I understand many of the attacks leveled against Lars Von Trier and his films. Calling them or him misogynistic, pretentious, naive, sensational or demagogical is fair (if contendable) ground. What I don't accept are those who lambast him for making films about America, a country he's never visited. Isn't that akin to a director attacking a critic's opinion on the grounds that they've never made a film? Ridiculous.

Von Trier offered some justification of his own at the Cannes premiere of Manderlay, his follow-up to Dogville and the second in his trilogy of films about the US. "America is sitting on our world," he said. "I am making films that have to do with America because 60% of my life is America. So I am in fact an American, but I can't go there to vote, I cant change anything. I am an American, so that is why I make films about America." In other words, a world power that not only influences but imposes should be, at the very least, open to artistic license.

And of course Von Trier, ever the rabble rouser, grabs that license and runs with it. His inferences in Manderlay are, as always, far from subtle, but one of the more surprising and perhaps slightly disappointing aspects of this picture is that it actually makes Dogville seem a model of subtlety. Like its predecessor, Manderlay is a political allegory, but this time there is no question as to its meaning; differential interpretations are pretty much negated from the outset, expediting the inevitable arguments amongst audience members over whether the film and its points are valid. I'm of the opinion that any such argument is almost validation enough, especially when the provocation runs as deeply as it does here.

The story finds Grace, the naive gangster's daughter, emancipated from the Wilder-esque tyranny of Dogville; so too has Von Trier delivered himself from the trappings of his trademark distressed-damsel melodrama, and thus, for the first time in one of his films, his heroine is far from put-upon. Grace was baptized with fire at the end of Dogville: she has learned to use violence to her advantage and, backed up by her father's hired guns, she's ready to impose righteousness as she sees fit. When she and her criminal enclave make a brief stop at the Southern plantation of Manderlay and discover that slavery is still in effect within its gates, 70 years after Lincoln's proclamation, she decides - nay, is compelled - to put her foot down and do something about it.

So: mull over the implications of a character who invades a foreign property, deposes the ruling body and by force brings freedom and the democratic principal to the former subjects; understand that the white plantation owners divided the slaves into factions, and had a keen understanding of how to keep these groups in check: and add to your consideration that fact that Grace does not anticipate the long-term effects of the dissolution of this order. You've by now come to a conclusion as to the allegorical nature of the film, and you are probably halfway correct. In fact, you're probably 100% correct, but Von Trier is the sort of filmmaker who will take your assumptions and raise them. This is not a film of liberal ideology, nor is it one in which liberal ideologies are unexpectedly subverted by conservatism. No, this is a film in which the political machine as a whole is subverted by the viciousness of human nature, and all the good and bad and mixed intentions that go along with it. In the microcosm of Manderlay, the Civil Rights movement and the war in Iraq are equally admirable in their intentions, equally disingenuous in their means, equally destructive in their ends, and therefore imminently comparable.

This is theorizing that will be offensive to some, enraging to others, and yet it's worth thinking about, if only so that one might understand more fully why it is disagreeable. Von Trier is foregoing the trees in favor of the forest, and choosing to stand on a side that is generally shied away from, but he should be commended for having the courage (and chutzpah) to follow his convictions through to their logical end. It's hard to say, then, whether the predictability of the storyline its a fault of its author or its subject.

It is this transparency, though, that renders Manderlay a more biting but less satisfying film than Dogville. So eager is Von Trier to get to the point that he nearly capsizes the picture with exposition and thickly applied metaphors during the first fifteen minutes; it takes a while for the film to find its narrative footing, and because it starts off so shakily, the audience can't help but spend that time comparing Bryce Dallas Howard to Nicole Kidman. Howard takes over the role with courage and conviction; I felt bad for her in those early graceless (pun semi-intended) scenes, but she ultimately takes the reins of the film and makes it her own. Willem Dafoe takes over the paternal role that James Caan originated; other Dogville veterans, including Lauren Bacall and Chloe Sevigny, play new characters, although their presence is minimal this time around, with precedence given to the African American cast. Danny Glover (who reportedly took a long time deciding whether or not he would appear in the film), Isaach De Bankolé, Mona Hammond and the rest of the cast are all outstanding.

With due respect to Howard's performance, I do wish that Nicole Kidman hadn't dropped out of the trilogy; in a series of films that are physically defined by chalk outlines on soundstages, she would have provided a valuable personable link. On the other hand, perhaps the conceit of multiple actresses playing the same role will, in hindsight, almost seem a boon to trilogy, rather than an exemplification of avant garde under duress. The populace that Grace may come to represent by the third film (which will be titled Washington) may well benefit from a shifting visage. Regardless, I'm pleased that Von Trier was not so bound to his cast that he let them define his vision. His work deserve to be seen, simply because it incites consideration and confrontation of ideals. He's a legitimate provacateur.

Some may note that while he's quick to criticize America, he doesn't offer a solution; I'd counter by suggesting that any solution would be quite unsatisfying. The topic is too broad; breaching it is enough. And this is a critique, after all, that is not bound by state lines or bodies of water; it is an argument which breaks down geographical borders altogether. How can a Danish filmmaker who's never left Europe consider himself an American? Because, thank God, he's as rotten as the rest of us.