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Though it's bound for negative comparison with the sober, Joe Pro, Oscar-friendly AMERICAN BEAUTY, I vastly preferred Alan Rudolph's vision of suburban life gone bonkers. His adaptation of Kurt Vonnegut's best (and most scabrous) novel starts with one genius style choice: Rudolph mates the Pop Art Expressionism of Oliver Stone with the group-hug ensemble of his mentor, Robert Altman. Beneath the blizzard of smily-face pins, digital-display Colonel Sanders, and chain-diner Muzak lies a Tiffany cast. Bruce Willis is the face of desperation under a stick-on grin as the car-salesman hero, Dwayne Hoover, a small-town hero who doesn't know why he's a few cards short of a full deck. As his second banana, Nick Nolte is a dream as a hard-working joe who's so guilty about his sexual kinks they seem to leak out of him like flopsweat. And as the movie's resident seer and soothsayer--a derelict sci-fi genius named Kilgore Trout--Albert Finney is so perfect Rudolph seems to have plucked him from out of an Iowa City dumpster.

Rudolph's attempts at stars-and-stripes Expressionism don't all work; some uncharitable folks will be reminded of late-sixties I-hate-America bashes like END OF THE ROAD. But I have always had a soft spot for those pictures, and I feel protective toward BREAKFAST OF CHAMPIONS as well. Blessings are showered upon Bruce Willis for scratching this dark-horse project out of thin air, and upon Rudolph too. He must have known that propelling himself out of his usual world of downbeat, canoodling romanticism would pull out of him the best work of his career.

Kurt Vonnegut's satirical novel of 1973 resonates as deeply now as it did way back then. The themes of suburban paranoia and soulless consumerism have motivated some of the best films of the last twelve months, so an inspired interpretation of Breakfast of Champions would have been warmly endorsed.

It's clearly been a labour of love for director Alan Rudolph, who has tried for twenty years to make this film. Sadly, twenty years of work appears to have produced one bad draft copy. And Rudolph does not have the slightest grasp on what is funny.

Nick Nolte wanders aimlessly around in a dress but it isn't funny. Albert Finney searches out his chaotic literary masterpieces in pornographic magazines but it isn't funny. Barbara Hershey's character is a product of the chaos, but her appearances lack a motive. She isn't required until the film bursts into chaotic life in its last ten minutes.

This means three great actors are left stranded. It results in the unlikely event of Bruce Willis stealing the acting honours. He is good, but one feels it would have been no great stretch to act insane.

Among the problems here is that the film keeps its feet on the ground. While we're expected to believe the world has gone mad, the actual events are as uninspired as they are unfunny. This doesn't mean it is any easier to understand. In fact, without having read the novel, you'd most likely be lost from the beginning.

The chaos of Vonnegut's vision was its real joy. The way characters conspired to come together was inventive. The film though plays like a cliche. The ending is anarchic, but you get the impression it only serves one purpose: to stop you making rational sense of the rest of the film. And as much as you want to like it, or applaud Rudolph's commitment, the truth is that BREAKFAST OF CHAMPIONS is a sad, poor film.

Midland City is a perfectly ordinary American city. Within the confines of this small world, dealership owner Dwayne Hoover is a celebrity despite the fact that his wealth and success has only served to make him more and more unstable and unhappy. His wife is suicidal and his secretary offers limited relief in their affair. Not that many others have it better. Harry Le Sabre is his sales manager and is full of guilt over his cross dressing and active sex life. With this community breaking down, small time porno-mag article contributor Kilgore Trout makes his way to the city to take his place as the guest of honour at the arts fest – not quite sure how anyone has heard of him.

Another commentator on this site has said that if you showed this film to ten people then probably eight would hate it; those praising it have claimed it to be a wonderful version of Vonnegut's novel. Not having read this, I can believe that he (and this) is an acquired taste because I found it to be an almost unbearably messy affair that was delivered in a silly manner that offered little of interest. Indeed for much of the film I wasn't sure what to make of it. Perhaps it tried to do too much but there seemed to be so many characters rammed in here that most of them just seemed out of place and with no development whatsoever. Of course it didn't help that I didn't see much about those given plenty of time either. Dwayne himself is the perfect example of this; his madness seems to have a reason but the film does a terrible job in bringing this out.

Rudolph seems passionate in his direction but it seems he is too close to the material and his direction might assume a familiarisation with the material that the mass audience will not have. The delivery is too silly and knowingly manic – it takes away from the material and it left me feeling like perhaps it was my fault for not having read the story before watching it. It annoyed me as well that such a starry cast were mostly wasted – presumably they saw something in the material that did not make it to the screen. Willis tries hard but is not supported at all. Finney spends most of the time in his own film, not really fitting into the narrative. Nolte is amusing; Hershey is wasted; Epps has been told something by the director that the rest of us aren't let into. Patton, Wilson, Haas, Lewis and others provide thankless supports.

This may well be perfect for fans of Vonnegut, I cannot say but suffice to say that I am not one of them. However for the casual viewer this is messy, disjointed and pointless to the point of being painful. I gave it two hours as I tried to work it out, hoping that it would make something out of itself but in the end I was left out of pocket with nothing to show for my investment.

I'll keep it short: absolutely loved the book, for over 20 years. Still holds up and retains the quirky, sarcastic and sardonic elements that made me fall in love with it when I was 15. The movie is yet another failed adaptation of Vonnegut's work. It tries, it swings for the fences, but ultimately, it completely misses. I wanted to like this movie. I tried reeeaaalllll hard, but let's face it, it stinks.

I'm not a literature snob, I think many outstanding films have been made from great books (To Kill a Mockingbird, for one), many great films have been made from sub-par books (Being There, in my opinion is one), and pretty good films CAN be made from Vonnegut (SH5 was a pretty good adaptation and Mother Night was very good, I

thought). This one was not a good film, or even a decent film. It stunk big head cheese left on a hot Texas porch in July.

It wasn't for lack of trying or talent, it just failed to understand the material or simply wasn't able to translate it to film (and I just gotta say, I don't care if BoC is Willis' favorite book, he can't pull off Dwayne Hoover and his presence, while being the sole reason for this adaptation's existence, kills the film, from his acting to his obvious control over it behind the scenes as a producer and a financier). Imagine if William H. Macy was in it. That might be a good film. Try to avoid the temptation to see if this group can pull the movie off. They can't and you will be left unfulfilled and depressed, or even p*ssed off. Like I was.

I'm afraid that in the era of pop-no-where-ism, where the reality show sets the rules; films like this one will get worse and worse reviews as time moves on. I didn't read Vonnegut until my early thirties and I grew up with Vonnegut's as a kid-no kidding. When I started reading, I just read and read in one extensive gulp. First, there's no good way to try to adapt a Vonnegut book to film. To the reviewers -if you can call them that-who say I've read the book and this movie is a miserable adaptation-go figure?! This is a very good vetting of the themes Vonnegut loves, and using the rambling urban neuroses approach, mastered by Altman, Rudolph revvs us up for the big psychic upchuck that this is all about. This is not a great movie but given the importance of self reflection to American society and the rarity of it, in contemporary society-this movie is a landmark and a watermark, both.