There, I just got that out of the way. You can't say I didn't warn you; this is my big disclaimer. I understand that I represent a lot of the things that I loathe; I have a grasp on the nearly-Freudian fact that I am what I critique; that I'm inextricably linked to the society that I've been griping about ever since I had the faculties to trade in my jump rope and sneakers for a fashionably worn and yellowed copy of The Bell Jar and clunky black shoes; that I rode in a minivan to soccer practice and there were horses-HORSES-in my backyard.

Hopefully, this confession won't be completely for naught. I am, after all, supposed to be a journalist and I have decided to play nice with you this week and debunk the myth that I am an angsty little nihilist who sprang forth from the very bottom of black Manhattan asphalt. No no, my humble beginnings were nothing that inspiring-we're talking cookies-and-milk middle America, folks. We're talking, specifically, about the kind of place that Hollywood has been latently-to-lecherously fixated with ever since poor Katharine Ross tried to get the hell out of Stepford.

This past weekend, I took a trip to Northampton with a few of my friends to see "In the Bedroom." No less than 10 minutes after the film ended and we had all piled into the car, I found myself nervously biting my cheek and staring out the window at the impossibly icy tundras on either side of the road, unable to speak or formulate any opinions of the disturbing and heartwrenching experience I'd just taken in. Regardless of whether or not I enjoyed the movie (I didn't), my friends and I were more concerned with the questions of what we'd just seen and why we'd seen it rather than any arguments over the artistic validity of the film.

My immediate reaction when I got home was to brainstorm about the relatively large number of dystopian renderings of suburbia (modern or otherwise) that I'd seen in the past few years. A few experiences stuck out; there was this recent brush with something horrific in "In the Bedroom," there was Ang Lee's utterly beautiful "Ice Storm" (one of my favorites), Sophia Coppola's eerily realized "Virgin Suicides" and, though I can't even articulate how tired I am of talking about this last one, God-strike-me-dead-with-a-bolt-of-lightning-if-I-forget-to-mention "American Beauty," to name just a few (emphasis on the 'few'- this is a hideously anorexic list).

While all of these films are quite disparate (both aesthetically and in plot) they all, at their very cores, are profoundly similar. Whether you're watching the implosion of Joan Allen and Kevin Kline's marriage unfold in front of a backdrop to the desolation you can only find in melting icicles and Nixon-era furniture; or observing Kirsten Dunst parade around in a picturesque, sunspotted Monday afternoon punctuated by crickets and white picket fences; or even tricking yourself into thinking that maybe if you watch "American Beauty" one more time you won't have to reflexively slap your leg and turn to your dozing companion and observe that isn't that floating bag so absolutely gosh-wow brilliant-you can take your pick; and chances are, you're still going to get up from your seat, dust the popcorn off of your lap, and feel like something in you won't look at the world the same way (and-funny that-you've also lost your appetite).

This unease-this essential landmark in the winter(s) of our suburban discontent-is precisely what Hollywood directors bank on when they get their sweaty hands on the latest piece of the anti-normal. The paradoxical desire in humans, particularly Americans entrenched in the daily routine of the middle-of-the-road, to actively shun and bury the ever-perpetuating trauma that grows somewhere in between the cracks of career disappointments, terminal boredom, teen pregnancy and erectile dysfunction and then simultaneously seek entertainment, and even release, by viewing such films as "In the Bedroom" and "American Beauty" and then alternately applauding and rejecting them for talking about the unmentionables in day-to-day living never ceases to amaze me. Knowing about this proclivity, it doesn't surprise me that Hollywood has glommed on to the idea that misery loves company (writers, after all, have been capitalizing on this concept for decades-even Oprah gave thumbs up to dysfunctional families last year when she weaseled her seal onto the cover of The Corrections), but I'm still at a bit of a loss when it comes to processing the value and necessity of these types of films.

On the one hand, I certainly appreciate that the men behind the curtain in mainstream cinema (whatever the motives) have taken it upon themselves to cross over to the dark side of the moon every once in a while to expose all the skeletons hiding between fluffy pink and heather J. Crew sweaters in everyone's closets. On the other, my skeptical gut tells me that I should squint and look even closer than the ominous taglines tell me to; to hold these films up to a different, higher set of standards and proclaim to the world that they are simply empty blobs of disaffected garbage masquerading as "art" simply because they have the requisite representation of closeted army officials, frustrated housewives and brutal, tragicomic revenge-killings that rely more on one's gag reflex rather than one's emotions.

Whatever the conclusion that I eventually arrive at turns out to be, the fact remains that, in today's essentially traumatized society (and I hesitate to bring 9/11 into this-but it's somewhat unavoidable at this point), it is only normal for a bloodier realm of realism to come to the fore in a parade which will often overshadow its feel-good and shamelessly brainless counterparts. These movies are going to keep getting made; these movies are going to keep being consumed in artsy little theaters and multiplexes alike; these movies are going to cause outrage and fascination and love and hate-much like the fragile personalities created within their not-entirely-fictive worlds. And whether it's the drugs, the guns, the sex, the loneliness, the utter despair of waking up to a routine you know all too well but still lack a satisfactory cognitive grasp on, or the pretentious floating plastic that gets to you-no matter how skeptical your gut is or how hard your heart, it's likely that you're not going to escape the inevitable consequence of those infinitely gentle blows that make you clutch at your knees and contemplate all the blurred moments when you just can't remember if you were laughing or crying.