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This relentless restatement of the obvious will feel more like an episode of grinding your teeth than insightful or even entertaining. I agree with virtually every satirical observation in this tiresome piece while finding almost no wit, sharp observation, or subtlety. It's bloated and self-satisfied.

The star power is, well, overpowering (not a good thing when you are trying to suspend disbelief) and yet these major talents struggle to find the humour in the dull lines they are given to speak or a dramatic through line for their characters. The exception perhaps is the lovely Jennifer Lawrence, who in her dour presence at least maintains her dignity. Cate Blanchett and Tyler Perry strike the right notes, despite the staleness of their roles. The same could be said of Mark Rylance for his spot-on interpretation of the insular, fragile billionaire but the predictability of his character arc undermines the effect. I simply felt sorry for Leonardo, whom I bet is now regretting his involvement. The rationalizations he must have gone through to justify his bizarrely inconsistent mental states must have been exhausting.

I could see where this was all trying to go with its flashy style and flashy cast (Ron Perlman's casting as the prime example) but unlike the comet, this film shot well wide of the target.

I think a lot of the "absolute trash" reviewers are likely confused by the stylistic ambition of the creators. The period setting is a deliberate pastiche and has fun with the John Hughes motif, which has thrown a number of readers for varying reasons.

In fact, "fun" is the stylistic modus operandi of this show and is the reason for most of the exaggeration and.tropes that seem to bother people who label the resulting product as "unrealistic". What gets overlooked in all this griping is how ably a stellar cast of young people (no, not the incidental teachers, perhaps unfortunately) manages to sell it, as do the central parents, particularly the marvelous Gillian Anderson.

The desperate search for self, inhibited by an equally desperate need to project a self-created image of what one should be, is a central struggle of teenage life and the core theme of the show. That it is a tough battle and an impediment to tidy romantic plot development is no reason to complain of the show, in my view. There's a lot more going on here than Netflix marketing or cliffhanger requirements; when the characters get down to really talking, the show lays down its cards.

There so much to see on the periphery, as well, like the way none of the kids take notice when gay or mixed-race couples kiss, which brings me to the final point: I haven't even mentioned what a warm heart beats throughout - kindness, listening and understanding always surface from the mistakes, pain and hurtfulness we all remember from that all too brief period of our lives.

This is one of the worst reboots I have ever seen. I can't imagine why the "creators" wanted to do it, since they borrow virtually every idea from more popular series and even genres and still manage to produce a virtually unwatchable show. There's some ridiculous telekinesis subplot from The Chrysalids thrown in for no discernable reason, endless stoical and morose expressions, tedious long shots of characters walking interminably through deserted Walking Dead scenes, mechanical hounds ripped off from Fahrenheit 451 - and no war of the worlds, probably the most inexcusable omission. The characters are paper thin, behave illogically and then the poor actors are required to emote on cue because, well, the drab, leaden-paced material requires something before the viewers develop their own death rays to fire at the screen. The directors and writers seem incapable of structuring a scene or editing it for proper narrative development. How they got this funded is beyond me.

Despite some clever moments and a spunky performance by Meredith Hamilton, this film was doomed to failure by disjointed scripting and direction. It was such a structural mess that one can almost sense the editor's panic as he scrambled to establish some sort of order and flow to scene after scene that neither ended nor built towards a plot development or theme of consequence. The repetitive episodic structure of our heroine experiencing some frustration or tragedy and immediately retiring to her room to mumble lyrics and stumble over chords (to what, not incidentally, sound like really bad, adolescent songs) was tiresome the second time through, let alone after the seventh or eighth time. "I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry", sung about five times during the film, was Twain's through line, but that emotion could as easily represent the mental state of the bewildered viewer.

A particular black hole sucking the dramatic life out of the film was writer Shelley Eriksen's pen paralysis when it came to romance. While we often find films side-tracked by the paradox of the needless, requisite love interest, it's clear that Twain's music and persona are, curiously, as much about the importance of love and family as feminism and ambition, so getting these relationships into frame is certainly germane. Puzzlement, however, pretty much defines the response of the viewer to any of the relationships depicted here, whether the unexplained marital difficulties of her parents or Twain's own serial lovers, who drop from sight so peremptorily one can be forgiven for suspecting that it was because the actors were on one day contracts.

Megan Follows must have wondered how she got involved in this project, though truth to tell, she has some awkward moments herself in a generally solid performance. I'll give her the benefit of the doubt, though - the script is so underwritten that several fine actors struggle to bridge the gap between their characters and the meagre words left to them. However, Jerry Ciccoritti's toneless direction is as much to blame; scenes are emotionally flat either through the confusion of the actors left to sort through this mess themselves or Ciccoritti's inability to convey a sense of where and how he felt the scenes must progress.

Twain has a classic rags to riches and country heartache story to tell (cranked up a notch since this film's release by her recent split from producer/husband Mutt Lange). I hope somebody sees the potential and has the wherewithal to enlist Twain's aid in getting it right.

Wow. I LOVED the whole series, and am shocked at comments by people who thought it ended badly. Perhaps it waffled a bit in seasons 4 & 5, while remaining better than anything else on television. But 6 and particularly 6b were beautiful permutations on the themes developed in the more muscular first three seasons.

6B started with such a sombre mood and Janice's always keen insight into the family angst - that doom-filled line about knowing Tony's penchant for sitting and staring. Anyone who missed the implications of that for the rest of the series does not know Tony. Melfi's discomfort over the psychiatric study and its references to the sociopath's self-deluding sentimentality for pets and animals goes back to the first episodes of the series, say, with Tony's panic attack over the ducks leaving his pool and resonates with Phil's "wave bye-bye" line to his grandchildren before the coup de grace of the final episode (not to get into Chase's dark humour).

I could go on and on, but I'll just add that I thought the final show - starting with the opening strains of Vanilla Fudge to supply the ironic foreshadow ("You Keep Me Hangin' On") to the terminal moments where Tony fades back into complacency with his family in tow or blasts apart like AJ's SUV or Phil's head were, utterly, utterly PERFECT. The best TV ever.

Pretty good in a dying medium pathologically supplying the "jack-off fantasies" AJ derides (and then into which he promptly subsides). A tip of the pork pie to Mr. Chase.

to make up a movie-going audience - I'm certainly stunned by the number of positive comments this wretched film has garnered here. I can't credit it, can't help but be suspicious, for that matter, of back alley payoffs to critics who are touting Annette Bening for an Oscar; the hole in the kitchen ceiling might be more appropriately attributed to her scenery chewing. She's a wonderful actress but this is an unfortunately unbalanced performance, lacking that essential quality film actors must master of catching the cadence of the screenplay and maintaining it for the duration of the disjointed madness that is a film shoot.

I don't really want to blame Miss Bening or most of the other performers (well, Gwyneth Paltrow has no excuse for her muzzy work), however, because this is a horrendous adaptation, a classic case of mistranslation (I am prepared to assume. I haven't read the book and don't think I will after this). The script launches us into the middle/muddle of unaccountable behaviour and extreme emotional angst spewing from mystifying characters who have developed relationships neither with us nor each other. It quickly becomes a grotesquely excessive tsunami-like assault that sullies characters and audience alike and left me like a survivor shaking my head at the detritus left at the end of each repetitive episode. Shock and awe would describe my reaction to frantic, bi-polar mood swings between ranting and oh-so-quiet sensitivity, the latter telegraphed by one of the most irritating, manipulative, droning soundtracks I've heard - that is, when all this isn't being set to ludicrously incongruous toons - period stuff, ya know, but chosen with an astounding disregard for the tone of the scenes.

How this fine cast got mixed up in this I don't know - I can't believe they saw the screenplay before signing. They certainly apply their skills with commitment - I felt so sorry for the wonderful Jill Clayburgh saddled with a cartoon bag lady costume and wig trying vainly to wrench something of significance from sketchy and clichéd dialogue. In contrast, somehow, Alec Baldwin rises above the material to deliver a consistent, nuanced, real performance. Can somebody give this man a lead role of substance, please? And how about Rachel Evan Wood - or Joseph Fiennes? You'd think the industry could make better use of him, and without appearing as hirsute as Elliot Gould in M.A.S.H.

My vote? A standup turd, all right, but no link with heaven.

Hadn't seen the film for three or four years until I watched it again last night. A thread in the discussion board wondering whether the film isn't over-rated got me responding and eventually I decided to post here instead.

It's difficult to see where American Beauty doesn't quite mesh, as it's blessed with brilliant performers like Cooper and Bening supporting a brave piece of work by Kevin Spacey, who puts his golden voice to work with autumnal beauty as well as truly inventive notes of sarcasm.

We've seen a lot of movies since this one using elements of magic realism, particularly the serendipity of gathering together unlikely plot and character threads,surprisingly triumphant again this year with Crash (2005), which to my mind didn't accomplish it half so well as Magnolia(2000) or the much earlier Altman opus, Short Cuts (1993). It's a difficult trick to manage without seeming contrived, and to me, here, it fails.

Partly it annoyed me because I felt some of the story arcs were merely limned into form, with me expected to fill in the rest of, well, the cliché. For example, imagine how dull an extensive treatment of Cooper's latent homosexuality and his son's repressive nature would be; no, we wouldn't wish Sam Mendes to have developed this further, the point being that we'd feel that way because we've seen it all before - here Mendes doesn't have anything to add to that facet of the narrative. Apply the same test to the father/daughter, husband/wife, Humbert/Lolita, midlife crisis angsts and we are left wondering what at all is fresh about the movie?

And while I'm complaining about sketchiness I find myself paradoxically lamenting the overt preachiness of the script, the achilles heel of virtually all American studio Serious Films, which are never satisfied when an idea is simply felt and understood, but must rather be stated like a polemic or with all the moral certitude of a lawyer's jury summation. Watch this film and then Capote (2005)for contrast - the motifs thread their way ever so lightly through the latter, subtly suggesting, challenging, provoking, drawing us further into the mysteries of complex natures rather than staking them out like the sectioned specimens of von Hagens Body Worlds exhibit. Is the comparison fair when American Beauty is on one level at least a satire? I think so, when Mendes' ultimate intent is to teach us something profound about our modern life.

A single case of the false notes that are struck, the telegraphing to the audience: Lester finds his nymphet, Angela, weeping in a corner, and comforts her with his restored virility and self-assurance. His conquest complete, he begins to undress her when she blurts out the inevitable, predictable fact of her virginity. Now, Lester has been shown to be an intelligent, re-invigorated and thus keenly observant man. Yet the fact that she lay beneath him visibly trembling and almost squirming with a look of terror in her eyes for upwards of thirty seconds seems to have escaped him completely. Why? For the simple cinematic necessity that the viewer discover it first, to render his shock, the crushing of his randy hopes and his quick restoration in himself of a fatherly humanity all the more compelling. This is all very nice, but it ain't truth.

I still like the film. You can't beat Spacey's poetic narration and his commitment to the role. There's Bening's face-smacking melt-down and heroically regained composure - and a tangible wistfulness pervading the whole, gorgeously, emblematically captured as Ricky and Jane watch his film of the grocery bag caught in a courtyard eddy.

It's memorable for its defining moments, and that's still saying a lot, and bests much of whatever else people are forced to watch in the narrow-casting of today's Cineplex.