Spielberg and company go to the art-house

Rating: 3/10 (16 August 2007)

Ever since the relentless suburbanization of America in the post-world war era, a solid indictment of its banality, escapism, hypocrisy, wastefulness, artificiality, effeminacy, and ultimate futility has been long overdue. Sadly, this film is not that indictment. (Critics of suburbia have abounded, but largely from a left-libertine standpoint. This is ironic, given that suburbanites are as likely to include aging hippie university professors as culturally indifferent white-collar professionals.)
It is not surprising that Steven Spielberg, probably the most overrated and undeservedly successful filmmaker alive, would have hand-picked this film and its director. A socially critical art-house flick was clearly beyond the abilities of the whole trio, but then, Hollywood has always been more about egos than talent.
Sure enough, Alan Ball and Sam Mendes fall into the same sort of stereotyping, clichés, and flat, off-the-mark storytelling as Spielberg himself. Dysfunctional suburban couples do indeed abound, but from my experience, more often than not suburbanites do not take marriage seriously enough not to divorce over petty niceties. And do we really need another film in which the homophobic alpha male is secretly harboring same-sex tendencies?
Ultimately, too, the ending negates any depiction of suburban life is inherently harmful to its adherents, choosing as it does to depict a family destroyed by outside force rather than its own internal stupidity. The nod toward sophistication is clearly a mere nod. Steve, my lad, let's go back to Jurassic Park, shall we?