Into Temptation, the new film written and directed by Patrick Coyle, takes its viewers on a trip through guilt, sin, and redemption. The film explores the causes and effects in a person’s life that lead, ultimately, to desperate decisions.

     If it sounds like heavy subject matter, it is. But the film manages to not get bogged down in pity for its characters, though it relies heavily on religious motivations and traditions. Those who have never been Catholic, and particularly those who have never been religious, may find it difficult to sympathize with Linda’s desire for absolution.

     Linda, played by Kristin Chenoweth (better known as Olive from Pushing Daisies) is a prostitute seeking to get all her affairs – excuse the pun, please – in order before she ends her existence. Though her actions belie it – it’s been 19 years since her last confession – she’s apparently never mentally left the Catholic Church, and she looks for solace by visiting a confessional booth just as the priest is hoping to end his shift.

     The tale of her life, frustratingly excised from the scene, coupled with his impending need to perform mass, leave the priest at a loss for words – so much, in fact, that he neglects his duty to the wayward soul. Linda leaves, without being forgiven, and Father Buerlein (played by Jeremy Sisto) spends the rest of the film searching out this fallen Catholic.

     Buerlein’s search is a maddening race against the clock. He knows only Linda’s birthday (she intends to take her life on her birthday) and the sound of her voice. He tries to sketch her appearance, but seeing her only obliquely through the screen of a confessional booth, he knows only the shape of her mouth, her neck, and her chest (donned, appropriately, with a cross nestled in a plunging neckline). Buerlein seeks out the assistance of neighbors, taxicab drivers, bartenders, and fellow priest Father O’Brien, played by Brian Baumgartner (better known as Kevin from the Office), whose cynicism and greed paint a striking juxtaposition between the two religious leaders. In time, Buerlein has no other choice but to go literally into temptation, and our hapless hero soon finds himself hobnobbing with pimps, prostitutes, and criminals as he visits night clubs, adult stores, and seedy back alleys.

     Again, for non-believers, the characters challenges may seem a little trite and his difficulties unfounded. But without the limitations and structure imposed by his religion, the film would have little to go on. As it is, Buerlein openly expresses his own doubts and his unease with the rigidity; in one scene, he tells a parishioner he isn’t sure if prayer even works. In another, appalls his congregation by using unsavory words. “Let’s say a prayer for the bastard who mugged me,” he says from the pulpit.

     Into Temptation transpires in Minneapolis, and it offers many scenes and shots of places familiar to Twin Cities residents. The film is beautifully bookended with flashbacks to Linda’s childhood, both of which shed light on the story that unfolds in between. Apart from a pointless subplot featuring the return of Buerlein’s former lover, the story is tight and the pacing adequate. Go see this film before it leaves the few theaters it’s in.

Bottom Line: B

As the 1990s began, I realized I was reading LOTS of books. I was probably averaging about one book a week. But I noticed something: I was only reading non-fiction. In fact, the only fiction I had read up to that time (excluding children’s book, such as Dr. Seuss) were the novels that had been read to me in class, such as Charlotte’s Web and The Secret of NIMH. Well-meaning friends and relatives, mistakenly assuming I liked fiction, purchased novels for me, and they sat on my shelves for years…until I finally dumped them off at the Goodwill. In fact, of the 50 or so novels that people bought for me when I was a kid, the only one I ever took it upon myself to read was Stuart Little. Authored by the same man who wrote Charlotte’s Web, I figured it must be good.

So, in 1990, I decided that if I was to consider myself literate, I would need to start incorporating fiction into my reading diet. I set up a plan wherein I would read one novel every month beginning in September 1990. I wanted to make sure I read modern classics – works of fiction that had become timeless treasures in our libraries.

I pretty much had no idea where to begin. I looked at a list of “great” books that I found posted on a library wall. I hadn’t heard of any of them, so I wondered how great they truly were. Then, in a flash of brilliance, I decided to cull from that rocking list of historical events from the past half century: Billy Joel’s “We Didn’t Start the Fire.”

I’m sure you recall that insightful line where Joel poetically intones: “Rosenburgs H-bomb Sugar Ray Panmunjon Brando the King and I and the Catcher in the Rye.”

So, in early September 1990 – the same day I began 10^th grade – I likewise began my journey into the world of great literature.

And I was underwhelmed.

It’s not, mind you, that I hated Catcher, it’s just that I didn’t get what the big deal was. This is considered one of the best novels of our century? And it doesn’t even have a plot? Huh? It’s just some kid wandering around New York. Who cares? I mean, I liked his frank honesty about everything – especially how he thought school was phony and nuns were hypocrites…but couldn’t the Salinger have wrapped those insights into a moving tale? Apparently not.

I hoped October would bring something better. For that month, I again turned to Billy Joel for a suggested read, and soon found myself forcing myself to read the dry, rambling, aimless, pointless, X-less (where “X” stands for any quality one may want in a story) waste of paper known as On the Road. In debating with a fellow student about the merits of this novel, she offered this: “Ah, yes, but Kerouac can turn such a good phrase.” Yes, I suppose he can. But far from simply turning a good phrase, I would’ve liked to have seen him turn a good tale. (I suppose this is the opposite problem of the far more readable Dan Brown, who can spin a good yarn but has nary a memorable line in any of his works.)

In November, I read Stranger in a Strange Land (again at the suggestion of Joel) hoping that a Sci Fi tale would at least be palatable. Though I applaud its ability to contain a plot (that’s 1 for 3!), the last third of the book was a mental wasteland.

December equaled The Old Man and the Sea, which easily would have been the crappies book I’d ever read if not for my October experience (see above). A grumpy man with whom I had no concern, struggles to bring a decaying fish back to shore. Whoop-de-fucking-doo.

In January I read Of Mice and Men. Not bad, but certainly not great. In February I read what is probably the greatest example of a botched good idea in the history of sci fi: Fahrenheit 451. In March a read The Metamorphosis, a rambling and belaboring tale that seemed to have something to say, but never succeeded. When I saw it listed on the syllabus for one of my classes this fall, I nearly wanted to drop out of the class (and I ultimately did).

In April, May and June, I read Flowers for Algernon, Johnny Got His Gun and 1984, respectively. And my faith in humanity’s ability to write a good a novel was restored.

Still, I was jaded. In the six years that followed, I read exactly one novel. Needless to say, I’m a lot more picky now.

So long; I’m gonna get back to this book on American History that I’m reading.

 Bottom Line:

The Catcher in the Rye: C

On the Road: F

Stranger in a Strange Land: D

The Old Man and the Sea: F

Of Mice and Men: C

Fahrenheit 451: C

The Metamorphosis: D

Flowers for Algernon: A

Johnny Got His Gun: A

1984: A