The Station Agent

The story unspools in that unruffled, languorous way that some of the most enjoyable indie cinema does. Imagine the the idiosyncratic surety of Jim Jarmusch crossed with the mannered aimlessness of David Gordon Green.

The Station Agent is populated by the kind of quirky but caring, wounded but basically decent folks who inhabit the best liberal daydreams. The kind of daydreams you imagine JFK might have had. It's a world in which each is hobbled in their way, living without any visible or realistic means of support, and yet my bitter baker’s chocolate, processed by hand from small batches of locally-grown, pesticide-free cacao beans, and your sugar-free, organic peanut spread, just one color in the rainbow of end-products of a thriving multi-culture farm (not to be confused with a multi-cultural farm, but that would be cool too, man), run by a bon vivant grass farmer named Herman, come together in a whorl of politically correct, eco-friendly decadence. Yes, you can have your conscience and eat it too.

Mmm, conscience.