches like "eye candy," but I really can't think of any other way to describe this sugary, empty [movie].

ATLAS SHRUGGED is a bewilderingly dull, painfully long book that is full of poor philosophy and even worse writing. I wouldn't recommend this book to anyone, unless of course I wanted to drive him to suicide. The problem is not only Rand's philosophy, which is bad enough, but the sheer stupidity and astonishing childishness of the book itself.

To begin with, the characters are laughably two-dimensional. From the flawless industrialist-heroes who possess the "virtues" of greed and egocentrism, to the straw men villains who lurk about the marble halls of Washington, to the simple every-day people who defer to their superiors, every character is so cartoonish that the book quickly becomes unbearable. Rand subjects her readers to page after page (after page) of mind-numbing redundancy and monotony. I found myself wondering who edited it, because anyone with a high school diploma could see that it repeated itself far too much. The characters are stiff, the dialogue artificial, and the plot devices as sophisticated as those used in the Hardy Boys series. Moreover, Rand has such a heavy-handed style, such a lack of artistic sensitivity and subtlety, that I felt brow-beaten and numb after the first couple hours reading. Reading the book to its conclusion is a heroic act of self-sacrifice, and I can only wonder about the sanity of those masochistic souls who have read it more than once. As a novel, it is probably the worst thing I've ever read. A thoroughly unpleasant experience.

As for Rand's philosophy, Objectivism, it too is surprisingly childish and overly simplistic. It is a preposterous hodge-podge of Aristotle, Nietzsche, and Adam Smith, with a little American pragmatism to boot. Rand rips a few lines of these philosphers out of context in order to fashion a philosophy that permits one to be utterly self-serving, for no other reason than it feels right. Objectivism is also elitist, and Rand insinuates throughout the book that the masses of humankind, hats in their dirty hands, should bow to her "uberpeople." She disregards the concept of the human soul altogether, apparently preferring instead the inherent dignity of washing macines. Indeed, Rand seems to suggest that people are only good insofar as they can produce, admirable only in proportion to the size of their bank accounts. Come on, lady. There is more to life than money, and while I'm no liberal, I'm neither so cold-hearted as to suggest that greed is a great virtue.

It might have made for a tolerable 150-or-so page novella, but as it stands--arrogant, juvenile, and oppressively long-winded--it is absolutely awful. I will admit that Rand does have a point: relativism is causing problems in our society. But the solution is not contained in a one thousand page book that claims that our salvation lies "in the sign of the dollar."

BOTTLE ROCKET is an exceptionally fresh and thoroughly fun movie. I found myself smiling throughout, and not even sure why. I can't even say what kind of movie it is. For BOTTLE ROCKET defies any attempt at classification, any assault on its originality and creativity by placing it neatly in a box. It is neither a comedy nor a drama; not a love story nor a crime flick. It blends all of these genres--along with a pinch of classic Americana--into a very unique, delightful movie. Yet it is also a deliciously messy enigma: a loosely strung-together melange of brillance and childishness, high and pop art, profundity and absurdity. By the film's conclusion, I knew I had seen something special, a truly inspired and deeply personal work.

BOTTLE ROCKET's power lies in its characters. They are so quirky, so unique, that they seem unmistakably real, and therefore patently likeable. They are simple people who lead quietly extraordinary and beautiful lives, people who believe in following one's dreams, chasing after true love, being individuals--and all with childlike wonder, innocence, and joie de vivre. In short, they are people of unique and genuine character. They also happen to be hysterically funny. BOTTLE ROCKET, while I would not categorically call it a comedy, is easily one of the funniest movies of the nineties. The brothers Owen and Luke Wilson give laudable (although not flawless) performances as the two principals, and they are supported admirably by some great character actors.

BOTTLE ROCKET is also a beatiful picture. The photograhpy is excellent--stylish in an understated way--and this adds an element of class to an already quality piece. Almost every shot would make an excellent photograph, full of rich and subtle detail, and interesting interplay of colors, textures, and distances. BOTTLE ROCKET does not have lavish sets, nor does it take place in exotic locales. Anderson instead transforms what would otherwise be lacklustre settings like rural Texas and a cheap motel into places of almost otherworldly beauty. The lighting has a lot to do with this effect, giving the movie a very clean, bright feel--think of a J.Crew ad, only set in the rural Midwest instead of a Cape Cod beach house. The movie gives the warm, uplifting feeling of a young, free, and beautiful America, a feeling one gets at certain times reading Kerouac. The music is superb to boot, as in all Anderson's flicks, and greatly enhances the visual experience.

Yet BOTTLE ROCKET falls short in its bid for perfection. For one thing, the love story, while sometimes touching, is very artifical and abstract. At times I really wanted Inez and Anthony to get together, but I couldn't help but feel manipulated by the forced nature of their love. Anthony instantly falls in love with the motel housekeeper, who doesn't speak a word of English because she's from Paraguay. The love-at-first-sight gimmick only works when the characters develop a fulfilling emotional bond over time, but this doesn't happen in BOTTLE ROCKET. Also, I think Anderson indulges in the 1960's motif a bit much. From the music to the sets to the hairstyles, everything reeks of the sixties--hell, even all the cars are vintage. There are points in the film where one could easily forget it was made in '96. The ending even reminded me of COOL HAND LUKE. But BOTTLE ROCKET, I've learned, is a very subjective experience and therein lies its genius, at least in part. If you have a well-developed eye, you'll probably like this film, with varying degrees of enthusiasm. The movie's much like a bottle rocket, in fact: it can spark, sizzle, and delight, but in the end, you're not sure whether it could have had more substance. Final note: the DVD is bare-bones. Can't we get at least a commentary, people?

Oliver Stone's PLATOON is, quite frankly, only so-so. The acting was nothing to get excited over, save for Willem Dafoe (maybe). But then again, with characters that simplistic and underdeveloped, the actors didn't have much to work with. For example, Charlie Sheen's character Chris states that he dropped out of college and enlisted because he felt it unjust that only the poor were forced to fight. That's it. No development, no further reinforcement or motivation, no illustration of how he was raised in a moral family. The viewer is just to take his word. I'm sorry, but flat characters with underdeveloped motivations are a sign of a poor script. (Oh, for those of you used to Oliver Stone movies, let me hold your hand: poor script=poor movie).

Moreover, the contrast between the "good" sergeant and the "bad" sergeant are childishly simplistic--hell, Stone should have given Dafoe a white hat and Berenger a black one and spared us the hackneyed dialogue. The musical score is too melodramatic, and he depicts the Vietnamese as, for the most part, faceless killers. In short, Stone's PLATOON is insultingly manipulative in a cheap, didactic way. Wait a minute, that sounds like EVERY Stone movie.

Two redeeming qualities: the "do the village" scene is quite good, simply because its the only well-executed psychological examination of the soldiers and it more even-handedly portrays the Vietnamese; also, Stone does an excellent job portraying life as a grunt. Any vets out there, I thank you. Sure, there are a lot of explosions and intense fighting scenes, but that does not make a good movie, let alone a good war film. Come on people, use your minds critically. If you're looking for good war flicks, check out PATTON and APOCALYPSE NOW instead. They're intelligent, honest, and original.