Beauty is a terrific film: its Oscar win is the most deserving Best Picture win for a long time. That it went down so well with the Academy is itself a surprise: the Americans (or at least the conservative American establishment represented by the Academy) don't usually seem to go for movies that are so harsh on their own heartland. As I've argued elsewhere, American films usually locate their critiques of society either in the big city or small town, but from the opening shot it's clear we're in the suburbs, and upper middle-class ones at that. And make no mistake: while there's a comic tone throughout the film, this is no Joe Dante style piss-take (a la The 'Burbs). The film has a genuinely dark vision of middle-class existence.

While the film deserves kudos for what is essentially a unique vision, I was nevertheless reminded throughout of two Buck Henry scripted films: Mike Nichol's The Graduate (1967), and Gus van Sant's To Die For (1995). Like those films (particularly the former), American Beauty manages to combine a perceptive and cutting commentary with a strong sense of humour that saves the film from sermonizing. This isn't a drama with some moments of whimsy, or a comedy with inserts of social commentary: it's one of those films that makes the distinction between comedy and drama pointless. Comedy and drama are not two competing impulses here; instead, each reinforces the other. While "satire" suggests itself as the obvious description, it's a term I'm reluctant to use, if only because too much of what has called itself satire lately is merely a more cynical form of parody. What we have here, instead, is a co-existence of comedy and drama that arises simply because screenwriter Alan Ball and director Sam Mendes show us a slice of Americana that is both funny and appalling. And, while obviously exaggerated for effect, the fundamentals of it ring true.

The film centres on what most conservative commentators would have us believe is at the centre of social well-being, the family unit. Appropriately, then, it is the patriarchal figure of Kevin Spacey that is the centre of the film, and it is his breakdown that sets events in motion. The film has been criticised for its misogyny, in that Spacey's character receives favourable treatment compared to Annette Bening's, despite the fact that they follow apparently similar arcs (ie, abandoning the family to pursue adulterous fantasies). There's something in this argument. Certainly, like both of the Buck Henry scripts mentioned above, the film seems mistrustful of sexually powerful women, while painting the male characters as victims. Yet the hypocrisy of idealising Spacey and damning Bening is offset by the fact that Spacey is never anything less than pitiful when lusting after Mena Suvari's cheerleader. Many critics of the film have argued that it draws a link between Spacey's desire for adultery and his redemption; yet this seems to me an incorrect view of the film's causality. Indeed, it is Spacey's decision late in the film not to play out his fantasy that is his real moment of absolution. This is the scene where, in effect, his desire to escape his prison is reconfigured into a more constructive impulse.

The fact that the film draws on a larger cast of characters than either of Henry's scripts also helps to offset the accusations of misogyny. Rather than just focussing on Spacey and Bening, the film places both characters in a wider context which makes it clearer that Bening and Spacey should be considered simply as characters, rather than being read as the representation of all men and women within the film's world. In the homophobic neighbour, for example, we have a clear example of a monstrous patriarch whose influence on son and wife has been nothing but destructive. More critical still in balancing the view of the film is Thora Birch, as Spacey's sympathetic daughter. (It is telling that most of the criticisms of the film studiously ignore Birch's role, despite the fact that the film itself gives her arc equal weight to Spacey's). It is through Birch that Spacey's behaviour is kept from seeming heroic: in the very first scene, and several times elsewhere, it is Birch who reminds us that Spacey's lust is nothing but pathetic. Birch is also the only character who isn't punished for expressing her sexuality; just as the seemingly perfect relationships in the film turn out to be rotten inside, Birch's seemingly creepy relationship with her neighbour (Wes Bentley) turns out to be genuine and healthy.

The film works perfectly, taking Alan Ball's fine script and executing it with precision. I'm not sure why a theatrical director should make a good director of films, given the gulf between the two media, but Sam Mendes makes the transition triumphantly. Conrad Hall's cinematography is crucial, particularly in the lush fantasy sequences. And all the cast are exceptional, particularly Spacey and Birch. Spacey's performance might not seem especially weighty, but that's because Spacey gets the majority of the film's comic moments, and what Spacey turns in is - for the most part - a finely judged comedy performance. It's not denigrating the actor or role to say that the genius of Spacey here is in comic timing and nuance. Birch, meanwhile, is more grounded as the daughter, providing an important link back to the emotional realities that Spacey is evading.

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