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American Beauty (1999) 122 minutes

Directed by Sam Mendes, Written by Alan Ball, Cinematography by Conrad Hall, Music by Thomas Newman.

Starring Kevin Spacey, Annette Bening, Thora Birch, Wes Bentley, Mena Suvari, Chris Cooper.

Academy Awards: Best Picture, Best Director, Best Original Screenplay, Best Actor, Best Cinematography. Nominated: Best Actress, Best Original Score, Best Editing.

American Beauty is a murder mystery but there are no cops or lawyers. It is told before all that from the point of view of the main character as he is dying. American Beauty is also a suburban satire, one that draws you in sufficiently to forget it begins with a video diary of a daughter and her creepy boyfriend talking about murder, followed by a voiceover from her father, saying although he doesn't know it yet, he has only one year to live. The camera pans over an aerial shot shown floating above an idyllic American neighbourhood.

Lester Burnham foretelling his death reminds me of Carlito's Way, but there aren't any gangsters. His midlife crisis reminds me of Fight Club, but there aren't any existentialist dilemmas. His neighbourhood reminds me of Blue Velvet, but there's nothing to be terrified by. His death reminds me of Six Feet Under, but there aren't any undertakers. The title reminds me of The Grateful Dead, still playing in the summer, a long time ago. Thematically, it reminds me of nearly every major American movie made in the late nineties, in one way or another, but there were a lot of very good ones around this time, and this is one of the best. A pet subject of mine for another review, perhaps. The characters remind me of a Richard Ford novel.

Like I say, there aren't any cops and lawyers, but if I was a police detective, which I'm not, I'd probably want to impound that videotape as evidence, if I could find it. This is a beautiful suburban neighbourhood with nice cars and spacious tree-lined avenues. There's a bright-red 1970 Pontiac Firebird parked in the driveway at the murder-scene, and torrential rain is lashing down in the night. Through the bright red front door they've found a dead male in his forties, a regular husband and father, shot in the back of the head, with blood spattered on the white kitchen tiles like rose petals.

Daughter and her boyfriend are nowhere to be found. Her best friend is at the house though, a blonde cheerleader type, who looks very pretty, but also quite young and natural and ordinary, for a cheerleader in a Hollywood movie. Which this

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