Whatever familiarity, whatever comparison it draws - here is nothing like you’ve
seen  - and that statement is not meant as commentary or shock warning. What comes out
of this film is at once beautiful, as the title suggests; and ugly, as it’s characters live only
to mask. It’s trials come about with real depth, real originality and sincerity. There are
moments in the film that will rewrite your soul and some words that will trap your brain
into examining the reality of itself (and the surrealism of everyday). This is one of the
few films released in recent years that spoke to me directly from the inside and I found
solace in relating to.

 Spacey plays Lester, a man whose life, though seemingly perfect in it’s exterior,
is decaying from the inside. He is a man who cannot relay emotion and is completely
conformed to his wife, Carolyn (Bening). His wife is a real estate broker who has so little
self-confidence she must repeat to herself constantly, “I will sell this house today”. Their
daughter, Jane (Birch), is completely introverted, seemingly left in the lonesome state by
parental neglect. She is a cheerleader with no spunk, literally.  As the story moves
forward, Lester challenges who he is, quits his job and begins living the life he’s only
pictured in his imagination. He begins fantasizing about Jane‘s cheerleader friend,
Angela, played masterfully by Mena Suvari ('American Pie').  Meanwhile, Carolyn finds
comfort in the arm’s of a fellow real estate salesman (Peter Gallagher).

 On the other side of things, the neighborhood receives one of the screen’s best
characters of recent, Ricky Fitts, played by newcomer Wes Bentley. His world is told
through the videos he makes constantly with his palmcorder. His father, played by Chris
Cooper, is a retired marine whose darker side of ambiguity and violence make the
household he runs a quiet and fearful one. When Ricky begins a relationship with Jane,
the whole scene collides with itself and everything everyone’s hidden emotions are worn
on the outside, while their former shells implode.

 The film is directed with such a matter-of-fact precision, you begin to understand
the characters early in the film and sympathize, if not empathize with them. This is a
wonderful technique to wield with this type of material because it lets the film loose on
your senses after you’ve evaluated and pondered on each of the characters. While it’s
terribly funny at times, it leaves you with a different kind of feel - almost a strange, eerie
feeling that if you turn out like them, you will not be able to react as confidently as they
do. It’s a cinematic playing field where, as realistic as everyone is, they are still
well-etched and literary : these are characters that defy categorization and resonate in
your brain for days.

 Spacey is so good at playing over-the-top and so good at building a repertoire. His
short list of brilliant and similarly disturbed characters ('The Usual Suspects', 'Hurlyburly'
and 'L.A. Confidential' come to mind) all have flaws, but are all conflicted in some way.
They have a good, decent man inside who has been washed away by the life he leads.
American Beauty is no different. Watching a man act out variations of his niche is such a
wonderful experience. In this film, as in all of his films of recent, he’s fast becoming my
fucking hero.

 Carolyn and Jane, as mother and daughter, are each invisible in different ways -
but both hurting to be seen. Carolyn, which Bening realizes with a fiendish two-sided
panic, is something to behold. We have a woman who is in control, but totally lacking in
spirit. Watching Lester crumble under her in the first half of the film is a trick. As he
begins to break free of his shackles, we see another switch occurring - he assumes no
control, but Bening begins to hide who she was by appearing shocked. Later, as we
watch, she at odds with herself, losing command has made her transparent insides come
to the surface and she is no longer the center of attention. She is a child. Her daughter is a
child, too. As an audience, we fight with the notion that it is her fault when she does
wrong or whether it was the fault of an upbringing shrouded in material worship and
suppression of passion. Thora Birch is marvelous as a quiet storm of a blossoming
flower.

 Ricky Fitts. Here’s a loner, weak before his father’s controlling ways. Here’s a
gent whose outlet, his videocamera, becomes both a voyeuristic tool of exposing beauty
and an electronic expression of his deepest feelings. Here’s a character that made me feel
like me, a wandering space cadet I could relate to, a person who sees “so much beauty in
the world, sometimes he can’t stand it”. Wes Bentley is a magical actor. His stationary
and observant eyes pry into us, into the characters. They are windows to his soul, a place
where understanding the world and feeling it’s pulse is second nature. I found him to be
very similar to Pvt. Witt in 'The Thin Red Line', a character of rare introspection and
honesty. Ricky’s life is not always perfect, but he can see and appreciate the perfection in
it.

 'American Beauty' is not always easy to watch. It’s got pain and glory, just like our
lives. The spin on it, as if it were a piece of literature, is that it’s a tirelessly inventive and
extremely descriptive film. It gives us a window and then proceeds to fill that window
with the outside world, the inside of folks like us and the dual nature of how this world
affects us all differently. There’s a shot in this film of a plastic bag swaying in the wind,
moving in a small area for a span of fifteen minutes (we’re told the length of time).
American Beauty is both this simple and this complex. While it might seem simple, like a
bag, floating in the air, waiting to either land or be carried off - it’s not of this outward
frivolous nature - inside, it’s something much, much more.