Fortunately, the car bomb did not detonate.

The terrorist turned out to be Faisal Shahzad, a Pakistan-born U.S. citizen. And, not surprisingly, Shahzad wasn’t upset about the health care bill. After pleading guilty in court he said, “I consider myself a Mujahid, a Muslim-soldier.” He was upset, as he put it, over “American occupation of Muslim Lands.”

Shortly after the attack, Bloomberg prematurely asserted that there was no evidence suggesting the bomber was part of any recognized terror network. Shahzad later told the court he trained with the Pakistani Taliban to learn bomb-making and other related skills.

Could it be that Bloomberg has underestimated the threat of Islamist terror, or is there another agenda?

The issue has again become relevant in recent days. The New York Times ran a series of articles and editorials blaming the NYPD for using the film The Third Jihad: Radical Islam’s Vision for America as part of their counter-terrorism training.

The articles calling the film “a Dark Film on U.S. Muslims” and a “Hateful Film” are riddled with inaccuracies and omissions.

Following publication of the articles, Mayor Bloomberg stated that NYPD used “terrible judgment” in showing the film, despite admitting that he had never seen it.

We were not aware that the NYPD was using the film, but when we learned of it some months ago, we were pleased that the officers would have an opportunity to learn about the indoctrination taking place in certain segments of Muslim society in America. The film reveals what viewers are unlikely to see on the evening news: What terrorists, radical preachers and Islamists are saying in their own words, in their own mosques and media, to their followers.

The film exposes how radicals employ the dual strategies of “violent Jihad,” along with a “cultural Jihad,” through which Islamist groups use coercion and non-violent means to gradually expand their influence over Western society.

Now, Mayor Bloomberg, The New York Times and others want to bar law enforcement officers from seeing the film. The question is, why?

We reject, outright, the charge that our film is anti-Muslim or that it casts a shadow over the entire Muslim community. In fact, we go to great lengths throughout the film to differentiate the radical Islamists from peaceful Muslims. The film is narrated by, Dr. Zuhdi Jasser, a devout Muslim-American, who has dedicated his life to exposing the threat of radical Islam.

Our critics have failed to mention these points and have chosen not to challenge the film on the merits of its thesis or content.

Perhaps the reason Mayor Bloomberg wants The Third Jihad banned is the same reason he insinuated the Times Square bomber was a health care terrorist — namely, CAIR.

CAIR (Council on American Islamic Relations) is one of many Muslim interest groups that purport to represent the Islamic community in America but in reality have well established ties to Hamas and other terror groups.

CAIR was designated by the U.S. Justice Department for its role in terror financing during the nation’s largest-ever trial on the subject. As a result, the FBI has officially severed all ties with the “advocacy organization.”

Outside of its support for terror organizations, CAIR works to quickly and effectively to silence any discussions about radical Islam by playing the racism card and accusing critics of Islamophobia. CAIR’s devices are effective.

As soon as the current story broke, CAIR immediately branded the film “anti-Muslim propaganda” in a press release. This was followed by a CAIR-led protest on the steps of City Hall calling for the resignation of the NYPD Commissioner Ray Kelly.

The entire episode could have been a chapter in The Third Jihad. We are now seeing “cultural Jihad” in action. In order to avoid agitating Muslim constituents, Mayor Bloomberg  and Commissioner Kelly are backing away from the film, regardless of its merits.

The net result is that CAIR, a designated Muslim interest group with ties to terror financing, is now telling the NYPD how it should go about fighting terror. If that’s not the ultimate act of subversion, I don’t know what is.

The first season of the Showtime series “Homeland” mercifully came to an end last night. I say “mercifully” because, while I will never get the hours I invested in the series back, I will not be subjecting myself to season two.

To recap so far, the series follows CIA agent Carrie Mathison (Claire Danes) tracking recovered U.S. Marine Sgt. Nicholas Brody (Damian Lewis), who she suspects of being a sleeper terrorist who was turned by his captor, al Qaeda commander Abu Nazir (Navid Negahban).

The CIA is also tracking Brody’s former sniper team partner Tom Walker (Chris Chalk), who is also suspected of working for Nazir. Agent Mathison has been placed on administrative leave for removing classified documents from Langley and because her superiors learned she suffers from bipolar disorder, which precludes her from having security clearance.

The episode opens with Brody filming his martyr video, in which he explains why he is about to take such drastic action. In previous episodes we learned that while Brody was being held captive he became close to Abu Nazir’s youngest son, Issa, who was subsequently killed by a U.S. drone strike that hit his school.

In the video, Brody states “As a Marine, I swore an oath to defend the United States of America against enemies, both foreign and domestic. My action today is against such domestic enemies. The Vice President and members of his national security team, who I know to be liars and war criminals, responsible for atrocities they were never held accountable for. This is about justice for 82 children whose deaths were never acknowledged and whose murder is a stain on the soul of this nation.”

Agent Mathison’s superior Saul Berenson (Mandy Patinkin) has decided to continue her work in her absence and discovers a redacted document about the drone strike, the only document that can be linked to such an event since the Vice President thought he had destroyed the paper trail. Saul brings the document first to the attention of CIA Deputy Director David Estes (David Harewood), who tells him to do his job and not worry about it. Saul is supposed to be working an event with Vice President William Walden (Jamey Sheridan) at the State Department.

Brody is preparing to carry out his attack at this event while meeting with Vice President Walden and various security officials, where it is to be announced he is running for Congress and Walden is running for President. The plan is for Brody to detonate an explosive vest that will kill the Vice President and all others present after being whisked into a secure bunker when Brody’s former partner, Walker, attempts to assassinate Walden. Walker purposely misses Walden.

The assassination attempt is simply a distraction to help get Brody and his vest past the metal detectors and into the bunker in the frenzy that follows. First, Brody’s vest malfunctions. After fixing the vest in the restroom, Brody receives a phone call from his daughter and is unable to complete his mission, apparently chickening out.

The next day, Saul brings the drone strike document to the attention of Vice President Walden, who is not interested in talking about it and tells Saul to “let it lie.” Instead, Saul decides to blackmail Walden using interrogation tapes that were supposedly destroyed. Saul describes what is on the tapes as “Coercion. Cruelty. Outright torture. Makes for unhappy viewing. You gave the orders, William. You gave the orders.”

We then see Estes showing Saul a videotape of the briefing room the day of the drone strike. In the video we see Estes tell Walden “That’s a school, sir.” Walden coldly replies “Don’t cloud the issue. If Abu Nazir is taking refuge among children, he’s putting them at risk, not us. It’s our joint opinion the potential collateral damage falls within current matrix parameters.” Saul is appalled, states “Somebody actually came up with that language?” and closes his eyes in disgust.

Saul and Estes get into a discussion about why the video was kept secret. When Saul threatens to contact the New York Times, Estes tells him “No you’re not. You know why? Because telling the world we killed 82 kids on purpose would endanger every one of your case operatives in the field. Not to mention every American soldier on the ground. You would, essentially, be handing the enemy the biggest recruitment tool since Abu Ghraib.”

Brody decides to meet with Walker, who wants to kill Brody for panicking and not completing the mission. Brody tells Walker, who has Abu Nazir on speakerphone, that he decided it was best not to complete the mission because now he is in the unique position of being close to the next President of the United States and “At the very least, I’d be able to influence policy at the highest levels” as a member of Congress. Nazir is on board with the idea, stating “Why kill a man when you can kill an idea?” Nazir then has Brody kill Walker as a demonstration of his commitment.

The final scene shows former agent Mathison undergoing electro-convulsive therapy to help treat her psychosis. Saul had tried to talk her out of the treatment due to the side effects, which includes memory loss. As Carrie is being put under anesthesia, she remembers Brody screaming the name of Nazir’s son in his sleep. She puts the pieces together, stating “Issa, Nazir’s son. Brody knew him,” right before falling asleep and undergoing the procedure.

Will she remember? Will it matter, since she’s essentially no longer a CIA agent? Will Brody be elected to congress and bring America down from within? I guess someone will have to let me know, since I won’t be watching. I have no interest in continuing to watch a show that paints Islamic terrorists as the good guys and the Vice President and CIA as the bad guys. A show that claims our CIA commits “outright torture.” A show that says we kill kids on purpose. A show in which the only person who understands the terrorist’s plans is literally psychotic.

I knew I risked disappointment when the series began. I know I wasn’t alone in hoping the outcome would be different this time. Looking back, I think the biggest clue to a potential letdown was the fact that lefty critics liked the show. Still, I held out hope that a plot twist would turn things around. It never happened.

Even bringing “24″ executive producer Joel Surnow into the mix wouldn’t bring me back for season two.

Onetime stuntmen-turned-filmmakers Mike “Mouse” McCoy and Scott Waugh hope to recreate the real-life experience of Navy SEALs with extreme accuracy onscreen in Act of Valor, an upcoming war thriller that boasts a cast composed primarily of (appropriately) actual Navy SEALs.

—–

An official trailer has been released for Act of Valor – and while it doesn’t offer much insight into the film’s plot or characters, the footage on display certainly suggests this production will feature some of the more convincing battle sequences and practical tactical maneuvers (say that three times fast…) ever put to film.

Act of Valor originated as a military recruitment video before it was developed into a fully-realized fictional motion picture – one directed by McCoy and Waugh, based on a screenplay from Kurt Johnstad (300). Relativity Media acquired the screen rights to the project earlier this year.

Here’s an official description of the film:

‘Act of Valor’ follows a Navy SEAL squad on a covert mission to recover a kidnapped CIA agent, and in the process takes down a complex web of terrorist cells determined to strike America at all costs.

Please visit our friends at Screen Rant for full story.

It’s the third in the series that began with Hostile Intent in 2009 and continued with last year’s Early Warning. This volume concludes what I call the Skorzeny Trilogy, after the chief bad, Emanuel Skorzeny, the shadowy German billionaire who’s waging a private war against both Devlin, the American president, Jeb Tyler, and the West as a presidential election looms.

In this excerpt, the publishing mogul Jake Sinclair, who’s also made it his mission to destroy Tyler, has just learned of a terrible accident in California, and gets his best reporter — the sexy Principessa Stanley (who figured prominently in Early Warning) — on the case:

CHAPTER ELEVEN

New York City

The news was breaking as Jake Tyler entered the offices on Sixth Avenue.  Normally he didn’t come to New York much, certainly not since they’d moved the corporate base of operations to Los Angeles in some choice Century City property he just happened to own.

He’d flown in on his private jet, and if there was one rule he had on his private jet it was that he was not to be disturbed for any reason whatsoever, short of Selenites landing at Bowling Green or, worse, Carbon Beach.  Or Elvis, reappearing in Branson.

“What is it, Benny?” he said to Ben Bernstein as he entered the editor-in-chief’s office.  Once the job had been called executive editor, and to be the executive editor of the New York Times had been the pinnacle of American journalism.  So of course that had to go – he, Jake Sinclair, was the pinnacle of American journalism, and there would never be another one of him.  Editor-in-chief was as far as he would go with people whose salaries he paid.

“Cows, Mr. Sinclair,” came the reply.  “Lots and lots of cows.”

“So what?  We got cows right here in New York State, somewhere.  Cows all over the Midwest.  Cows in India, sacred cows I think they call them.  So what’s so special about these cows?”

Bernstein kept a poker face.  He had no opinion about his new boss and he did his damnedest to make sure his expression reflected that scrupulous neutrality.  “These cows are all dead,” he said.

“Where?”

“On that big cattle ranch up near Coalinga.”

Sinclair’s visage expressed his distaste for Twenty Questions.  “Where’s that?”

“Central California, sir,” replied Bernstein, backtracking.  “I assumed that, since you’re from there, California I mean, that –“

“You think I drive to San Francisco?”  Sinclair was rapidly losing interest in the story.  “What does it mean?”  Is it news I can use?”

In Bernstein’s experience, the only story the chief was interested in was the ongoing political story, so he quickly reframed.  “It means Tyler’s got another disaster on his hands, sir.  Somebody’s poisoned the California water supply.”

That stopped Sinclair in his tracks. “What?” Then he was moving again, double-time.

Bernstein watched the boss disappear into his private office at the end of the hall.  He’d only been inside once or twice, but from what he’d seen it was more like a fortress than an office, completely secure, with dedicated phone lines and all the latest electronic gadgetry.  Not that Sinclair probably knew how to use most of it, but to men like Jake Sinclair the display of such equipment was at least as important as its actual use.

Sinclair shut the door behind him and turned to the ranks of TV monitors.  The sun may have sent on the British Empire, but it was always coming up somewhere on his.  Sure enough, Bernstein was right – dead cows everywhere.  People, too.  He didn’t much care how the paper played the story the next day – newspapers were so retro they were almost chic – but he very much cared how his news networks were handling it – and so far he was not seeing what he wanted to see.

He reached for one of the secure lines and dialed her secure number.  She answered on the second ring.  She spoke first.

“Remember what I told you about puzzles?  Ciphers?  Cryptograms?”  He did remember.  That was the day they were in the bathroom at his office in Century City, with the shower on, the day she’d pulled him toward her in the steam, kissed him and told him that if he was ever late for another meeting with her she would kill him.  “Well, this is the piece of the puzzle we’ve been waiting for.  Now use it.”

“I’m not sure I under—“

“How did you ever manage to get anywhere in this life?” came the voice at the other end of the line.  He had no idea where she was at this moment, somewhere out on the hustings, as they used to call them, whatever hustings were.  Somewhere putting her plan into action.  “Honestly, I think you are the stupidest man I have ever met in my life.”

There was nothing to say.  His job was to say nothing.  So far, so good.

“Have you got the package ready?  The October Surprise?”

“That would be the complete dossier on Jeb Tyler – every bit of dirt and mud and slur and slander and innuendo that the combined newsgathering forces of the Sinclair Empire could dig up.  And was there ever plenty of it.  It was so explosive that it would finish Tyler the month before the voters went to the polls, except that they would not be merciful.  The material would not be released all at once.  No, it would dribbled out day by day, each story more damaging than the last, some of on TV, some on the radio, some in the papers and magazines.

Beginning the first week of October, every day would be sheer misery for the incumbent president, but there would be nothing he could do about it.  He could not withdraw from the campaign, because it would be too late to replace him on the ballot.  He couldn’t concede in advance, because the propriety of elections would have to be observed.  Day after day he was going to have to sit there in the Oval Office and take his beating like a man.  And then be destroyed the first Tuesday in November.

Now that was something Jake Sinclair was really looking forward to.  And he knew two other people who would enjoy the spectacle even more than he did.  The first was the woman on the other end of the phone, Angela Hassett, the governor of Rhode Island whose meteoric rise to power was about to be crowned with the highest office in the land.

The other was a man he had never met, never seen and never spoken to – communicated with solely by cutouts and go-betweens, each similarly invisible.  But a very rich man and the man who had made him, Jake Sinclair, a modestly rich man his lofty standards.  This man wanted Jeb Tyler gone and would spend any amount of money to achieve that objective.

Anonymously, of course.  Untraceably, of course.  Electoral proprieties must be observed.

“Tell me that you have it.  Tell me that you have everything,” she commanded.  Involuntarily, he glanced over his shoulder.  Even here in his inner sanctum, he could feel her presence, and it wouldn’t have surprised him at all to learn that, somehow, she’d had him bugged.

“I’ve got it – well, almost all of it.  There’s still a couple of things we’re trying to chase down, but I have top people on it.  Top people.”

Was that a chuckle or a chortle coming through the ether.  “I’ll bet you do,” said Angela Hassett, “and I’ll bet I know just who she is, too.”

The line went dead.  He was alone.

Sinclair sat in his chair, looking out the window overlooking midtown Manhattan.  That woman did something to him.  He could feel it.  There was something deliciously erotic about fantasizing an affair with the next president of the United States.  With the first female president of the United States.  With her.  So what if they were both married.  He still hadn’t quite decided Jenny II’s fate yet, and as for Angela’s husband… well, he could be dealt with down the line.

Somewhere, a soft chime sounded, like something you’d hear in a Buddhist rock garden.  Jake Sinclair hated buzzers and refused to be interrupted by the ring of a telephone, the dull thunk of an incoming email message or God forbid one of those Twitter things.

“What is it?”  The chime automatically activated a microphone that allowed him to communicate with his secretary, whose name he could never quite remember.

“Ms. Stanley, sir.”

Just the girl he wanted to see.  “Send her in.”

The lock on the door buzzed and in walked his favorite television correspondent.  Her work during the siege of Times Square had been outstanding, and the fact that she’d gotten herself temporarily kidnapped by, well, they never did figure out exactly who, had been a career enhancer.

“Mr. Sinclair?” she said.

She was beautiful, even more beautiful than she was on television, full-figured but wholesome, sexy but innocent – just the way the viewers liked them.  About the only thing that had changed was her hair, but it was growing back nicely; on the air, she wore a wig, so nobody ever knew she had been practically scalped.

He didn’t rise.  To get up would signal weakness to the help.  She didn’t sit down   To sit down would signal servility toward the boss.

“Have you been looking into what I asked you, Principessa?” he inquired.  He loved that name, and wondered if it was really hers.

“Yes, Mr. Sinclair,” she said. She moved forward to the desk and now was standing just opposite him.  “Just a couple more pieces of the puzzle left to gather.”

He smiled.  “Very good.  How long do I have to wait?”

She smiled back.  What a smile she had.  “Won’t be long now.  In the meantime, there’s this.”

She put an old BlackBerry down on his desk.  “What I am supposed to do with this?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she said.  “Just listen.”

Who knew that BlackBerrys doubled as tape recorders?  That they had little voice-memo doohickies, what did the kids call them today, applications – yes, “apps” – and that they could record –

The babble coming out the smart phone was like no language he had ever heard before.  Arabic or Iranian, rapid-fire, and then, at the end, this:

“Because I am sending you to hell.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, reaching for the phone, but Principessa swept it back up and slipped it into her pocket.

“You wanted a puzzle, I got you a puzzle,” she said.  “Now all you have to do is figure it out.”

She was already at the door:

“That’s what I pay you for,” he said.

“Pay me more,” she replied, and then she was gone.

A second excerpt from “Shock Warning” will appear tomorrow.

The real life adventures of former al-Qaida-linked militant Nasir Abas have become a new comic book in Indonesia, chronicling his transformation from foe to invaluable ally in the fight against terrorism.

The story of the soft-spoken, seemingly mild-mannered 42-year-old — recognized by strangers on the streets and even asked for the occasional autograph — is well-known in the world’s most populous Muslim country.

He went from helping train Muslim extremists who carried out some of Southeast Asia’s deadliest attacks, including the 2002 Bali bombings, to informing police about the inner-workings of the Jemaah Islamiyah network.

He’s also joined a government program to convince convicted terrorists that killing unarmed civilians in the name of their faith is wrong.

“I want children to learn from my experience,” Abas said of the colorful 137-page comic “I Found the Meaning of Jihad,” which appears in bookstores Friday and will be handed out at some schools and libraries.

“I don’t want them to make the same mistakes.”

Full story here.

In fact, ABC’s Castle web page today opens with the following pop-up window inviting visitors to take an extensive survey regarding the episode and the show in general (which I dutifully filled out):

We would like to invite you to participate in a short survey about the episode of CASTLE that aired on 2/28/11. This episode featured Castle and Beckett rejoining Fallon’s task force, the detectives suspecting a former U.S. soldier of planning a terrorist attack, and Castle and Beckett partnering with a Syrian official to track down the bomb.

Having seen the episode, I can assure you that the story cannot be fairly characterized as bigoted or anti-Christian.

The episode, “Countdown,” is the conclusion of a two-parter in which the show’s protagonists (NYC police detective Kate Beckett and her unpaid-consultant partner, mystery writer Richard Castle) attempt to prevent a mass murder through detonation of a nuclear “dirty bomb” in Manhattan. (Note: spoilers hereafter.)

In part 1, viewers were led to believe that the conspirators were Muslims from foreign countries. In “Countdown,” however, it soon becomes clear that the main villain is non-Muslim (though not characterized as a Christian), and the Muslims in the story are being used as scapegoats by him and his associates in a rather silly and fanciful scheme to revive Americans’ interest in our recent Middle East wars by exploding a dirty bomb in Manhattan and planting evidence so that it will be blamed on Muslim terrorists.

However, unlike in other stories of this kind which I have seen in the past couple of years, a credible character—Castle himself—expresses sympathy with the man’s aims while of course decrying his intent to commit mass murder and mayhem to achieve them. It is in fact rather surprising to see Castle do so, and I think that this element in itself redeems the episode entirely.

In addition, the narrative also points out that a character initially seen as unattractive and hardhearted is driven to act that way out of unresolved grief over the death of his wife in tower two of the World Trade Center, her having “ridden the tower down” to her death at the hands of Muslim terrorists. This reminder can hardly be seen as pro-Muslim or anti-Christian.

In no way, in my view, can this episode be fairly characterized as anti-Christian, pro-Muslim, or bigoted. As noted above, I find the story’s terrorism scheme to be fanciful, but I believe it to have been motivated by a desire to create a relatively surprising resolution to the mystery (and, alas, failing to make it either convincing or surprising, in my estimation), not any sense of prejudice or desire to make a political point. To the extent that the story is less than laudable, the reasons are aesthetic, not political or religious.

Moreover, the first sequence of the episode, in which Castle and Beckett are locked in a subzero refrigerated container with no way of escaping or informing anyone of their predicament, is an extraordinarily powerful scene and quite poignant, something regular or even casual viewers of the serious should not miss. The two characters face a slow, painful death together while individually confronting what appears to be a rather desperate love for each other which neither can find the courage to express. The scene suggests so much about the human condition, how one’s love for another can create an intense fear that makes that emotion all but unendurable and impossible to admit.

A similarly powerful and understated dramatic moment occurs when Castle tells his mother and his daughter to leave town but cannot admit why and insists that they tell no one else, lest it lead to a citywide panic. Later, Castle realizes that another character faces such emotional wrenching and vexing moral dilemmas every day.

Moments such as these are rather unusual in contemporary drama and are to be praised. Yes, “Countdown” has aesthetic flaws, but in my view they’re mistakes, not manifestations of prejudice.

This article originally published at The American Culture.

—–

Alvi has a running under-commentary about the on-going ubiquitous Iraq war, which was strangely (and refreshingly) undefined and unfocused. Certainly a critical view of America’s actions underscored the shots of bombed out hotels, of guard checks, and most of all, of the stories told by the band members. “Firas” (who knows if these were real names, given security issues) the bass player, spoke the best English and thus became the central character; “Tony,” the lead guitarist, though hyped as a spectacular talent, was barely average by western standards. “Marwan,” the drummer, and “Faisal,” the second vocalist that Alvi talked to (the first having fled to Syria) offered occasional pity comments. According to Marwan, “if you can teach every prisoner to play drums . . . you’re gonna have good citizens. . . .” (Here in the United States, I think we have tried that by having them do laundry or make license plates. Not sure if that’s worked yet.)

Band members addressed the extreme difficulty they had in even practicing in a city in which every block had either a check point or was controlled by one militia or another. Then there was the electric power issue: during the one concert Alvi filmed (in front of perhaps 20 people, all males), the electricity went out after a few songs. Alvi himself quickly experienced the impossibility of carrying normal western-style interviews in war-torn Baghdad. His crew paid $1400 U.S. dollars a day for two drivers, two shooters, a translator, an armored SUV and a second vehicle, which he thought was a steal under the circumstances. Most of the filming came from hand-held cameras; much of it from the windows of the SUV or in isolated apartments or alleys. Even getting from one block to the next in 2006—before the surge—was difficult, and Alvi found that talking to ordinary Iraqis at that time was impossible. They trusted no one, and the western reporters hid in the hotels, sending Iraqi camera crews out to get footage and report back, whereupon the brave journalists would do voice-overs as if they were there.

The most amazing aspect of “Heavy Metal in Baghdad” is that, however representative or unrepresentative Acrassicauda was, they were hardly a jihadist anti-western band. Under Saddam, merely “head-banging” could land you in jail! Acrassicauda sported “Metallica” and “Slipknot” t-shirts; learned their music from American and British metal bands (whom they loved); listened to bootleg American tapes; and flat-out admitted, “we’re not a politic [sic] band. . . . we stay out of politics . . . .” Firas noted “I don’t give a f –k about the news. . . . I’m trying my best to get out of the country [to where] I can have peace.” When Alvi first contacted the group, Saddam Hussein was still in power, and the band members recalled that they were only allowed to play a concert if they wrote a special song to Saddam, which they did. It had “shit lyrics” they agreed: “Following our leader Saddam Hussein, we’ll make them fall, drive them insane.” Come to think of it, the lyrics in Van Hagar weren’t all that terrific, either. By the way, the band’s name, Acrassicauda, is Latin for “black scorpion.”

Indeed, the absence of a jihadist or even Islamic tone to anything was stunning. Instead of praying before playing (as many Christian bands do), Acrassicauda gave a rousing football-type cheer: “Acrassicauda—let’s go!” Firas observes “I’m Sunni, my wife is Shiite,” and suspected “someone else” was causing the violence in Iraq,” though he didn’t name the U.S. “I got nothing against religion,” he said, “I’m a Muslim but I’m not that straight.” During the entire movie, there was not a single Allahu Ackbar or discussion of jihad, paradise, the Great Satan, or holy war. Firas also observed that “people” came into Iraq from “Turkey, Iran, everywhere,” by which he meant al-Qaeda terrorists.

In the end, Alvi’s would-be story of an Iraqi heavy metal band ends up like that of most American rock bands. Unable to practice or play (or, in the U.S., pay the bills), Acrassicauda goes to Damascus where they eventually break up. Perhaps one lesson of “Heavy Metal in Baghdad” is that without the USO, it’s damned tough to have “normal” entertainment in war zones, regardless of the style of music being offered. But Alvi perhaps could have gone much deeper with the more important theme of how these Muslims looked so much like American Christian youth who had fallen away from the church for secular pursuits. And still more important, there is an unexplored question of whose culture is more powerful—the fundamentalist Islam of the mullahs or the freedom, in whatever its lyrics and musical form, embodied in the West.

Heavy Metal in Baghdad (2008), Produced by Eddie Moretti and Suroosh Alvi, directed by Eddie Moretti and Suroosh Alvi, VBS/Vice Films (148 minutes).

Really? It was the white vote that got him elected. And if you’re so sure about your statement, then does that mean you (Michael Moore) have a problem with Obama based on his ethnicity?

Is there somethin’ you’re trying to avoid telling us? Looks to me like you’re trying to mitigate your own bigotry by broad-brushing everybody with your disposition. That’s right. You’re projecting, you miserable jackass; which makes sense because you’re a socialist and you expect people to share in a miserable existence.

I’m sick of white liberals like Michael Moore who patronize black people and try to stay in their good graces by falsely accusing white people of racism, and then try to further validate it with some bogus display of self effacement.  This joker is a prime example of how white democrats feel that they’re the ones who are tuned in to the black community. They can speak for us. They know us, and where that notion comes from is due to them thinking that they own us.

And the sadder part is, is that too many black people are suckered by this pandering, and shack there shackles like it’s a damn tambourine, singin’ the praises of Democrats.

Michael Moore goes on to say some junk about Obama getting the youth vote and not the vote of the older folks.

You know? It should speak volumes that Obama got the youth vote, and not the vote of the matured. Hello! The matured have had some time to think through some things, live through some things, learn from some things.

But Michael Moore doesn’t learn, because his backwardness causes him to use his mouth twice as much as his ears. What’s more, Michael Moore hates America. The TSA should be crawlin’ over that wildebeest like fleas.

But no. This America hater isn’t a suspect. Those of us who enjoy this republic are the suspects. Janet Napolitano thinks of us as right wing extremist, and dangerous. Obama has referred to us as the enemy.

Now I can understand a pat down. If you want to get into a club you’re most likely gonna get patted down. You don’t want drama to start up in the club, and you definitely don’t want none on a plane. But a pat down is one thing, and we’re steppin’ into the realm of a frisky frisk. The PATRIOT Act never demanded that I use my webcam to show national security my junk. Ya hear that Michael Moore?

How ‘bout we let the military fully do their job. How about allowing water-boarding if necessary, Ms. Behar? “Why. Don’t you get water-boarded?” she asks. Um, because I’m not involved in a mass murder plot.

If Joy Bahar really disagrees with water-boarding then she wouldn’t even wish it upon people she disagrees with. But the sad part is that she is so quick to recommend it for a person she disagrees with but is offended that it would be done to a person who would saw a man’s head off.

This is the backwards mentality of the Left. Why doesn’t our government show the kind of zeal they’re demonstrating with airport security and do that with border security? The liberal government wants us to learn how to live with terrorism like herpes.

The terrorists are going to find a way. Hell, it can even get to a point where a big group of ‘em book a flight together, and the night before the flight they load up on some beans; cause at this point farts aren’t considered a potential threat, and a tummy full of flatulence ain’t gonna set off any alarms.

So they can get on the plane and just start lettin’ em slip at cruising altitude. The passengers will be trapped aboard a cabin filling up with funky vapors and won’t know where it’s coming from because the terrorists have been well trained to release the farts silently every time. Taking silent but violent to a whole new level, right?

And just when enough farts have been released to trigger the oxygen mask, they’ll activate a discrete detonator and bam:

A Fart-twah at thirty thousand feet.

Brace yourself, because Buried is the feel-good movie of Fall 2010!  It’s full of action, laughs, romance and important lessons in why America was awful for freeing 37 million or so Iraqis from a genocidal dictator who liked to feed them into meat grinders.  Hey, if your idea of fun is watching a guy in a little box for 91 minutes, brother, your ship has come in!

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If you’re anyone else, I’m guessing the only way you would ever pick this movie to wreck your Friday night is if the alternative was Pauly Shore’s big-budget romantic comedy comeback with Katherine Heigl or some pinko documentary on global warming where Michael Moore has a full-frontal nude scene.  And even then it would be a close call.

I guess Ryan Reynolds, who stars as the world’s hunkiest truck driver, did this low budget, American-Spanish-Australian indie because he wanted a role where he could somehow stretch himself in new directions. The dude is a movie star, he looks like a Greek god and he’s married to Scarlet Johansson. What’s the “new direction” that leads to his life being better?  If I were Ryan Reynolds, I’d be all about keeping a death-grip on the status quo – “Yeah, that’s a nice Oscar, dude, but look what I’ve got waiting for me at home dressed as a naughty cheerleader. . . have fun polishing your statue,  loser!”

The plot is simple – Reynolds is a contractor in Iraq whose convoy got ambushed.  They put him in a coffin somewhere and he wakes up with a cell phone and spends the next hour and a half calling people trying to get out.  Simple.  And about as much fun as a Lawrence Olivier root canal.

The script by Chris Sparling is well-written from a technical standpoint.  Substantively, it leaves something to be desired – like the merest hint of originality.  The gimmick of never leaving the coffin – all we hear from other characters are voices – is like the film school equivalent of an SNL sketch stretched into a feature – mildly amusing for about five minutes, but after about thirty you’re wondering if you can slit your wrists with the Slurpee lid.

All the clichés are there.  Ryan calls the contractor company and they are no help.  He calls the FBI and they are no help.  He calls the State Department and they are no help.  The military is no help either.  There’s a lot of not helping in this script.  A lot. 

And the terrorist calls and speaks in a hilarious pidgin English that makes him sound like a New York cabbie trying to explain particle physics to a terrier.  These exchanges are supposed to show us that the – well, don’t call him a terrorist! – okay, the Arab guy, is human too.  Those evil Americans – 9/11 wasn’t the not-terrorist’s fault, yet the Americans came and destroyed everything!  Oh, and apparently we Americans killed four of his kids.  So he has no choice but to murder Americans and bury them alive – all the characters seem to agree on that point.  See, the not-terrorists are the victims – much like the audience.

And, of course, there’s the babe in the woods cliché too.  Reynolds only took the job because he needed the money but had no idea what he was getting into.  Yeah, it’s true that those innocent truck drivers the evil corporations recruit land in Baghdad and are shocked – shocked! – to find out that the reason they are getting paid so well is bad people want to shoot them.  Also, the company lied to him because, well, it’s a corporation and in Hollywood corporations always lie to people.  And the company is evil too.  Because all corporations are evil in Hollywood – and here it’s not just normal evil but full-tilt Snidely Whiplash you’re-kidding-me ridiculously evil.

And the script refers to the Bradley infantry fighting vehicle as a “tank.”  Don’t get me started.

So, we have another Iraq movie where the American protagonist is the helpless victim of, well, they don’t say so explicitly but I’m betting it’s Bush.  Hell, all the other clichés are there.  And from the script, this movie seems to rank on the entertainment scale somewhere between a UTI and, well, being buried alive.

“Buried” goes into limited release this Friday, wide release October 8th.