The miscellaneousness of American violence seems to be beyond film's capability, perhaps because it's the one art form that has done so much to celebrate the bloodletting myths of a country where even the odd Quaker must shoot her way out of a situation. David Cronenberg's newest film, A History of Violence, has much to recommend, particularly the acting. But eventually it falls into the trap of glorifying the very subject it hopes to critique. Even more disturbing, the final half-hour of the film becomes bizarrely comedic. Not in the swollen cartoonishness of Oliver Stone's Natural Born Killers, but it does prove that parody has become our realism.

The Stalls are your average, loving family from small-town Indiana, who suddenly become overwhelmed by brutality. Tom Stall (Viggo Mortensen) owns a little café off Main Street where the locals come to shoot the bull and get unlimited refills of filter coffee. Into this idyllic diner come two wanton killers ready to rob and murder. Through quick action, Tom manages to kill the killers, and becomes a town hero in the process.

Television reporters are eager to sink their talons into Tom to promote him as the quintessentially rugged American individualist who knows how to handle evildoers. But Tom is reticent to get involved. Days afterward, three well-dressed strangers roll into town to cause trouble for Tom. They insist that Tom isn't who he claims to be, and they might possibly be even more ruthless than the two murder-mart thugs shot down in the diner.

The first half-hour of Violence has suspense, with Cronenberg delving into layers of fear as the Stalls attempt to process the madness that seems to be enveloping them. But just as Cronenberg is developing a powerful psychological thrust to Tom's character, he gives the entire game away. The revision of certainties that the audience finds itself grappling with vanishes, and the rest of the film degenerates into predictable patterns, with Tom running off into the after-dark districts of Philadelphia to face his fate.

The proposed audacity of the script, which eventually boils down to "we all contain both good and evil," does nothing but confirm that we're all drudges of instinct. Perhaps if Cronenberg didn't savor the mayhem so thoroughly, with all of his lovingly rendered portraits of exit wounds, we might feel less manipulated by the writing.

This great director of transgressive sexuality and abnormal psychology, as apparent in Crash, eXistenZ and the underappreciated Spider, seems to have nothing but his palette of gore to hold on to. Certainly Cronenberg's attempt at painting "normal" life lacks energy, let alone credibility. The Stalls' town is resurrected Frank Capra corn, a wholesome Mayberry without Wal-marts or minorities. Obviously this is an archetype that Cronenberg feels is necessary to shake up — though such a place, if it ever existed outside of Hollywood back lots, was sufficiently clubbed to death in the first 15 minutes of David Lynch's Blue Velvet. Even the sex in Violence is oddly vanilla, except for the "naughty" addition of a cheerleader's suit donned by Stall's wife (Maria Bello) for a pinch of spice.

Deep within this flawed film are suggestions for a fascinating study of human character. Nonetheless, A History of Violence stands despite its inadequacies and inconsistent tone due to the sheer determination of its cast to put it over. Mortensen is particularly good at transforming a caring father and good neighbor into a deeply confused and dangerous individual. He wonderfully understates this brutal metamorphosis to the point where one cannot say exactly when his face changes from friendly openness to feral alertness to, finally, a hardened and embittered mask.

Ashton Holmes, as Tom's son, is also impressive as a young man who has been raised a pacifist only to discover that he's honestly inherited a father's banked anger. Ed Harris, as one of the visitors from Tom's past, haunts the middle part of the picture like a grinning skull, injecting needed tension at the very point where the script begins to falter.