This new thriller from director Ridley Scott ("American Gangster") is a fast-paced, thought-provoking look into terrorism and technological warfare that makes previous films covering the War on Terror appear as if they were moving in slow motion.

Roger Ferris (Leonardo DiCaprio, "Blood Diamond") is a daring CIA operative who has been sent to Jordan by his power-hungry boss Ed Hoffman (Russell Crowe, "American Gangster") to find a high-ranking terrorist. Upon arriving, Ferris forms a shaky union with Hani Salaam (Mark Strong, "Babylon A.D."), the shady but deceptively charming head of the Jordanian General Intelligence Department. Forced to constantly shift between alliances, Ferris must figure out who to trust and who to deceive in order to bring down the reign of terror plaguing the Middle East.

What proves to be the Achilles' heel for most political films is that they are far too overbearing and one-sided when it comes to getting their point across. This often results in the film taking on an "us versus them" mentality where one side is glorified to no avail and the other comes across as a primitive, faceless infidel. Giving way to any of his own political or personal biases, Scott approaches this film from a neutral standpoint so that both the Americans and Arabs in the film have purpose and reason for their actions.

While some of the credit for this movie's authenticity goes to David Ignatius, a Middle East and CIA correspondent who wrote the novel the film is based on, William Monahan's ("The Departed") genuine perspective on this area of the world is both impressive and refreshing for a white American screenwriter. It is always a welcomed change to see Arabs characterized as normal, everyday people instead of Hollywood's narrow-minded idea of the stereotypical foreigner sporting a turban and thick accent.

Despite the undeniable amount of thought that went into its execution, this film still has its flaws. Because Monahan and DiCaprio had tremendous success working together in "The Departed" and Scott and Crowe have teamed up three times in the past, the film's creators have the tendency to rely too heavily on the performances of DiCaprio and Crowe at times. There is the occasional scene where the dialogue or action manages to scrape by as passable only because of the actors onscreen.

Then again, it is hard to blame these two for wanting to put the weight of this film's success on these talented individuals' shoulders. DiCaprio continues to prove that he is one of the finest in the business and arguably the best when it comes to versatility. While this role will not get him nominated for that golden statue that keeps eluding him, DiCaprio's convincing take as an undercover operative and especially his use of Arabic in the film are notable nonetheless.

A lot of credit also goes to Crowe for gaining more than 60 pounds and taking on the role of the unlikeable Hoffman. His quiet-mannered yet crass portrayal is not only amusing but also is the necessary contrast to DiCaprio's character. The most surprising performance, though, was Strong, who provides Hani with a dark-malice-brewing-underneath-debonair-charm attitude that strikes resemblance to Al Pacino in his "Godfather" days.

As is to be expected from a film of this genre, there is a constant supply of gunfire and explosions to keep the audience at the edge of its seat. For the most part, this violence remains tasteful with the exception of a few gruesome torture scenes that could have been edited as they serve no value to the film's overall message.

Thanks to a politically conscious screenplay by Academy Award-winner Monahan and a highly gifted cast, "Body of Lies" takes its audience on an action-packed ride that manages to not only provide plenty of captivating twists and turns but also a remarkably authentic, vivid picture of the situation in Iraq. Even with its sporadic pitfalls, this film is a campaign worth showing up for and supporting.

4 stars out of 5

While Drew may have been speaking accurately in a political and social sense, he certainly wasn't referring to himself or any of his fellow bandmates. The Canadian indie super-group treated approximately 1,000 fans, largely comprised of University of Wisconsin students, to over two hours of their patented orchestral pop excursions.

A rotating cast of nearly 20 musicians comprises Broken Social Scene (seven took the stage Saturday night), and for as sprawling and densely-layered as their music normally tends to be, each instrument blended seamlessly with the others, rather than engaging in a fight for supremacy. In addition to utilizing up to five guitars (yup, five) for a single song, a brass section featuring a trumpet and saxophone snaked its way into a majority of the tracks, sleekly punctuating the quieter moments and adding weight to the more boisterous ones.

The group liberally drew the evening's setlist from every corner of its discography, and the band devoted a surprising amount of time to tracks from Drew and bassist Brendan Canning's recent solo releases under the "Broken Social Scene Presents..." moniker. The blissful stomp of cuts like "Cause=Time" off 2003's You Forgot It in People mixed well with quieter, more love-struck moments gleaned from the following year's Feel Good Lost LP.

One of the night's highlights was a swelling rendition of "Anthems For a Seventeen-Year-Old Girl," featuring Elizabeth Powell dreamily singing the mantra "Park that car/ Drop that phone/ Sleep on the Floor/ Dream about me," all while a backdrop of stage lights slowly shifted through the color spectrum. Powell is also singer and guitarist for like-minded indie-rock outfit Land of Talk, who were the evening's opening act.

After experiencing Broken Social Scene in a live setting for the first time, it's easy to see how they've developed their cult following and continual critical success. They play loose, jumping from instrument to instrument, and, despite the pretentiousness that sometimes comes hand-in-hand with the "indie-rock heroes" territory, they appeared to be truly enjoying themselves. Between songs Drew and Canning for the most part chatted casually with the audience on a variety of topics ranging from sex to drugs to the election to their genuine feelings of empathy for the alcohol-deprived crowd of devotees.

Good performances should be cathartic for both band and audience, and BSS seemed to understand that as Drew, during the latter end of the show, encouraged the crowd to "scream your guts out" all the while "thinking about everything you want and everything you don't have." He gave the cue, the crowd roared into the rafters, and the band answered with a distortion-drenched wave of noise, and the entire building sounded everything but exhausted.

Back in middle school, when I blasted The Sex Pistols from my headphones, I got dirty looks from the kids at Racine Lutheran High School. Not because the "I am an anarchist/ I am an antichrist" line shocked their Christian sensibilities -- Jesus left the room the second the bell rang -- but because, as one kid said: "Those guys sound like shit."

Sure, but that was the point, I tried to explain. I tried to get the message and context across in that half-understanding, naive way that kids do.

But it wasn't just limited to abrasive punk. In high school I reveled in the multi-angled concept album that was "OK Computer." When I had a sophomore in a leather jacket listen to "Subterranean Homesick Alien," his response was "Sounds like a mix between Korn and Pink Floyd." When I asked about the lyrics, it was a shrug and the line I've heard repeated by even my biggest music enthusiast friends: "I don't really listen to the lyrics."

One of the biggest flaws in popular music today -- whether actual chart toppers or even artists with more creative license -- is that the message put forth doesn't matter to the listener.

The Eisenhower-induced prosperity and boredom of the '50s led the youth of America to embrace rock 'n' roll. Now while most of the songs spoke about young love ("Peggy Sue") and an obsession with American automobiles ("Maybelline, "Fun, Fun Fun"), the relative prosperity allowed expressions of lust and love to come through in seemingly nonsensical, but self-censored songs like "Tutti Frutti" and suggestive works like "Mess Around."

The '60s may have pushed the boundaries beyond the non-acid dropping audience, but even Grace Slick could encapsulate the experience in "Go Ask Alice." Most important, of course, were the songs of protest ("Ohio" immediately comes to mind), the poetic and often philosophical explorations of the time by Bob Dylan and the satirical indictment of rising commercialization by The Who Sell Out.

We get a bit more schizophrenic in the '70s, but so was the time. "The Blank Generation" described how the punks reacted to the strife of the times by writing it off, whereas disco enjoyed a fair amount of calls to "Shake Your Booty." Not exactly the most eloquent expression, but it worked. The '80s watered it down a bit, but even the New Agers got their point across. After all, Tears for Fears may have been catchy, but "Shout!" was more concerned with nuclear annihilation than topping the charts. And after all, with all those benefit concerts and U2 making their worldview known, there was still a conscience to the music.

Not so much today. Somehow Jadakiss receives praise as the next Bob Dylan by Rolling Stone, and nearly every chart topper is devoid of any lyrical significance. The top two songs on the Billboard 100 are by T.I., including "Whatever You Like" with the line "Late night sex so wet, so tight." While the top of the charts isn't exactly the place to look for introspection, the fact that empty-headed -- and surprisingly mundane -- descriptions of sex have found success betrays a listener preference for rhythm over substance.

And that's why I'm not blaming this one on the music industry. I truly believe that the public -- even the musically inclined -- has thrown lyrics to the curb in favor of "hot beats" and "killer riffs."

We live in an age where lyrics are made for AIM profiles. The only time we cite lyrics is when we have to sum up our current state in a relatable, custom-made statement. And even then they get it wrong. I once had a friend cite Thom Yorke's "Atoms for Peace" to praise her "So many allies" when the lyric was actually "So many lies." She subsequently changed the words and sunk into depression.

And that's the problem. Somewhere in between the '80s and '90s, Americans stopped caring about what artists had to say and just appropriated their work as a supplement to their lives. While this has always counted as a significant chunk of the music buying public, it has reached endemic proportions considering the political circumstances of the time. We stand at the brink of a new presidency and a highly maligned Bush presidency, and the people we can find to sum up the moment are Will.i.Am and Neil Young (who helped define an era 40 years ago)?

One could certainly chalk it up to those artists who defined the '90s -- perhaps Smashing Pumpkins and the barrage of alternative shrug-minded lyricists painted too bleak of a world-view for the rest of us.

However, the better bet is that Americans didn't really have anything to sum up the '90s and are still trying to get a hold on the '00s, for that matter. Sept. 11 sent artists into either mourning or rebellion, but Americans weren't comfortable purchasing singles with either sentiment.

But they'll come around. If the British could rebound from Duran Duran and send "Pulp" to the top of the charts, the Americans can eventually find room for soul-searching -- it just might take a new world order first.

Jason Smathers (jsmathers@badgerherald.com) is a senior majoring in history and journalism.

Despite echoing every other underdog tale, this movie might have been entertaining had director Gary Fleder ("Runaway Jury") and screenwriter Charles Leavitt ("Blood Diamond") been able to efficiently combine an exciting and passionate football atmosphere with the film's intended message about overcoming the racially-charged obstacles as both intriguing and thought-provoking.

Although Leavitt displayed tremendous skill in subtly presenting a powerful message about the diamond industry in "Blood Diamond" without taking away from the film's entertainment value, his heavy-handed approach towards this film is disastrous. Whether it is through dumbed down, "motivational" dialogue or the addition of otherwise irrelevant scenes, Leavitt relentlessly reminds us exactly what statement this film is trying to make. The result is an overly dramatic film that so desperately tries to get its point across that it extends well beyond its climax just to pummel the audience a few more times with its message.

Raised in poverty in the southern tier of New York state, Ernie Davis (Rob Brown, "Stop-Loss") is a quiet young man who must overcome insurmountable barriers on the way to becoming a premier athlete. Yet, soon after committing to play football for Syracuse University under bull-headed coach Ben Schwartzwalder (Dennis Quaid, "Smart People"), Davis realizes he must become much more than just another black running back. What follows is the inspirational true story of how this pioneer for the civil rights movement altered how America viewed black men by speaking volumes both on and off the field.

While this is "The Ernie Davis Story," that does not mean the producers should have simply avoided developing the characters of sentimental importance to Davis. For a dramatic film to have a poignant impact, the audience has to understand and feel the emotions running through Davis in situations such as the one when his grandfather dies. Yet this is complicated to do when this character was vastly underdeveloped to begin with. The same goes when you include a love interest in the film. It is hard to feel the chemistry between Davis and this woman when she comes off as little more than a stranger.

Having already taken on the role of the veteran quarterback in "Any Given Sunday" and the aging ballplayer in "The Rookie," it was only a matter of time before Dennis Quaid picked up the clipboard for a film, and unsurprisingly, he does so with great success. With his likeable intensity and rough around the edges persona, Quaid is perfectly suited to take on the role of Schwartzwalder, and his portrayal is by far this film's biggest draw.

Unfortunately, Quaid's performance greatly overshadows Brown, who continues to disappoint those who praised his breakout performance in "Finding Forrester" eight years ago. It is not that Brown is unbelievable as Davis, it is just he is unable to bring a part of himself to the role and, therefore, merely acts as a vessel for pushing the plot along.

While the film does succeed in providing an abundance of exhilarating pigskin action, the cinematography in these scenes is, at times, nauseating. The director's misguided technique of rapidly alternating from one camera to the next leaves both Davis' opponents and the audience's heads reeling. The cameras also tend to incomprehensibly pulsate whenever Davis is about to run, creating an obscure effect comparable to a PlayStation 3 controller during a game of "Madden."

In the end, you are better off avoiding "The Express" for more engaging underdog sports flicks like "Remember the Titans" and "Rudy." At least that way you are guaranteed to get your football fix and a winning message without feeling like you were cheated out of your money by Hollywood.

2 stars out of 5

A song has long been defined almost as much by its ability to be reproduced as by its effect on a listener. What good is a song if it's available only to a closed audience? The Internet has heightened this reproduction by not only allowing the endless multiplication of a work but by making these copies universally accessible. The online gallery charges nothing and is open to all so long as one possesses the necessary technology, and that technology is rapidly becoming less privileged.

I've clearly done away with the pretense that everyone pays to access this work -- let's not kid ourselves. We'll proceed from the assumption that every online patron is well-versed in navigating the typically calm seas of Internet art "piracy," whether they make it a habit to do so or not.

Equally essential to the notion of the online gallery is teaming up with contemporary popular technology to make all art portable in ways it's never before been. The laptop is the Metropolitan Opera, the Louvre, the Library of Congress and the Globe Theater, all in a mobile, rechargeable object.

Now that the work of art is in our possession -- ready and eager to be unwrapped and consumed -- we might want to consider the circumstances of our impending "encounter" with it. In the age of the online gallery, the art experience is essentially an exercise in freedom. I'm seriously considering heading to the playground down the street and watching the first half of "Citizen Kane" on the swing set and the second half (when Orson Welles is at his portliest) in the sandbox. Could audiences in 1941 have dreamt of this freedom in constructing the terms of one's experience of the film? Could Welles?

Walter Benjamin could. In his 1936 deified essay "The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction," Benjamin chased the fog from the concept of reproducible art in relation to its modern audience. For some time now, the work of art has been without what Benjamin called its "aura" -- its embedded function of generating a sense of exclusivity and distance between the object and the audience. If the aura had somehow survived being stomped out by Benjamin, then it was vaporized by the advent of the Internet. All that's left is the audience and the aura-free object.

But with the destruction of the aura, we've acquired a somewhat misleading freedom. It's all too convenient that Benjamin pointed to movies as the prototypical reproducible work of art: One can now watch a film on their laptop anywhere, anytime. Where the missed opportunity occurs is in deciding when and where to have the art experience, the failure to dive headfirst into the freedom of the modern audience.

Literature has been a portable art forever: How many of us require a soundless, solitary environment to read a novel? Certainly it can be pleasant, but without the ambience of inadvertently eavesdropped conversations or the reality-disrupting scream of a siren, I begin to wonder if I'm alive or if I've lackadaisically dissolved into the work I meant to approach with care and consideration. This is a far more distracting detour than what those exterior phenomena could ever achieve.

The writing is representative of post-pubescent boys reunited once more with the toys of their childhood. Except this time around, they're crafting scripts around the concepts of sex, death and unicorns. Beneath the blatant language lies a snide wit that slinks along the screen, even in the shortest of skits. Critics have been taking notice as well. The show was recently nominated for an Emmy for Outstanding Animated Program and won two Emmys in 2006 and 2007 for Outstanding Individual Achievement in Animation.

The series DVD contains 20 episodes from season three. Although each episode is only 11 to 12 minutes long, the show takes on subtle sweetness in its brevity, with each skit being long enough to fully grasp the presumably short attention span of its viewers. Some familiar voices also serve as attention grabbers. It seems Green has held tight to his celebrity connections, lassoing in a few big names each episode to be tucked under an insignificant voiceover credit; some from season three are Hayden Panettiere, Rosario Dawson and Snoop Dogg.

With the purchase of the DVD, buyers can enjoy a series of enticing Robot Chicken bonuses. The first is a gag reel that runs through every horrifically violent moment aired throughout the season. If you think the sight of evidently fake deaths composed of kindergarten art supplies won't make you squirm, think again. The extras boast a series called "Chicken Nuggets" which presents sketch-by-sketch video commentary by Green and Senreich on select episodes. "Special Features" also takes you into a tour of the studio, which gives an appealing look at the creation and chaotic mess that happens behind scenes.

Take caution in the fact that the bizarre skits may crush the innocent images left by beloved childhood programming (i.e. "Rainbow Bright," "ThunderCats," "Doug"), but only with the intention to leave audiences in uproarious laughter.

4 stars out of 5

While crossing the country and the seas, the band continues to rake in fans with their thrashed, catchy beats and slick garage-band style. Currently touring with The Kooks, the threesome comprised of Parker Gispert on vocals and guitar, Tim Deaux on bass and Julian Dorio on drums is set to play tonight at the Barrymore Theatre. While on the road somewhere between Oklahoma and Missouri, Whigs drummer Dorio talked about his experience promoting their latest album, Mission Control.

The Badger Herald: I looked at your current tour, and it is pretty insane. It seems like you are constantly on the go. How do you guys keep the energy pumping show after show in what appears to be an exhausting schedule?

Julian Dorio: The shows are the reward. We tour because we love to play, and even as tired as you can get traveling, we look forward to the shows.

BH: You've been to Madison a few times now. Is there anything about Madison that draws you back?

JD: We look forward to Madison; it's stood out in the past as one of our favorite towns, the best crowds we've played to have been in Madison. There's good, lively, young energy, the people seem like they're really excited to party and dance and have a good time. Whether it's the first time when there was a handful or now when there's more of a crowd, it's fun every time.

BH: You guys have ventured into the festival circuit, Lollapalooza and Bonnaraoo to name a few. What was it like playing along other headlining bands?

JD: They are definitely different. We played more shows on our own, but we love festivals and the vibe. We don't get to see that many shows, and after we get done playing we get to run out into the crowd with everyone else and watch shows. The festivals overseas are incredible; some of the best from the states like Bonnaroo and Lollapalooza model themselves after big European festivals. We are new to Europe -- and the states too and are just ecstatic to be in the same venue as some of the big headliners.

BH: Any songs in particular you continue to get a kick out of playing live?

JD: We do switch it up as best we can. We sort of have fun with that and keep it fresh for us. It varies from every other week or whatever. ... I'd say "Already Young" off the new album I've been enjoying playing lately.

BH: You guys have been receiving a lot of positive press. A few eye-catching titles were "Best Unsigned Band" by Rolling Stone in 2007 and "Best Drummer" by Esquire in 2007. Do you believe this has brought in more listeners and fans?

JD: There's no one thing, whether it is radio airplay or Rolling Stone, that takes the band from where it was to where it is now: It's all these tiny steps that help the bands. Whether it is Esquire with a certain demographic or iTunes or MySpace, there is more music than ever and more ways to find out about it, which takes the leg work off us. We sort of try to stay out there as much as we can; I'm sure there's someone to see us new each time around, or someone told a friend. It takes a lot of time, and there are a lot of building blocks to keep grinding out.

BH: I know the first record, Give 'Em All a Big Fat Lip, you guys recorded yourself. After being signed with ATO records, how did that experience differ from recording Mission Control?

JD: We didn't really have anything the first time. We had a little money, and we bought a bit of recording equipment and recorded in a big house we got for free. Having (the producers) behind the counsel helped me play drums -- that's what I do -- that's what I think about. This way I don't need to think about mixing and compressing and all these things that aren't my forte; it's a privilege.

BH: What is the one greatest thing about making it big, or making it where you are today?

JD: Hmm, that's difficult, I wouldn't say we made it big but best thing is sort of getting to play to people every night. We are really fortunate for that; it's a lot of fun, and we look forward to the shows . It's a lot of small things, great venues, touring with other great bands, getting to meet and play to bands we look up to and admire, crazy to be in same room as them and hang out and meet them and watch their shows and having them be a fan of your band is really rewarding.

The Whigs will be performing at the Barrymore Theatre tonight at 8 p.m.

The better question is, "Good gravy, where can I get some grease fries? Those sound like decadence factorial. Decadence!"

Regardless, I think this necessitates a personal anecdote. Near the house I grew up, there's a burger joint called Lion's Tap. It's pretty good. The burger I eat there is a double hamburger with a slice of raw onion in between the patties and mustard on the bun so the pickle slices adhere. The real key is to eat the burger over the fries, so that the grease drips down and smothers the spuds in hot beef flavor oils. This is pretty much a guaranteed way to self-induce a coma.

In hopes of finding the end-all-be-all of burgers and finally being able to declare a place of preferred patronage I searched this city, spoke with some fellow students and ultimately decided for myself where I might be able to find the best burger in Madison.

Cutting out the riff-raff was the hardest part. In fact, the inspiration for this challenge of chuck was a sign I pass by at least four times a week. The Church Key Pub and Grill's signage right on University Avenue touts the "Best Burger in Town," which just strikes me as a dirty, flagrant abuse of advertising. The idea of eating a burger at the Church Key is worse than consuming the aftermath of that time I tried to make beer-battered onion rings in a saucepan. Barf City.

Gastronomical Leaps adheres to the extensive and unbiased criteria set by the monolith of meals, the Food Arbitration Commission (chaired by a shadowy, unnamed conglomeration), and includes quality of ingredients, overall composition, an overall grease-density quotient and, of course, tastiness. My own evaluations of ambience and service, as well as value are included.

A quick tour of State Street brings immediate attention to Five Guys, a successful newbie on the scene that seems to have captured a decent-sized dinner crowd. Closing at 10 p.m. most nights is not by any means a recipe for success in Madison, so a deserved anti-shout out goes to the management for cutting off the bar time zombie hordes. The quick burger joint does its job, but it comes up a little short. The fast food nature of Five Guys sacrifices quality for quantity, but paying seven dollars to be full isn't half bad. They also get an honorable mention for their Cajun fries -- which should only be eaten with crack sauce (it's not on the menu, but ask for it anyway). The cheeseburger looked nice, but the wrapping compressed the burger and squeezed grease out onto the bun and cold ingredients. It definitely hit the spot well, but sat in the stomach pretty heavily. The large portion of fries doled out by the staff adds to already high grease-to-volume ration, and also to the food-coma effect.

The Nitty Gritty is renowned for its birthday specials, the "World's Smallest Chocolate Sundae" and a purportedly decent array of burgers. The problem visible immediately upon sitting down is the schedule of burger specials posted on every booth. There's a different burger nearly every day! With so many variations, is a consistently good burger expected? I ordered their classic, the Gritty Burger, which is pretty much a regular cheeseburger with something called "Gritty Sauce." Well, the mysterious and intriguing elements of the meal are not skipped but easily missed.

The Gritty Burger is gross. The Gritty Burger is gross like the kid who eats mustard packets for lunch and has a faint yellow stain around his mouth. They both might mean well, but there's something just a little off. The meat and bun were smothered in something like tapioca southwestern style mayonnaise; the lettuce, onion and tomato accessories were soggy, and the bun did not last long either. This place is recommendable for a birthday celebration only because they serve the perfect, tasteless grease balls for drunks.

After hearing many good things about the award-winning Plazaburger, I decided to check it out for myself. I ordered at the bar and grabbed a seat. There's a decent selection on tap, but the Thursday night specials can be a real draw. Like the Nitty Gritty, the Plazaburger is served with a secret sauce. The sauce looks more like ranch, and the burger smells of meat and onions instead of an overpowering saucy smell. The patty was cooked to a nice medium, and the sauce was actually tasty and used relatively sparingly. There wasn't much effort in the way of presentation, but this burger raises the standard on bar food. The next time you find yourself at the Plaza, I'd recommend ordering it. This burger will save a trip to the hot dog place next door and a wait in line for re-entry.

Dotty Dumpling's Dowry has a decent reputation for good burgers and excellent ambience. I had high expectations even on my first visit. Stepping into the place means immediate separation from the noise of North Frances Street. This creates a more private atmosphere, which is necessary when the Ian's Pizza bouncer is noisily regulating fools for being fools. The dimmed restaurant has a pub feel to it. Consequently their beer selection is quite good, but all these accoutrements definitely lead to a bigger check. I ordered the bacon cheeseburger; it looked well put together. The bun was not deformed at all, and it had that faint oily glisten that can only say, "Hey buddy, I'm a real fatty delicious sandwich and I see you checkin' my sheen out. Go ahead and take a bite, please. I love you."

Delicious. The whole-leaf lettuce makes for a big difference, not only in shielding grease (as opposed to shredded lettuce, which tends to absorb grease) but also in adding biting and chewing texture. That was an awesome burger, and the dining experience blows everyone else out of the water.

One of my underpaid middle school teachers once said to me that writing a good essay is like eating a great hamburger. You have this delicious middle that isn't complete without the buns -- the start and the finish. It's true, too. A burger without a bun is like a Harold without a Kumar or a Milli without a Vanilli. From start to finish, Dotty Dumpling's Dowry performed brilliantly. Kudos to them and the other honorable mention: Five Guys' fries.

Alex Truong is a junior majoring in economics and history. E-mail him atatruong@wisc.edu if you wish, as he likes cracking crème brulée with a spoon in his spare time.

"I think that we're moving in a really exciting time for comedy. When things are tough in the country, comedy gets better, so it's bittersweet," Silverman said, in what would be her most serious statement of the afternoon.

She said the third season of "The Sarah Silverman Program," which returned last night and will continue its two-night premiere this evening at 9:30 p.m., has some of the show's best episodes yet. Upcoming episodes include Silverman suing Mongolia for rape, repeatedly running over Osama Bin Laden with her car and helping her sister cope with a devastating emotional loss.

"Laura shaves her pubes, but it's heartbreaking because her bush was her memory of our mother. Honestly, it's so sweet," Silverman said. "Pubes with heart. If I had to describe the show: pubes with heart."

Speaking to Silverman about her work, it's clear the perversely witty humor in her words is the key to understanding the racial slurs that litter her standup and the scatological stories that comprise this year's episodes. Even Silverman admits to touching on taboo topics but explains doing so isn't only about the cheap laughs.

"We're focusing on just being funny. And along the way, if the audience infers things that benefit their lives or even provoke thought, that's great, but mostly it's a lot of shit jokes -- cerebral shit jokes. The first episode ... you can look at it and say this is just about diarrhea and wet dreams. But to me, the first episode is about corporate America creating problems and then marketing solutions. ...You can see it at a very base level, or you can decide to see a little more."

And Silverman thinks what some critics construe as racism in her comedy, such as the comparisons she makes between a black man and an elderly Jewish woman in her video for pro-Obama website The Great Schlep, is the result of people missing the self-satirizing point

"There's a difference between people reacting to buzz words and people listening to the context of the joke and seeing that the butt of the joke is always myself. I'm the ignoramus of the joke," Silverman said.

But Silverman isn't an "ignoramus" outside of her routines and lately has devoted some of her comedic efforts to encouraging political involvement and supporting Democratic presidential nominee Sen. Barack Obama. The Great Schlep encourages Jewish grandchildren to visit their Jewish grandparents in Florida in the hopes of convincing those Floridians to vote for Obama, and Silverman is both the voice and face of this effort. She believes encouraging grassroots support for her candidate of choice by prompting a few laughs is a way to combat political apathy.

"It wouldn't hurt to try to change a few minds. This is the year where young people of any age -- voting age or younger -- can make a huge difference in the world. It's bizarre. It's pretty exciting. ... This is an opportunity to get people involved in the world they live in. Put down the 'Halo 2' for two fucking seconds."

Of course Silverman didn't just want to talk about politics, but she did have a few last words about why today's youth need a push to act from groups like the Great Schlep.

"I'm not old but I think this new, younger generation has a danger of being really lazy entitled dicks. ... Each generation gets raised by the generation before them. ... There has to be some kind of balance. I'm not saying make things hard on your kids -- you want to give them everything. First of all, you're all fucking fat. It's not like the fat kids get teased; you're all the fat kid. ...You've gotta change that right? What am I talking about? I should be plugging my show!"

And Silverman did talk a lot about the new season of "The Sarah Silverman Program." She also emphasized how challenging and rewarding it was to get to this point in her career. After beginning to do stand up at the age of 17, Silverman eventually joined the writing staff of "Saturday Night Live" and later appeared on a series of television comedies and sitcoms. And these shows guided the trajectory of Silverman's career.

"I was able to have a small part peripherally on a lot of things that were very culty. I just tried to learn stuff all along the way and really understand what I want in life ... a two-dimensional nothing character I'm not interested in. I'd rather be on Comedy Central doing my own show and having it be just how I want it to be without compromise. So that being said, I'm the poorest celebrity you could ever meet. But it's worth it."

The Pretenders, who originated in Britain, are a rock band that started in the '70s. They became famous in 1979 with their song "Stop your Sobbing," but now most probably remember them from their '90s ballad "I'll Stand By You" or Guitar Hero-ed "Tattooed Love Boys." The group has had to make many changes in its lineup due to the excessive drugs many members enjoyed as well as the deaths of some of those same users. Their new album now includes Martin Chambers, James Walbourne, Nick Wilkinson and Chrissie Hynde, who is the only original member of the Pretenders. Hynde is the lead vocalist as well as songwriter for the group, and she writes semi-autobiographical lyrics which make for powerful and thought-provoking lyrics.

On Breaking up the Concrete, the Pretenders' lyrics provide insight into the past, political changes, race and, of course, love, and they draw listeners in with intriguing verses such as "And, by the way, you look fantastic/ In your boots of Chinese plastic" or "Don't cut your hair/ Don't cut your hair/ Whatever you do." These are from the songs, "Boots of Chinese Plastic" and "Don't Cut Your Hair," respectively, both of which have fast tempos, quick lyrics and a unique sound.

"Don't Cut Your Hair," however, is the most comical and quirky song on the album. With lyrics like, "Don't cut it/ Don't chop it" and "If you got a man/ Go ahead and flaunt it/ Any guy is lying if he says he doesn't want it/ Any guy is lying if he says he doesn't want it" inspires images of long, crazy '70s hair and the Pretenders not wanting to give up their precious locks into the listener's imagination.

While the lyrics intrigued, the instrumentals did not. The Pretenders have a relaxed feeling to their songs; the music on this album is more calm and quiet and simply not as exciting. In "Almost Perfect" and "Don't Lose Faith in Me," Hynde's voice is very soft and overly soothing. Her voice is the only thing heard, and the actual instrumentation can only be heard in snippets beneath her singing.

The Pretenders' new album Break up the Concrete may be a bit milder than the music they used to play, but the captivating lyrics make up for the changes they've made. If you are looking for more rock music, check out their older material. The lyrics provide insight to Hynde's personal world and give the band's fans food for thought. While the instruments lag behind, the verses, filled with questions, adoration and quirky ideas, are sure to keep their listeners entertained.

3 stars out of 5

It should be no surprise that Jay-Z would come out on top considering his career is built on charisma and Oasis's career based on non-confrontational, distorted rock cliches. On Dig Out Your Soul, Oasis's insistence on utilizing every overdone rock technique and sounding best as arena background music (the first single, "The Shock of the Lightning," was featured on Monday Night Football) jeopardizes any relevance that British rock's old guard may have had in the 21st century.

Oasis has been compared to The Beatles so much throughout their career, it is not even funny. Oasis has continually and unabashedly paid homage to (read: ripped off) the fab four and has gotten away with it by releasing multi-platinum record after multi-platinum record. On Dig Out Your Soul, you can play "spot the Beatles reference" on every track. "The Turning" concludes with the guitar line of "Dear Prudence;" "To Be Where There's Light" finds Oasis pretending they were taught by Ravi Shankar; "Waiting For the Rapture" is a redo of "Yer Blues" and "The Nature of Reality" plays with the "Helter Skelter" opening riff and a few tired blues bars. This list excludes the blatant and eye-roll-inducing Beatles nods like the Lennon interview clip needlessly used on "I'm Outta Time" and a lyric about how love is "a magical mystery" on "The Shock of the Lightning."

Speaking of what love is, Oasis has some driveling platitudes for you. On the first single they proclaim, "Love is a time machine/ Up on the silver screen," which is probably not true, because it is also meaningless. On "Bag It Up" they deliver more smug lyrics like "I got my hee-bee-jee-bees in a hidden bag/ Tell me what you desire and we'll bag it up, high." These lines would be forgivable if they weren't being shouted as anthems for crowded arenas to learn and shout back.

One could tell you about Oasis's unique ad-hoc songwriting, but the band members are all heading in the same musical direction: higher, not forward. One could have also written about the bittersweet and larger-than-life vocals, but that is old news.

The one caveat to this characterization of Dig Out Your Soul is the slow-burning, laconic "Soldier On," which does not sound like The Beatles or even Oasis. It succeeds as a surreal death march by capturing the ambivalent and confused atmosphere of today's war-weary West. If the rest of the album dared to be as modern or as innovative as this track, Oasis could have made the move toward a more relevant and original sound, instead of collecting more jock jams.

2 stars out of 5.

These are questions that can't be answered in a neat three-minute song. For that matter, they can't be answered in a 1000-word column. But although I may only scratch the surface, I will propose two responses to the questions "I Kissed A Girl" provokes: First, the sexual identity labels we use ("gay," "straight," etc.) are not as clear-cut as we might believe. Second, forming a sexual identity is a process which takes time and experience.

First, the descriptors of sexual identity we adopt and assign to others are not based on concrete definitions; they are social constructs. Sure, there are dictionary definitions. For "homosexual" (to which "gay" defers), Webster's states, "1. Of, relating to, or characterized by a tendency to direct sexual desire toward another of the same sex. 2. Of, relating to, or involving sexual intercourse between persons of the same sex."

Seems reasonable enough. But notice there are two distinct definitions there. Already, we have a problem; those two definitions do not always exist together in a single individual. What of the married man who has a "tendency to direct sexual desire toward another" man, but does not act on those desires? Gay? How about the woman who kisses girls and likes it, but goes home to sleep with her boyfriend at the end of the night? Blazes. Foiled again.

Human beings spend enormous amounts of effort narrowing complex things like sexuality, race, etc. into neat little boxes we can check off on a form. However, the components of sexual identity are numerous and subject to change. HIV/AIDS activists have recognized the ambiguity surrounding these labels for years, having long shucked the terms "gay" or "homosexual" in favor of the less open-to-interpretation, "men who have sex with men" or MSM. In an article on MSM who do not identify as gay or bisexual, the Aug. 7, 2008 New York Times quotes Dr. Hector Carrillo, professor of human sexuality studies at San Francisco State, "Sexual identity is a very complex thing. We like to think that once someone figures out their sexual attraction, they will fit into the categories we've created. But life isn't like that."

Another complication of our attempts to rigidify the boundaries of these labels is the fact that for most of us, sexuality is fluid and will change throughout our lifetimes -- much like Katy Perry's pop music career. Before she was so dangerously close to the sin of kissing girls, she was a Christian pop star (no, really). Thus, when "I Kissed a Girl" uh, came out, the Christian community had an exceptional incentive to take notice. Adam R. Holz wrote a scathing review on www.pluggedinonline.com, a subsidiary of Focus on the Family -- whose primary purpose is to "[shine] a Light on the world of popular entertainment." Holz calls the song "...the latest high-profile message to young women and men that our sexuality is a malleable commodity that can be reshaped at will. ... [Katy is] living down to a damaging, demeaning stereotype, one that our culture has already branded as 'girls gone wild.'" According to Holz, Perry's lyrics promote the "dangerous" and "incorrect" idea that sexuality is flexible.

First of all, aren't many of these Focus on the Family-type organizations using the converse of that argument to explain the existence of gays, lesbians and other degenerates in the first place: by the willful reshaping of the straighthood, we're all born with into the hedonistic homo lifestyle? In all seriousness, however, of course sexuality changes throughout the course of the average 75-year lifetime. Of course our desires, preferences, enjoyments and beliefs change from day one to day 25,000, for self-identified straight and queer folks alike. When I was in high school, I was president of my school's equivalent of the "True Love Waits (and Doesn't Smoke, Drink or Download Music Illegally)" Club. Enough said.

This sexual fluidity many of us experience is evidence that forming a sexual identity takes time, effort and experience. We cannot predict everything we will like, dislike, want, etc. Many will argue there is always some inner knowledge or desire which contributes to the sexual choices that we make, and I don't claim we can only learn about our sexual selves through experience. But we cannot fully learn about our sexual selves without it.

Some of you might argue that sexual identity is just something that happens to everybody along the way, without much thought or effort. I disagree for two reasons. First, all of us can look back on our sexual lives and pick out some "big moments." The first kiss. The first orgasm. Whatever. These are experiences that shape our sexual identities, and even though they might not have felt like "work," they still only came with time and experimentation.

More significantly, however, those who identify as straight are far more likely to make this "it just happens" argument than those who are not. When we think of any kind of identity marker as something that's just "natural," that's an aspect of identity in which we're probably privileged. If our sexual identities fit with our "cultural norm," then we might not have a lot to think about. Those of us who do not fit into the norm do a lot more thinking; our experiences are constantly denigrated or challenged by those who assume their experiences to be universal.

All right. Even if you buy my argument that "gay" and "straight" and "bisexual" have no concrete meanings, many people still feel totally comfortable using terms like "gay," "lesbian" or "straight" to describe themselves. Are they foolish conformists who don't recognize the inaccurate and constricting connotations of these labels?

Nah. The solution to the complex maze of sexual identity is to realize that no one knows more about your sexual desires, preferences and behaviors than you do. Thus, you have the right to argue with the way(s) you choose (or do not choose) to describe yourself. Self-identification is about empowerment -- the power to select words we use and don't use, and the right to feel powerful using those words. The choice might not involve just our sexual selves. Tristan Taormino, a renowned queer-identified author, editor and lecturer, comments on her own self-identification: "...Queer to me is not just about who I love or lust, but it's about my culture, my community, and my politics. The truth is, even if I were with a heterosexual guy, I'd be a queer dyke. And trust me, after being with me, he wouldn't be so straight."

And no one has the right to tell her otherwise. No one has the right to tell any of us otherwise. No matter who we're kissing or how much we're liking it.

Erica Andrist is a senior facilitator with Sex Out Loud. She gives major sexual props (such as handcuffs) to Stefanie A. Jones for her help with this column. If you'd like her to answer your burning questions instead of waxing philosophical about her own, email her at humpday@badgerherald.com.

Director Raja Gosnell tries to incorporate elements of suspense in "Beverly Hills Chihuahua;" however, the plotline ends up being predictable. In the beginning of the film, we meet Aunt Viv (Jamie Lee Curtis, "Christmas with the Kranks") who boasts a fascination with tiny lapdogs. We also meet Chloe (Barrymore, "Music and Lyrics"), a canine heiress -- yes, a Chihuahua heiress -- born and raised in Beverly Hills who is obviously accustomed to her 90210 lifestyle. After finding herself lost in Mexico, Chloe finds a true friend in fellow canine Delgado (Andy Garcia, "Ocean's Thirteen"), and the film chronicles their adventures home from Mexico.

Adding conflict -- as well as a dark side -- to the story is Diablo (Edward James Olmos, "Battlestar Galactica"), a fierce dog out to get Chloe and Delgado in order to bring them back to his owner, a criminal who runs dogfights. With attempts to include some drama, this movie does not contain real suspense (at least not for people over the age of 12). However, it does contain action, comedy and cute jokes that can be appreciated by people of all ages.

However, this is a Disney movie, and the moral quickly becomes apparent. It teaches children that selfishness and the overall distinction of being "spoiled" are not good qualities to have. Chloe, true to Disney form, learns that materialistic items are less important than inner qualities and ideals such as friendship, loyalty and staying true to who you are.

It is surprising such esteemed actors would take part in this silly-humored film, especially considering the stark contrast between earlier films with more intense roles. As for Lopez, this film does seem to match his comedy, yet his character, Papi, the Chihuauha whose "corazon" has been captured by Chloe, humors the audience the most of all of the characters. He ventures to Mexico to help find her with his owner Sam (Manolo Cardona, "Padres e Hijos") and Aunt Viv's niece Rachel (Piper Perabo, "Because I Said So"). The producers even included "Low Rider," the theme song to "George Lopez," in the soundtrack of this film.

As far as the "talking" of the Chihuahuas is concerned, the movie crew does a good job of moving the lips of the animals at the same time their voices are recorded. The audience experiences the film from two points of view: that of the dogs and that of the humans. The soundtrack of this film also seems to resemble the little Chihuahuas and their personalities with its quick perkiness, which overall blends nicely into the film.

If you are not in the mood to be challenged and you don't mind predictability, "Beverly Hills Chihuahua" will set you up for a fun time and silly laughs. Pick up your favorite childhood sweets and sit down to enjoy simplistic comedy in this family-fun film.

2 stars out of 5.

The band formed in 2004 as a three-piece set with brothers Michael and Matt Reisenauer and friend Brett Randall and soon gathered Andrew Brawner on bass and Elizabeth Weamer on cello (therefore slightly bending their truth in the "gentlemen" name). After the debut of its self-titled CD in 2006, the band became an eminent and well-received part of the Madison music culture.

Pale Young Gentlemen proves there is no doubt Madison knows how to pick them. Dusting off what are now perceived as antique instruments, the band gathers the eclectic sound of xylophones, harps and french horns to create a genre-bending sound that melts soothingly into the ears of listeners in Black Forest.

The first track -- and arguably most emotionally-driven track -- "Coal/Ivory" starts with the frenetic plucking of a guitar as lead singer Michael Reisenauer's low bellow guides into the elegantly haunting climax produced by the panic-stricken cymbals. The premiere track also sets the narrative structure as each following song provides a short tale set within a time limit.

Jaunty tunes "Kettle Drum (I left a Note)" and "Wedding Guest" are the most memorable, acting as what could be a soundtrack to a post-millennium production in Snow White's whimsical woods abundant in fuzzy doe-eyed creatures -- the combination of a toe-tapping xylophone and gentle flute had me wondering if I should whistle while I work. Nonetheless, the songs are well-crafted, intertwining the array of instruments into an innovative melody that strays far away from the sing-songy synthetic beats found on radio airplay.

In fact, the album itself relies heavily on Pale Young Gentlemen's exceptional musical ability rather than by luring an audience in through an irritatingly catchy hook. The songs are meant to be played as an experience from start to finish instead of repeatedly spouting a one-phrase line like "umbrella" or "no air" into listeners' heads.

Although at times their heavy reliance on such peaceful hymns backfires, like in "I Wasn't Worried" and "Marvelous Design," which enter a drone-like dimension that lacks the livelihood to keep listeners tuned in.

Luckily, the songs "The Crook of my Good Arm" and "Our History" relentlessly hold viewers as they are carried by the twisted, lyrical plotline moving beautifully through an enriching voice that sings in the latter song, "I'd like to see my father/ We fit together." The shifting tempo of the violin serves as an elusive conductor through the rising and falling action of the storyline.

Pale Young Gentlemen certainly bring an innovative sound to the area, breaking the three-piece ensemble by fearlessly incorporating new sounds into their style. As this promising act tours the country, we can rest assured they will proudly carry on Madison's exceptional taste.

3 1/2 stars out of 5

Land of Talk (of Montreal, Quebec) is made up of vocalist, songwriter and guitarist Elizabeth Powell, bassist Chris McCarron and Andrew Barr on the drums. Some Are Lakes was produced by Saddle Creek, which also turned out Neva Dinova and Tokyo Police Club. Consistent with Land of Talk's 2006 seven-track album, Applause Cheer Boo Hiss (longer than an EP but not considered full-length), Powell's voice is laid back but implication-filled and dominates every track. Alternative bands with solely a female lead vocalist are few and far between, and Land of Talk is unique in that aspect.

Powell's words roll into each other, and the lyrics are not always clearly understood, yet she never sounds indifferent. "Lived your life in sacrifice is what you did/ And I don't think a rose or 'raise a toast' seems to fit/ I still get scared of fate, and interstates, and death by fire/ It's just the longest time, the longest line of heart's desire," Powell sings in "Death By Fire."

The band mirrors Powell's lyrics well and switches effortlessly from dancing-in-the-sunshine ("Some are Lakes") to get-out-of-my-face mode ("Give Me Back My Heart Attack").

Although Land of Talk's flexibility is made clear on the album, some tracks belong more on a soundtrack for a romantic film than on this album (see: "dancing-in-the-sunshine").

"We've seen how sick we were/ But I've got you for my life/ And I'll love you like I'll love you when I die," Powell sings.

The happy-go-lucky nature of tracks like "Some Are Lakes" stand in stark contrast to the rest of the album, which has an uneasy indie-alternative feel. This variety keeps the listener guessing with each track.

Things get spiced up in "The Man Who Breaks Things (Dark Shuffle)" as Powell sings, "Breath made in heartache/ And I barely was drawn in/ 'Cause I made up my misses/ And you'll always be the man who breaks things." The electric guitar and percussion govern the mysterious melody of the track.

Although the ambiance varies from song to song, the use of instruments do not. Powell's unique voice may be showcased more with a variation to the bass, guitar, drum and occasional piano on Some Are Lakes. The fifth track, "Give Me Back My Heart Attack," is a happy exception to this as the band is given free reign in an upbeat, catchy song that plays up both vocals and the ensemble.

The closing track, "Troubled" -- which the Saddle Creek website reports was recorded at Justin Vernon of Bon Iver's parents' home in Eau Claire -- has a soothing lullaby feel, with only an acoustic guitar backing Powell's voice at the beginning of the song. "Make wrong things right/ and get down to their level/ 'Cause bad things just aren't bigger than you," Powell sings as an unidentified male voice harmonizes peacefully to end the album.

Overall, Some Are Lakes is a fun listen. Powell's voice is engaging, and there is considerable variety within the album. Land of Talk would do well to experiment more with their sound and strive for those "where is this song going?" moments with the instrumentals.

3 1/2 stars out of 5

The movie, an adaptation of José Saramago's novel of the same title, or "Ensaio Sobre a Cegueira" in Saramago's native Portuguese, begins with one man exclaiming he's gone blind while driving his car. Soon more people are panicking because of their sudden blindness. This phenomenon is described as a "white blindness" but has no known cause because the people affected have perfectly healthy eyes. The government decides to take action by quarantining the sick to a crude hospital, but the building eventually overflows with people trying to survive without their sight.

Mark Ruffalo ("Zodiac") plays an ophthalmologist who is one of the first to go blind after treating a blinded patient. As he's being taken away to the quarantine, his wife, played by Julianne Moore ("Children of Men"), fakes blindness in order to stay with her husband. Ruffalo and Moore lead the pack in the beginning, keeping Moore's sight a secret. However, "the King of Ward 3," played by Gael Garcia Bernal ("Babel"), soon turns the three wards against each other in an attempt to rule the blind.

Blindness could be a terrifying experience after years of sight, but the one thing that might be worse is having your sight while the rest don't. The audience is put in the position of Moore as she is forced to watch the destruction of these people: The ground becomes covered in garbage and urine, and people walk around naked and dirty.

The acting throughout the film is one of the few highlights from "Blindness." Ruffalo and Bernal do an outstanding job of portraying the blind, and the audience sympathizes with their characters as they stumble and constantly walk into walls. Moore successfully captures the hearts of audience members as they watch her downward spiral into depression; she shows us the dark side of being the "lucky" one.

The film reaches its goal in making the audience sick to their stomach from the vile behavior of the characters. However, the story is one that, if everyone were to go blind, may not be far from the truth about the character of humans. Additionally, screenplay writer Don McKellar successfully adapts Saramago's novel into a gripping story of chaos and suspense. Although the story is one to put you at the edge of your seat, there are other factors which, combined with the plot, make the movie less enticing.

The editing in "Blindness" adds nothing to the story; it attempts to put us in the position of those blinded by making the screen into a blank, piercing white for brief moments throughout the film. The effect is disorientating, but instead of adding to our involvement with the story, the audience is just plain confused. The white screen, simply put, blinds you and distracts you from the story. This whiteness, added to the superimposing of shots throughout the film, works only to the detriment of the quality of the time. In the end, the editing isn't as serious as the film is supposed to be.

The overall impression of "Blindness" is the same as that of Stephen King's "The Mist": You will be successfully sucked into the plot and be interested in the outcome of the story. However, it's not a movie you'll ever want to see again. The images are disturbing and unsettling, and it's safe to say this is not a feel-good film, but more a movie for people who enjoy watching greedy, cruel people and horrific images.

2 stars out of 5

Opening with serene and beautiful shots of the farmlands of Afghanistan, the tone of the film soon shifts as it introduces the story of Dilawar, an average young farmer who fell victim to bad luck and circumstances. Shortly after he decided to start working as a taxi driver, he was detained by the local Afghan militia at a gas station and arrested under bogus suspicions. Two days later he was dead in Bagram, a U.S. detention center; Dilawar died from severe torture including extreme sleep deprivation and repeated strikes to his abdomen and legs.

The details of the case lead to a media explosion in 2005 in the midst of news of similarly vile inhuman atrocities that occurred in Guantanamo Bay, Cuba and Abu Ghraib, Iraq. In "Dark Side," Gibney follows the media and government reactions to the scandal, exploring how conditions for such atrocities came to be and goes on to recount the political underbelly of approved torture and the sick extent to which it expanded. Fraught with interviews of interrogators, detainees, military officials, politicians, lawyers and professors -- including one of UW's very own, history professor Alfred McCoy -- "Dark Side" dispels the "fog of ambiguity" covering the disturbing truth underlying the mismanaged detention centers and the executively endorsed carte blanche of wickedness.

Gibney craftily splices the poignant interviews with incriminating and often disturbing photographs, videos, reenactments and text, all to elicit outrage in the viewer because these heinous acts were committed under the awareness and approval of the Bush administration and were "legitimized" by the false pretense of "fighting terror" (despite less than a 10th of the detainees actually being suspected of ties to any terrorist organization). Gibney goes on to establish that the high demand for results by the executive branch in order to cover up their actual failure to capture high-profile terrorists like Bin Laden. These large-scale failures lead to urgent pressure on the detention centers to obtain confessions, regardless of their accuracy, using virtually any means possible. The result was sickening acts of torture and humiliation of people fully known to be "the wrong guys," in complete disregard to the Geneva Convention policies of due process, which the Bush administration legally redefined as "non-applicable."

"Dark Side" is incredibly hard to watch -- and to stomach -- and it safeguards the viewer from nothing as it explores a horrible, complicated issue. Although technically a very well-made film, "Dark Side" is not without flaws. While Gibney is no doubt shrewd and discerning, he doesn't make for the best narrator. Also, the documentary often feels a bit excessive, straying far from Dilawar and retreading some of its tracks, which, given the unsettling nature of the content, starts to feel a bit tortuous itself. Aside from this slightly blurred focus, Gibney's work shines as a pyre of truth as it relentlessly sheds light on the U.S. torture policies and the truly "dark side" of our government and military. Most importantly, it gives a name and a face to a wronged man that otherwise would have been swept away and simply forgotten. "Taxi to the Dark Side" is an incredibly heart-wrenching and disheartening film.

4 1/2 stars out of 5.

While this musical grab bag of thrift-store production and creative license on a schizophrenic mixture of tranquilizers and cocaine seems to be viewed as a "fill-in-the-blank" genre today, the fact of the matter is that "indie" had a meaning without the rebellious frill of its "independent" proclamation.

In fact, it had a whole lot less significance. In the grand scheme of musical movements, it was pretty lame. Especially for the U.K.

In the early '80s, England was done dreaming, but no one in America seemed to care. After taking punk to its natural end, Johnny Rotten reclaimed his Lyndon heritage, started proclaiming his love for Reggae and showed up on Top of the Pops butchering classical music with a bizarre little song called "Death Disco." From there and everywhere else came post-punk. There's no need to rehash the history, as Rip It Up and Start Again does it far better than I could and I would only end up drawing the ire of more informed indie devotees who treat it as the only Bible they know of.

However, while punk's collapsing core seemed to provide the red giant of post-punk, NME -- sort of like Rolling Stone for the U.K., except filled with complete and utter gossipy bullshit -- decided to ride the soon-to-be supernova's shockwave.

So they released a cassette in conjunction with indie powerhouse label Rough Trade called "C81." It is stuff of legend: It fostered underground cassette trading, showed the vibrancy of the little guy and the diversity of the U.K. post-punk scene. Five years later ... not so much.

"C86" was released in order to "encapsulate a scene" as I've seen nearly every site summarize.

If that's the case, then I can only assume the U.K. music scene in 1986 was comprised of artists who, in the midst of trying to build upon post-punk experimentations, suffered a series of massive strokes but decided to continue playing. Included among this abysmal collection of post-punk nadir are bands who loosely strum only two chords for two minutes (and barely in time), whispered female vocals punctuated by minimalist cutesy tones and attempts at jazz or... something else by groups with names like "We've Got a Fuzzbox and We're Gonna Use It."

The fact that anyone would find this music appealing, let alone groundbreaking, seems almost painful. And yet, others took the sound and built upon it. Some of the cutesier, softer forms became popular thanks to Belle and Sebastian. Americans came to emulate the rickety, slapdash guitar and lack of vocal integrity as bands like Pavement strived to make loose band chemistry and volatility somehow endearing.

While the U.K. was fooling around, America's independent musical movement fostered juggernauts such as Dinosaur Jr., Sonic Youth and Pixies that formed the basis for the alternative genre. And we all know where that went: grunge, Lollapalooza and oblivion. But the brief success made it clear to the record industry that music that might not follow any standard melody or structure could become mildly successful.

Meanwhile, indie was sprawling out into different territory. Indie began to revert back to "independent" and fit a range of different sounds. You could make indie pop, indie rock, indie rap, indie jazz, and it would all fit under the same general umbrella because its labels fall out of the mainstream and the bands "sounded different."

But don't kid yourself -- indie is still a definite genre. At least as far as the mainstream is concerned.

You've heard that Apple commercial, haven't you? You know, the one with the guy/girl/backbeat that sounds a bit off and is pretty annoying but somehow you find yourself downloading it because it's seeped into cracks of your mind? Yael Naim, CSS and all those half-assed artists? How about back in the day when BMW used to do it with cleaner, well-produced independent artists? Or countless movie trailers?

That's the true indie. Sure, independent labels foster creativity and exciting variations on older sounds, but they also foster pointless noise created by kids with no talent. And with the mainstream media treating it like the commercial minor leagues for the purpose of filler, the crap actually rises to the top first.

Of course, not all indie is abysmal. While groups of indie glory such as Modest Mouse and Interpol could hardly be seen as pop sensations, their abrasive vocals and non-traditional song structure have just enough appeal and lyrical quality to redeem the music for some.

But not the genre. If what we call "indie" is going to be part of the new musical revolution, then the actual DIY mantra needs to be infused with some drive. The battles of upcoming indie bands need to be no longer based on commercial concerns but instead based on a system more conducive to the marketplace of ideas.

Jason Smathers (jsmathers@badgerherald.com) is a senior majoring in history and journalism.

Whatever the reason may be, it is, like all extreme metal, misunderstood and underappreciated. Much like hip-hop or jazz, death metal requires talent and unique song structures (or lack thereof).

Before I make my case, perhaps a short history lesson is in order to understand death metal's origins. Death metal started as a branching-off of thrash metal à la Slayer and Exodus, adding violence and death-obsessed themes. Despite Slayer generally being seen as speed and/or thrash, lyrics to classics like "Angel of Death," about Nazi physician Josef Mengele, arguably inspired an entire generation of songs about death.

Then came California's Possessed. Formed in 1983, the band is considered by many to be the first death metal band. Their 1985 debut Seven Churches is, thus, seen as the first death metal album, though the lyrical content revolved around Satan. Naturally, the final track of Churches is appropriately titled "Death Metal."

Possessed may be the first death metal band, but Florida's Death are perhaps more well-known band in its inner circles. Legend has it that frontman Chuck Schuldiner formed Mantas and changed the name to Death because, as metal-archives.com put it, they "wanted to sum up what their music and lyrics [were] about."

This is in reference to Death's debut, Scream Bloody Gore, the record seen as the first death metal release with gore-related lyrics.

The 1990s were the decade when the genre exploded. Bands like Cannibal Corpse and Deicide became legends in their own right and also pioneered the "death grunt." The "death grunt" took the shrieking of Schuldiner and, much like the guitars, detuned and distorted it to make the lyrics damn near unintelligible. This aspect of the genre would later become "the most recognizable attribute when death metal [is] brought up in casual conversation," according to Mittel.

Gore-themed lyrics, then, may be the secondmost recognizable attribute of death metal. While it is true that many bands discuss dismemberment and murder, the idea that all death metal bands do is simply a stereotype.

Perhaps the best example of this is Sweden's Opeth. The band, known for its unique sound within the confines of death metal including acoustic interludes and actual singing, is remarkably poetic. For example, "The Drapery Falls" opens with, "Please remedy my confusion/ And thrust me back to the day/ The silence of your seclusion/ Brings night into all you say." Many Opeth songs are written about internal struggle and lost love and few, if any, discuss death in the sense that, say, Malevolent Creation does.

Humor can also be found in death metal. Take Impaled's notably catchy tune "Up the Dose," which satirizes the pharmaceutical industry: "Apathy, passivity/ Vexation is enshrouded in a chemical gloss/ Impenitent, irrelevant/ Your lack of personality is no great loss."

Many other examples populate the metal landscape. Viking metal, for example, is a metal genre whose lyrical themes are that of Viking exploits and Norse mythology. Viking metal isn't necessarily all death metal, but, as examples, Sweden's Amon Amarth and Unleashed play Viking death metal.

If Vikings don't interest you, then perhaps you might try American death metallers Nile. Nile plays technical death metal (that is, death metal with more complexity than "regular" death metal) with ancient Egyptian themes.

In any case, the bands discussed above (among countless others) use death metal only as a starting point -- that is, the monochrome, distorted guitars and the "death growl" are employed but the gore-themed lyrics are thrown out.

Then there's Ten Masked Men, who are unlike anything else in music: this English collective performs death metal covers of pop songs like "Livin' La Vida Loca" and "...Baby One More Time." Yes, there is a band out there that has recorded a death metal version of "Thriller." It's quite splendid, by the way.

Despite all that (unknown) variety, record sales have kept death metal out of the public consciousness. To those who respect indie labels like Merge and XL Recordings for keeping the Big Four labels at bay, death metal labels should be added to your list.

To wit, Cannibal Corpse is the perhaps the most successful death metal band in the world, with an estimated one million records sold worldwide over their entire 20-year career. In North America, the band has managed to move over 500,000 albums and videos, according to SoundScan.

In the event that I have peaked your interest in death metal, maybe now you are tempted to run out and get a copy of Butchered At Birth in order to irritate your neighbors. Or, perhaps you just want to confuse your friends when they see it sitting between The Blueprint and A Love Supreme. Hey, it makes sense either way.

Steve Lampiris is a senior majoring in political science. If you also see the bright side of death metal that no one else understands, e-mail him at lampiris@wisc.edu

Director Peter Sollett ("Raising Victor Vargas") and his team of writers clearly display their lack of experience -- not one has worked on a feature film -- as they misguidedly follow the recent trend of trying to make a major studio picture fit the mold of a trendy indie flick (read: "Juno"). The result is a haphazard mess of a screenplay that would have been painfully off-key had it not been for a talented group of young actors keeping it somewhat in tune.

Nick (Michael Cera, "Juno") is a straight bass player in an all-gay band aptly named "The Jerk Offs." After a gig one night, he is asked by Norah (Kat Dennings, "The House Bunny") to be her boyfriend for five minutes to prove a point to her classmate Tris (Alexis Dziena, "Fool's Gold") who just so happens to be Nick's ex. In an attempt to set the two up, Nick's bandmates send Nick and Norah off on a wild night together centered on chasing down Norah's drunk friend Caroline (Ari Graynor, "An American Crime") and discovering the whereabouts of the notoriously exclusive band, "Where's Fluffy?".

As a comedy, this film has a number of hilarious moments, but unfortunately a lot of the humor is lost in translation due to the poorly written script. This leaves the actors picking up the pieces and making the best out of what is available. Nonetheless, Aaron Yoo ("21") and Rafi Gavron ("Breaking and Entering") are a pleasant, comedic surprise as Nick's homosexual bandmates and provide an abundance of gay-related humor that generates tons of laughs yet manages to remain tasteful.

And then there is Cera. Coming as no surprise to "Arrested Development" fans, Cera has really proven himself to be one of the best young talents in the business. Not since Anthony Michael Hall starred in such quintessential teen films as "Sixteen Candles" and "The Breakfast Club" has the role of the shy outcast been repeatedly portrayed with such perfection. In the movie, his facial expressions speak to the audience just as loud as any of his words, and the comedic timing of his soft-spoken, witty comments could not be any more spot-on. And as terrible as it would be to see Cera become typecast -- this is the third time in just a little over a year that he has taken on a similar character -- it is such a guilty pleasure to see him in these sort of roles that you almost hate to see him take on something new.

Despite being overshadowed by co-stars, Dennings still puts in a decent performance as the sensitive girl who always plays by the rules. She is at her best when sharing the screen with Cera. The two have tremendous chemistry that really shines in the scenes where they playfully banter with each other. On the other hand, the romantic scenes between them are not quite up to par, but you can chalk that up to the cringe-worthy dialogue forced upon them.

Even though the tracks are cliche for the mold this movie is trying to fit in, the film's soundtrack is a captivating final touch that really helps pull everything together. Whether it is the sounds of Vampire Weekend pumping out of Nick's rusted yellow car stereo as he cruises the neon-laded streets of NYC or Bishop Allen jamming at one of the many clubs the group ends up at, all is well as long as the music is playing.

All in all, do not expect to see another "Superbad" by going to this film. Not only does "Nick and Norah" not quite reach that plateau, but the movie features a different brand of comedy than you might find in a Judd Apatow flick. Instead, expect an overall enjoyable film that features the bankability of Cera despite having to tiptoe around the screenplay's pitfalls.

3 stars out of 5