I believe David Cronenberg's new film, A History Of Violence, is nearly perfect, and nowhere is that perfection more evident than in the film's title. Would it be too hyperbolic to suggest that it is one of the greatest titles any film has ever had? So perfect and perfectly complex is it that I think I can accurately represent the picture by discussing nothing but this title and its relationship to the film. I'll leave the story for other critics to recount, or for you to discover; either you've already seen the film and have no need to see the plot rehashed, or you're considering seeing it and therefore don't need the film's delicate developments ruined for you. And in the latter case, the title is really all the synopsis the film requires.

A History Of Violence is a dependent noun phrase, missing, as is traditionally common with titles, the verb and either the direct object or the subject that would result in a complete sentence. The film, one might expect, provides these missing syntactical elements. What it also does, however, is consistently rewrite that resulting sentence. Most titles predicate their films, or in some cases serve as postscripts; here, though, the relationships is more extraordinary: a constant exchange is taking place. The meanings of the film and of the title are both in sustained flux, as each informs the other.

Say the title aloud. Consider it. The film is a microcosm of the possibilities it represents. I haven't read the graphic novel by John Wagner upon which this picture is based, so I cannot say whether the latent meaning of the title was already exploited to such an extent when screenwriter Josh Olson adapted it. Regardless, he and Cronenberg are not content to let its implicit content serve simply as subtext, and so it is that the film simultaneously draws comparisons to or calls to mind the likes of, say, Howard Hawks, James Cagney and Alex De Tocqueville.

There is the most literal reading, in which it refers to a personality trait of a character (including here - but not limited to - the one played by Viggo Mortensen). It is on this level that the film functions (and functions well) as a thriller, a genre piece. Then there is the more metaphorical meaning, in which the title illuminates the more refractive qualities of the film: within the characters are a reflection of mankind's enduring violent tendencies. On this level, the film is less a thriller than a fable. These two interpretations converge in a third, even more fascinating reading: the film is an allegorical representation of the literal history of violence upon which America in particular and civilization in general is based (here, then, is explanation for Howard Shore's epic score, which contradicts the intimacy of the narrative). Cronenberg himself has ascribed an additional level of meaning to the title, suggesting that it presents the film as a study of Darwinistic principals.

I could (and perhaps should) demonstrate by example how all of these meanings are supported by both the title and the film; not just supported, but supported consistently. However, that would require a more detailed analysis which would do a poorer job than the the film itself does; and indeed, another of the film's extraordinary traits is that (as much as this review and others might suggest otherwise) it requires little to no exegesis in order to understand and enjoy it on these multiple levels. It is, in all regartds, completely clear. I don't meant to suggest that it is not subtle or that it wears it's intentions on it's sleeves or that it doesn't warrant discussion; certainly, it is an understated and surprising and provocative film. But just as it is appealing on the level of a mainstream thriller, so too is it free of pretenses designed to confound all but the most intellectual cineasts (its widespread appeal reminded me of how The Illiad or the plays of Shakespeare were considered mainstream in their day).

This narrative lucidity is a result of three things. The first is Cronenberg's complete understanding of the material and what is required to explicate it. The second is something that is extremely rare in metaphoric storytelling these days: A History Of Violence swings neither right nor left. It hasn't a single politicized frame. Cronenberg mentioned at last month's Toronto Film Festival that the film would be seen as red in red states and blue in blue states, and while he may have been joking at the time, I don't think he's at all wrong in this assessment. Hence, any disagreement over the film will come from the audience's own position on certain issues, for the film itself has complete solidarity in its stance. The first is - you guessed it - is that inescapable mount of a title. As I've suggested, it not just overshadows the film but is intrinsically, actively linked to it, in an exchange that is a masterpiece of concision; a masterpiece of thematics; a masterpiece engaged with a masterpiece.

I've one postscript to add, unrelated to my main argument. I noted at the beginning of this review that I think A History Of Violence is a nearly perfect film. I must admit that there is one element of the film that I don't quite grasp the meaning of, and that is the very first scene. Without revealing its content, I will say that it seems to exist in a different world than the rest of the film, which makes it an odd sort of prologue. But even now, in thinking about it, patterns begin to emerge, points begin to correlate, and I'm reminded that in a film as otherwise exemplary as this one, it's quite likely that a perceived flaw is not with the film but with the viewer.