If life were a game of limbo, the University would win. It has sunk really low in its latest incarnation of cheap commercialism. It has approved the manufacturing of a University of Virginia casket.

Whitelight, the company that manufactures this casket, has a patent on all graphic designs on caskets in the United States. So if there’s a graphic of any kind on your casket, you’ll know who made it — Whitelight.

Whitelight’s products don’t exactly scream class act. One of the caskets they feature on their Web site, artcaskets.com, is a simple box stamped with the words “Return to Sender.” Like gaming? Get a casket entitled “Memories of the Hunt.”

In a tremendous display of irony, Whitelight writes in a paid adverstisement in the Spring 2002 U.Va. Alumni News “[t]his handsome, high-quality casket designed for graduates and friends of the University of Virginia is a classic and uplifting expression of life.” Yes, you read that correctly, their University of Virginia caskets express life. Ha.

“This product is purchased under a fully guaranteed, lifelong certificate of entitlement and at the time of need, it will be delivered to any funeral home in America.” Good thing there’s a lifelong certificate — when the time of “need” rolls around the certificate no longer is valid, on a careful reading of the advertisement.

The University has the power to deny the use of its insignia on any product. For example, the University does not license the use of its insignia on any toilet products because it would be distasteful. University brand condoms were rejected for the same reason.

So why is the U.Va. casket okay? Maybe the University’s standard 8 percent royalty on any product with its insignia made it too attractive to turn away such a big ticket item, despite how tacky many of Whitelight’s products are.

Fortunately, as of today, not a single casket has been ordered, and hopefully it will remain that way. However, Whitelight’s president, Patrick Fant, reports that there have been over a dozen inquiries.

There’s some confusion about what the University stands to gain. Bill Hunt, the liaison between Whitelight and the University (he gets a commission on each casket) reports that on top of the royalty, $500 is donated to the University and can be directed at the future user’s discretion. But University Spokeswoman Louise Dudley says no such special arrangement has been made. If Hunt is correct, the University stands to gain even more by the sale of these caskets. (This wouldn’t necessarily be a bad thing if casket revenue were dedicated to free printing for students).

The University had the opportunity to quash this tasteless product, but it didn’t. Instead, the University has connected itself with the death business.

To borrow from a very bad joke Whitelight has buried over a dozen times (quite literally), this casket needs to be returned to sender.

I DON’T often like to make moral appeals. I have never asked anyone
to “think of the children.” I have never said something should not be done “in the interest of common decency.” That is why I feel slightly silly when I type the following phrase: Is nothing sacred?

I’m compelled to ask the question because New York tourist shops are reportedly selling postcards of the World Trade Center collapsing. There are books about September 11, posters, commemorative plates and flags, movies and television shows centering directly on the tragedy or cashing in on the patriotism the events have inspired. I can just imagine the trading cards: “I’ll trade you a Giuliani for a Dubya!”

But as much as I want to laugh off these examples of capitalism at its best, the laughter gets stuck in my throat. There are things that should not be cashed in on. The tragedy of September 11 is one of them. Capitalists everywhere should — yes, I’ll say it — show some common decency and let this one thing remain sacred in the nation’s collective consciousness. It’s the only way we’ll prevent future anniversaries of September 11 from becoming akin to any other holiday that people are cynical about because the commercialization has made the day lose much of its purity of meaning.

Some of the ways people are selling out September 11 are more overt than others. Several book publishers are consciously using the tragedy and people’s empathy for the victims for their own personal gain. Over 150 books about September 11 were released in just the first nine months after the tragedy. Many publishers have promised to donate portions of books’ proceeds to charities but vary greatly on the amount of money they are actually giving away. A few publishing houses are donating all sale profits, but “many others boasting about their efforts are relying mostly on the author’s contribution, or are donating only a small portion of profits, or are setting a break-even point so high that profits — and hence donations — become rather elusive” (“Sweet charity,” Time Magazine, Nov. 16, 2001).

And then there are the Cantor Fitzgerald commercials. Having lost much of its New York staff in the World Trade Center attacks, the company used those tragic deaths as a handy opportunity to promote themselves. They’re airing a series of nine ads, each one with an employee talking about their experience on September 11 or lost colleagues. A message at the end of the ad speaks about Cantor Fitzgerald’s desire to “fulfill [its] destiny as a company” and its “obligation to push onward; we owe that much to the ones who didn’t.”

In the words of media observer Michael Hlinka: “The unspoken request for new business lurks just barely under the surface” (“Cantor Fitzgerald’s return to normalcy,” Brandera.com). The ads are emotional manipulation at its worst. One can only wonder what will happen when people refrain from helping with any aid efforts at all because they are weary of their empathy for the attack victims being toyed with.

The strengthened patriotism people are feeling nowadays also has become a handy new marketing gimmick. The flag-waving spirit may have started out as shows of solidarity for some companies and networks, but it has quickly degenerated into just another way to sell things or boost ratings. Suddenly, MSNBC claims that it is “America’s News Channel.” Executives at every other cable news channel, angry that they didn’t think of appropriating that title for themselves, are forced to settle for slapping an ever-fluttering American flag logo somewhere on their broadcast screen. This fall, NBC is launching “American Dreams,” a half-drama, half-historical clip show centering around a wholesome 1950s family, designed to tap into the newfound patriotism as well as nostalgia for the warm and fuzzy 1950s. Boxes of cornflakes now have huge flags emblazoned on them — hey, kids, don’t just eat cereal, eat really American cereal!

It’s gratuitous, it’s everywhere and, as much as it pains me to use a Pat Robertson word, it is truly shameful. This has got to stop.

Making a buck off anything you can may be the American way, but making a buck off September 11 is going beyond any acceptable level of decency. The horror of that day and the events surrounding it, to say nothing of the number of lives lost, should inspire some kind of reserve on the part of those who would try to profit from Americans’ sympathy for the victims and general strong feelings about September 11. Making a buck off the event cheapens the day and gives people a bad taste in their mouths when they think about it — no one really wants their emotions about something as intense as September 11 manipulated by various companies’ marketing departments. An onslaught of September 11 products and broadcasts will make people not want to reflect or think about the day at all, and that would be another tragedy in and of itself.

There are some things that should not be touched; there are some things that should be outside the realm of acceptable commercialism. September 11 is one of them. Send a message to those who would profit from it: Boycott their products and mark the anniversary by reflecting on what the day has come to mean for you, and for the nation as a whole. Only in that way can the day remain sacred.

(Laura Sahramaa is a Cavalier Daily opinion editor. She can be reached at lsahramaa@cavalierdaily.com.)

Sami Al-Arian, a tenured professor at the University of South Florida, has abused academic freedom. According to The Chronicle of Higher Education, the Board of Trustees at the University of South Florida is going to court to see if it can fire Al-Arian for his supposed links to terrorism. The Board of Trustees should have fired him immediately last September because he has attracted negative attention for that university for almost a decade(“U. of South Florida accuses professor of links to terrorism and asks court to approve plan to fire him,” Aug. 22).

Al-Arian, who is of Palestinian descent, burst onto the national scene last September when Bill O’Reilly of the O’Reilly Factor accused Al-Arian of ties to terrorists, according to the Chronicle article. O’Reilly quoted a speech Al-Arian gave 10 years before in Arabic, in which he said “death to Israel.” Al-Arian claimed that he did not mean death to Israeli civilians, but rather death to Israeli occupation. Since September 11, Al-Arian has made speeches in the Tampa area condemning the terror attacks. After the O’Reilly Factor, the university received numerous complaints, as well as a threat on Al-Arian’s life.

Unfortunately the story gets murkier after this point. Without looking into Al-Arian’s background, it would be reasonable to believe his claim that he was misquoted and leave it at that. But his past record raises a number of questions. But perhaps more importantly, his tenure at the University of South Florida shows a repeated histrory of negative attention and disruption for the university. These are the justifiable reasons for his dismissal.

Al-Arian has been in the middle of controversy before. According to another Chronicle report, a 1994 PBS documentary titled “Jihad in America” claimed that Al-Arian ran a charity group as a front for a fund-raising organization for terrorists (“Faculty ties to Islamic Jihad questioned at U. of S. Florida,” May 24, 1996). The group, called the Islamic Committee for Palestine, was accused of supporting the Islamic Jihad, a terrorist group that has claimed responsibility for suicide bombings in Israel. Al-Arian denied links to the Islamic Jihad. But the damage was done, and according to the 1996 Chronicle article, critics began to call the university “Jihad Univesity.”

While Al-Arian has always denied links to terrorism, the same cannot be said of one of his former University of South Florida colleagues, Ramadan Abdullah. Abdullah previously had been an economics professor at the school and in 1996 appeared in Damascus, Syria as the new head of Islamic Jihad. Coincidently, Abdullah had been a top official of Al-Arian’s World and Islamic Studies Enterprise.

In the 1996 Chronicle article, its author, Courtney Leatherman says, “Meanwhile, South Florida has tried to move out from under the embarrasing cloud.” The University of South Florida was embarrased in 1996, now six years later, Al-Arian is still placing the university in a negative light.

Al-Arian was placed on a paid leave from 1996 until 1998 (according to another article from The Chronicle, “Professor linked to terrorist groups is placed on leave by U. of South Florida,” Oct. 21, 2001). But by reinstating Al-Arian after he was cleared by an internal investigation, the university simply exposed itself to more controversy.

University of South Florida President Judy L. Genshaft wanted to fire Al-Arian last December, but the university did not follow through at the time because the American Association of University Professors (AAUP) threatened to censure the school if Al-Arian was dismissed because of concerns over academic freedom (“U. of South Florida accuses professor of links to terrorism and asks court to approve plan to fire him,” Chronicle of Higher Education, Aug. 22). Now, not only does the University of South Florida have to defend itself against ties to terrorism, but it is being accused of violating academic freedom by trying to fire Al-Arian.

This stupidity must end. The University of South Florida should have fired Al-Arian years ago, when questions were first raised about his ties to terrorism. The issue is not about guilt or innocence. The issue is about disrupting a school and placing it in a negative light. The University of South Florida can either be accused of employing a professor with alleged ties to terrorism or of violating a professor’s academic freedom. This is a lose-lose situation for the university, and Al-Arian should be fired for putting his employers in such a position by his questionable background.

(Harris Freier’s column appears Fridays in

The Cavalier Daily. He can be reached at

hfreier@cavalierdaily.com.)

Fate dealt Britt Daniel an abject hand.

While derivative charlatans grew fat on the vines of hardly evolved excess, Spoon was left to wither on Elektra Record’s anemic stream of cowardly negligence until, having finally depleted its last drop of career hemlock, the fitted shirts summarily dropped the band. Daniel had been pummeled by an ostracizing conglomerate that logically assumed Spoon would swallow their jilted destiny and wilt into obscurity under the sundering Austin sun.

But as fate’s capricious whim (or maybe the resilience engrained in statehood compatriots like Trail of Dead or the Secret Machines who remain brute enough to not only thwart but bloom in Texas’ scorched terrain) would have it, Spoon followed through “Metal Detektor’s” bank-breaking bravado. Today finds them opting for a convoluted path — simultaneously erratic and logical — over the course of three albums, vaulting them beside Wilco as one of the two Great American Rock Bands, a position left vacated since Nigel Gordich met Stephen Malkmus.

“A Series of Sneaks,” the ill-fated 1998 major-label debut that led to Spoon’s alienation, leaped from speakers with sloppy intensity and cocky brilliance. We’re talking auditory adrenaline distilled from the true Pixies traits that Nirvana disciples attempting to decipher their idol’s idols could never root out. This is jagged guitars tirelessly cycling through heaps of killer hooks, sometimes in the same song; snaking and scattershot song structure; and, most importantly, a knack for capacious melodies that smash through the walls of the sound blanketing them.

Finally surfacing amid baffling commercial disinterest last year, “Girls Can Tell” emerged sounding like Daniel and Co. took sanding paper to “Sneaks” before dousing it in semi-gloss to produce the year’s most radiant albums with oracular roots. Early influences melted into the smoother, more structured Costello-esque punk with patient layering of restrained but gleaming instrumentation (vibes, viola and mellotron) that undulated and crested in languid grooves that the sub-three-minute explosions of “Sneaks” couldn’t (or simply didn’t wish to) manage.

With everything hitting at once and inducing a comatose state of mind that lulled newcomers to haplessly follow Daniel, none could predict he would be leading them to the river’s edge and inciting the artistic leap of faith that is Spoon’s new salvo, “Kill the Moonlight.”

Existing in a vacuum between “Girls” and “Sneaks,” the album thrives on dichotomies that have always existed in the band but never at the same time. Plodding rhythms feel constantly at threat to falling into a lurking abyss of eeriness. Anomalous, angular arrangements glow with Rock n’ Roll defiance but hide behind cold nonchalance, too much so at points. Daniel casually alternates from a disinterested British Invasion sneer into a bedroom whisper, slipping in and out mid-songs.

The minimalism previously experimented with becomes exploited, as if Spoon has broken down every song within its range to its minimal components, reduced those elements to their soul and sliced them back together. In the face of such deconstruction, “Kill the Moonlight” startlingly maintains its presence as an inherently Spoon album.

In the past, Spoon left the listener to unravel the fury of its arrangement, but now they’re brought up front with the spotlight unwaveringly fixated: barbing, jerky guitars and the tight punch of Jim Eno’s drumming (“Something to Look Forward to,” “You Gotta Feel It”), frantic strumming mirroring Daniel’s controlled but unpredictable spitting of each syllable (“Jonathan Fisk,” “Someone Something”) and the back porch acoustic stomp with edges frayed in futuristic psychedelics (“Back to the Life”).

Even silence becomes means of altering the entire mood of a song. On “Small Stakes,” Daniel sings electro-blues over stressful insignificance as a palpitating new wave organ intermittently flirts with a playful tambourine, and the pounding undercurrent of a racing heartbeat perpetually builds expectation for an explosion that goes absent. Elsewhere we find an ominous, near sinister gloom emitted from the sparseness of silence filling each gap between the hallow clang of drumsticks, inverted beats that trip over themselves and a haunting piano (“Paper Tiger”). Later, Daniel’s beatboxing paired with a rudimentary low bass beat and repetitive guitar grooves create R&B from seeming scraps (“Stay Don’t Go”).

The sparse arrangements further expose Daniel’s uncannily burgeoning melodic craft of Daniel, who has grown fonder of the piano, often in the place of the guitar as on “The Way We Get By,” a jazzy romp with one of the year’s most memorable hooks.

As handclaps and piano rollick in support, Daniel croons, “We found a new kind of a dance in a magazine/ Tried it out its like nothing you’ve ever seen.”

Apparently, as Elektra must be realizing, Daniel brims with surprises.

I saw this movie for one reason and one reason alone: Bruce Campbell, King Of All B-Movie Actors, plays a bit part. Therefore, there’s only one logical response to this mess — it needed a lot more Bruce to be bearable.

“Serving Sara” is standard-issue romantic comedy fluff. It’s got textbook generic comedy plot 14a: jaded guy learns to feel and falls for victimized girl, ultimately helping her to fight back. That sums it up pretty well, but to be fair, there’s a little bit more to it.

Joe Tyler (Matthew Perry) is a hard-boiled New York City process server assigned to deliver divorce papers to a loyal wife, Sara Moore (Elizabeth Hurley). Her Texas millionaire playboy husband Gordon Moore (Bruce Campbell) wants to get rid of her, using conservative Texas divorce laws when she is out of town on a trip.

Sara decides to turn the tables and bribes Joe to serve her husband divorce papers instead, using the New York divorce laws that would guarantee her a fairer share of his fortune. The film becomes a race between process servers to see who can serve whom first, with lots of dirty tricks and deception along the way.

I thought they gave up on making lame romantic comedies with “Friends” stars three years ago. They never set the box office on fire and critics trash them pretty universally. Even hardcore “Friends” fans are hard-pressed to defend garbage like “Ed” and “Almost Heroes” (remember those?).

Still, “Serving Sara” isn’t unbearably awful for every single second of its lengthy running time. There are a few five- to 10-minute stretches where it actually gets compelling and even suspenseful. “Sara” is basically a cross-country chase movie and it works once in a while.

But the movie just blows it every time you’re about to start enjoying it. Several extended gags are just plain ugly, dumb or dragged on for way too long. Most of the punch lines to jokes or attempts at witty statements tend to induce squirming and discomfort in the audience rather than laughter.

There are a couple uncredited cameos that fall pretty flat (I swear that sleazy motel manager looked uncannily like Mike Judge), but the smaller roles are generally what make the film bearable.

Cedric the Entertainer is pretty good as Joe’s long-suffering boss. He believably blows his stack over and over again and he’s got a few sharp off-the-cuff lines. Vincent Pastore is also quite good as Joe’s nasty competitor, out to serve Sara. It goes without saying that Bruce Campbell’s great as the sleazy millionaire. His southern-fried accent is always funny, if not believable. I’d rather see him in a fourth “Evil Dead” film, but it’s good to see he’s working. Hope the pay was good.

Perry has flashes of effective acting here and there, but by and large, he seems to be as uncomfortable in the movie as the audience is in the theater. He’s just not believable enough as a jerk to suspend disbelief and make the audience hate him. He’s just annoying a lot of the time.

Hurley’s okay. She has charisma and some moments where she gets to lash out with humorous results. Her wardrobe will probably keep the adolescent male crowd somewhat attentive, but others will be tempted to take a walk to the theater’s “Exit” door before the film is over.

Someone at Paramount must have slipped the MPAA a $20 bill to get “Sara” a PG-13 rating. A graphic gag involving Matthew Perry’s arm and a bull’s gluteus maximus is funny for about two seconds, then as it goes on and on, it starts to look really ugly and unfunny. The profanity is fast and furious too. A decade ago, the MPAA slapped a Martin Lawrence stand-up routine with an NC-17 for saying some of the stuff in here.

The filmmakers definitely deserve credit for keeping the romantic tension latent. There are several opportunities for Sara and Joe to get freaky together, but it doesn’t happen. The restraint shown there makes it less cheap in at least that respect.

There’s no real reason to watch this movie, but at least I can say that it’s better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick.

1 star out of 5

I was born in the country — and we’re talking about a town with no streetlights, no cute country store and no yellow lines on the streets. At least they are paved. The town hall gets riled up (say that one with an accent, folks) when anyone mentions a subdivision and the high school principal gets the dubious honor of kissing a pig at homecoming. My best friend drove a bright red pickup and her mom sang in a honky-tonk country band (the kind that plays at the annual county fair). This was country living … and needless to say, I grew up hating country music.

I hated all of it — ’80s-hit sappiness sung with a twang, knee-slappin’, foot tappin’ beat and any mention of a tractor. Frankly, I still can’t believe that Kenny Chesney scored a hit off of “She Thinks My Tractor’s Sexy.” No tractor — not even the quintessential, oft-mentioned John Deere — is sexy.

At some point, noticeably after having left the small town scene, I became one of those closet country music listeners. Scary, huh, that there are people like that out there? I’d only listen on the car radio, claiming that country stations were the only ones coming in clearly between Richmond and southern Virginia (we all know there is, after all, some truth to that). And I stayed that way for a while

finally going so far as to admit to myself what I was doing. Then I went to Nashville.

Granted, I knew that Nashville was the heart of the country music scene. I had listened stealthily to the lyrics of these songs for years (if they don’t live in Nashville, they sure as hell talk about it enough). And I dutifully bought tickets to the Grand Ole Opry and planned on getting a little down home culture. “Down home culture” is defined as something a little cute, a little southern and a little country. I was okay with that

as long as I could wear black and take a Kate Spade purse along. Country culture would be an experiment.

I could ignore the wandering Minnie Pearl outside — even with her requisite “Howdeee” and price-tagged straw hat. Somehow, I abstained from snapping a cheesy photo alongside Minnie. But once inside, there came the shock.

Somewhere between the voiced-over Cracker Barrel ads and the gigantic barn-shaped stage set, I found myself leaning forward on my wooden pew. Between country classic Little Jimmie Dickens and new radio star favorite Joe Nichols, I realized that Nashville really has something to offer.

The Grand Ole Opry showcases everything you have to love (or hate) about country music. Bill Anderson sang “The Unicorn” for the kids while Little Jimmie Dickens told old jokes that reminded me of no one more than of my grandfather. Joe Nichols is downright sexy (unlike the aforementioned John Deere) — something in his bass voice and shoulder-length dark hair had every female’s heart pounding in tune to “The Impossible.” That’s one thing you have to grant today’s younger country music stars — they are attractive.

The family sitting next to me (all of whom screamed very loudly anytime anyone even mentioned the word Texas) was having the time of their lives. I could have stereotyped them — a lot of people probably would have. Requisite wide-brimmed hat, cowboy boots and silver buttoned plaid shirt. It would almost be too easy to characterize a family like that. But they were just too happy singing along to songs that frankly, I’d never even heard of.

At this point I decided country music has one honest-to-God purpose — it makes people happy. Something about the music hits home, whether it’s the sincere lyrics or the urge to tap your feet alongside everything.

I found myself a night later at the Wildhorse Saloon in downtown Nashville, line dancing alongside the best of them. Okay, not the best of them — more like the worst of them (and that’s when I was going in the right direction). But I was laughing as loud as anyone else there

and what could really be more important than that?

Country music will never be classy; not even Garth Brooks or Reba could hope to hit the New York scene. Tim McGraw and Faith Hill will never be the “It Couple” anywhere outside Nashville. Elvis might be a little upset that his memory lives on in the Country Music Hall of Fame as well as in its Rock and Roll counterpart. But Nashville has got to be one of the most contented cities in this country. And maybe I’ve just found a reason to come out of that country music closet.

Watch out, Wilco fans, it looks like we have another contender for best album of 2002 (Bruce Springsteen notwithstanding). Back from a two-year hiatus, the three ladies of Sleater-Kinney have just released their best album yet. And considering that their previous albums are all pretty delicious, that means quite a lot.

“One Beat” is the band’s fifth release. After a successful but unsatisfying (for me, at least) venture into poppier territory with 2000′s “All Hands on the Bad One,” Sleater-Kinney has put out its second seminal album. Yes, kids, “One Beat” meets and exceeds the divinity of “Dig Me Out” (1997), the band’s sophomore release and its first career-making album. All of this was no doubt due to the addition of drummer Janet Weiss — she’s sensational, she really is.

The other founding members of Sleater-Kinney are Corin Tucker and Carrie Brownstein. When she’s not fronting as femme fatale, Tucker sings like a wench begging for more, her voice quivering with desire, dripping with desperation, its shrillness neutralized by Brownstein’s cool harmonies and fast-paced alternate choruses. As songwriting collaborators, they’re hard to beat, especially this time around. With the sensational Weiss driving the beats, the sound bounces, buzzes and won’t take no for an answer. On “One Beat,” both the guitar work and Weiss’ drum work have grown in intricacy and command.

There are no insta-classic singalongs like “I Wanna Be Yr Joey Ramone” on the new album. Feel free to cry them a river, but you’ll be happy to discover that what is lost has been replaced by less polished, more intense songs with well thought out, more provocative lyrics.

The overt lyrical eroticism of earlier Sleater-Kinney is all but gone, with traces left only in Tucker’s wails. Can’t blame ‘em, they’re getting older, more mature. I never thought I’d hear a Sleater-Kinney song about motherhood (“Sympathy”); then again, I never thought I’d hear Ani DiFranco wax on, wax off about marriage, but she has since spent practically two whole discs on it (“Revelling/Reckoning”). I digress.

Sonically, some interesting things happen on “One Beat:” new instruments! There are horns and strings, synthesizers, keyboards, theramin and guest vocals by Stephen Trask, best known for his work on the musical score of “Hedwig and the Angry Inch.” None of these additional sounds intrude on Sleater-Kinney’s bare-boned drums-and-guitar approach. Rather, the result is a sound with great depth meant to be listened to at top volume.

The album is a less upbeat, less fun endeavor than typical, but with reason — there’s unpleasant stuff to deal with. “Far Away” describes the morning of Sept. 11, while “Combat Rock” describes the aftermath with clipped, indignant vocals: “Since when is skepticism un-American? / Dissent’s not treason but they talk like it’s the same.”

Although Sleater-Kinney has never been and still isn’t longwinded, songs like “The Remainder” and “Funeral Song” easily reach epic status with sweeping choruses and emotion-ridden vocals. Drums and electric guitar hammer “Funeral Song” into a punk rock dirge for love gone wrong; “The Remainder” plods along nonchalantly before unleashing sudden power after the first verse.

The raucous “Step Aside” is sure to become a rock n’ roll anthem, demanding us to “get your feet on the floor / move it up one time TO THE BEAT,” while at the same time calling for action to “disassemble the discrimination,” all in the midst of a trumpet and two saxes blaring.

Lyrically, the band has come far from their old trick of repeating catchy verses repeatedly. Tucker and Brownstein aren’t Lennon and McCartney, but with Sleater-Kinney, it’s all about delivery. These girls have something to say, and they’ll deliver it with braggadocio, yowls, snarls, whatever the song calls for.

Too bad “Prisstina” went and messed it all up — the album could have had it made without this one. But “Prisstina,” a trite, juvenile song about “a very good girl / Did all her homework in school,” doesn’t fit here at all. It belongs on an earlier, more immature album, not on their most grown up album to date.

“One Beat” is not so much a departure as a furtherance. Brownstein has described this album as Sleater-Kinney’s most experimental. While some musicians let the experimentation revise the band, Sleater-Kinney uses it to revise the music: a touch here, a touch there, the album’s done and the album’s great.

Grade: 4.5 stars

By Art Whittle

Cavalier Daily Senior Writer

“Lovely and Amazing,” the newest limited release from Lions Gate Films, is a wonderful story of love and self-acceptance. The film showcases a non-traditional and therefore surprisingly inspirational family, giving viewers a new perspective on people, women’s issues, coping and perseverance. “Lovely and Amazing” is brilliantly written, well-acted and extremely funny.

Written and directed by Nicole Holofcener (“Sex and the City”), “Lovely” gives us fragments from the lives of a mother and three sisters who live in the Los Angeles area. Jane Marks (Brenda Blethyn) is retired, with plenty of time on her hands for taking an active role in her daughters’ lives. Let’s just say they often need help.

Michelle (Catherine Keener) and Elizabeth (Emily Mortimer), the older sisters, are in their mid-thirties. After leaving the nest, their mother Jane decided to adopt Annie (Ravin Goodwyn), the daughter of a crackhead. Annie is 8 years old, making these four women quite an ensemble.

Each of these women struggle with insecurity — they strive to be accepted, each looking to cure her flaws in the wrong place. Early in the film, Jane undergoes a liposuction operation that was originally intended to be an outpatient treatment. When an infection keeps her in the hospital for days, viewers can’t help but blame her initial decision.

Michelle is headstrong, which becomes obvious as she shouts obscenities at people she dislikes. She uses this strategy on anyone who will not sell her artwork on consignment. Needless to say, it is less effective on her husband Bill (Clark Gregg).

In turn, Bill has grown cold to Michelle, accusing her of not pulling her weight financially, even though he’s the one having an affair with the neighbor. Michelle, trying to make the right decisions about her marriage, gets a job at a one-hour photo store, working under 17-year-old Jordan (Jake Gyllenhaal).

Elizabeth is an actress that is about to appear in her first movie — one in which she gets a grand total of two scenes. She is obsessed with her appearance, particularly with her floppy, bony arms. Elizabeth does yoga with her boyfriend and drives him a little crazy with all of the stray dogs she collects.

Annie battles insecurity as well. In an early scene, she asks Jane why her skin can’t be the same color as everybody else’s. Later, when Michelle and her neighbor are putting sunscreen on their daughters, Annie wonders why she can’t have some. “Because you’re lucky.” Michelle says. “Your skin is already brown.” Tough ground for an 8-year-old kid.

All of these women obsess over their looks. In the opening scene, a magazine photographer is shooting Elizabeth in a negligee — a prime advertisement for the upcoming movie. Her insecurity not only reminds us that models have to be perfect, but it gives us a glimpse into every woman’s fear.

Elizabeth carries this burden into a later scene in which a star actor named Kevin (Dermot Melroney) takes her to bed. She wants to know how he feels about her, so she insists that he point out all of her physical flaws while she stands naked before him. Kevin does tell the brutal truth, but it is really her own lack of self-esteem that sinks the encounter.

“Lovely and Amazing” depends on its great comic timing. The women’s neurotic behavior fuels a complex drama and yet provides us with a lot of laughs. Unlike other mundane mother-daughter films (“Yaya”), “Lovely” provides its women with choices and realistic coping mechanisms. It amazes me that a movie can be so much more believable and, perhaps because of that, so much funnier than its contemporaries.

Jake Gyllenhaal sets up some good comedic moments as the bewildered teenager, Jordan. When his mom finds out about the secret “affair,” Michelle tries to deny it but Jordan boastfully responds, “We’re lovers!” Only through the mouth of a teenager.

Ravin Goodwin is so precious as the adopted daughter that she makes you want to cry and laugh at the same time. She delivers her lines so simply that the audience must think about so many things: what does an adopted child have to go through? What does a black child in a family of whites have to deal with? What does a young girl in a family of middle-aged women deal with?

In the end, we don’t get definitive answers to these questions. The characters deal with the cards they’ve been dealt as best they can and we simply watch them. In fact, this film is more like a portrait than a story, almost without a plot. If viewers could tune in a week earlier or a week later, we would see almost the same thing.

It’s the freshness of the characters and the freshness of their struggles that bring “Lovely and Amazing” to life. These women are not heroines or examples. They merely give us (or Holofcener gives us) something special by sharing their lives with us.

If you’re a man, you are guaranteed to learn something by watching this movie. If you are a woman, please drag a man to see it. He might not put all the pieces together, but it sure will spark some interesting discussion.

Five Stars

Virginia senior wide receiver Billy McMullen was among 32 players selected for the “watch list” for the Fred Biletnikoff award, given annually to the nation’s top receiver. McMullen was named a third-team All-American last year as he snagged 83 passes for 1,060 yards and 12 touchdowns — all of which led the ACC.

His 83 pass receptions eclipsed NFL wideout Herman Moore’s previous school record by a staggering 29 catches. McMullen ranks fourth among returning college receivers in receptions, tied for third in touchdowns and ninth in yards.

Past winners of the Biletnikoff award include Randy Moss, Terry Glenn and Troy Edwards. The award was named for Fred Biletnikoff, an All-American at Florida State in the 1960s who went on to become a storied receiver in Oakland Raiders lore.

– Compiled by Joe Lemire

With high hopes and noteworthy preseason rankings, the Virginia women’s soccer team suits up tomorrow night for its 2002 season-opener. The Cavaliers host the Hawks of St. Joseph’s at Klockner Stadium at 7 p.m.

Preseason expectations are high for the Virginia women, a squad that reached the NCAA quarterfinals last season before succumbing to then-No. 2 Santa Clara. Now, with a recruiting class dubbed No. 3 nationally by Soccer Buzz magazine, the Cavaliers kick off their season tomorrow ranked No. 6 in the NSCAA coaches poll. And in the heavily competitive Atlantic Coast Conference, the Cavaliers received 57 nods to North Carolina’s 62, placing them second in the initial pecking order.

Despite such impressive numbers, Coach Steven Swanson, beginning his third season at the helm of the program, places little credence on the rankings.

“Like many coaches, I don’t pay too much attention to those things,” Swanson said. “They’re meant more for the fans and outsiders. This season, we’ve turned over almost half of our team and for any college team, it’s a challenge to get on the right page in the fall with only a couple weeks to prepare. We’re confident about the direction we’re heading, but I am still in the process of sorting out roles and making sure we’re all on the same page. We have to be careful to not try to throw everything together and rush it. Our hope is that by the end of season, we’ll be peaking.Because of our youth and our young, fresh faces, we may not be operating on all our cylinders early.”

A team including seven sophomores and nine freshman, Virginia has spent much of the preseason weeks working to incorporate the younger faces into a formidable lineup. But despite losing nine seniors to graduation and a handful of other players to injury, Swanson said he has confidence in his team’s depth.

“Playing games on Fridays and Sundays is going to be an advantage for us,” he said. “We can use certain players and not miss a beat when new players come in. We can come up with a few different looks. We’ve got older players that have been in the program and can provide a lot of leadership and younger players to give us different looks. That will make it harder for other teams to prepare against us.”

Swanson also highlights the importance of the seniors on the team — Kelly Warden, Meredith Rhodes, Alyssa Benitez and Darci Borski — for the leadership he expects from them on and off the field.

Tomorrow’s game against the Hawks should offer the Cavaliers opportunities to work with various on-field configurations and initiate the recruits to the feel of intercollegiate competition. Saint Joe’s, a lesser evil, finished with a paltry 5-10-2 record last season (to Virginia’s 17-4-2) and recently dropped its preseason exhibition game on Wednesday.

Meanwhile, according to defensiveman and team captain Worden, whom Swanson dubs “one of the most underrated players in the past few years,” the Cavaliers squared off against a couple men’s teams over the past weekend and did quite well.

“We’re definitely ready to play,” she said of tomorrow’s game. “Right away, our team clicked with the freshmen. It may be a bit hard at the beginning but because of our closeness, we should do really well. Last year, we made it to the Elite Eight. This year, we want Final Four.”

If all goes according to plan, a victory over the Hawks could be Virginia’s first step to a successful season that would live up to many predictions.