Nicole Kidman returns to Australia for Baz Luhrmann

From The Sunday Times
September 14, 2008
Nicole Kidman returns to Australia for Baz Luhrmann
In his enormous new movie Baz Luhrmann is not only bringing the actress back home, he’s redefining an entire country

Whichever way you cut it, the land down under is huge. The state of Western Australia alone — the left-hand third — unfolds nonchalantly at 11 times the size of the UK. The difference is, it’s home to a mere 2m people, dwelling largely in southern Perth. Up here, in tiny Kununurram, a thousand miles to the north (the “Top End”, as the locals call it), there’s plenty of legroom. Bar the odd Aboriginal settlement and remote dots like this one, God’s country remains decidedly empty.

Our minibus spews dust as we jolt along the desert trail, eyes peeled for suicidal ’roos, noting warnings about crocs in the river and the deadly snakes and “spideys” that lurk under the rocks. Before long, we are a speck in a land that time forgot — a blistering crucible of prehistoric rock, squat boab trees and a blinding azure sky. This isn’t the faux Mad Max outback, a morning’s drive from Sydney. This is the real McCoy, big and parched. Bloody beautiful. The idea of shooting a movie in such hostile terrain, one that would suck the last drop of gumption out of Ray Mears, is not to be entertained lightly. (Darwin, the nearest city, is 500 miles away.) Making a $130m picture out here ought never to have come within a whiff of a cigar.

“Forget ‘the country’,” says the film’s male lead, Hugh Jackman. “It’s like going to Mars.” An hour later, however, on an arid plain beneath a spectacular escarpment, you arrive upon it — the trailers, the lights, the generators.

The centrepiece, like something out of a John Ford western, is a sprawling, ramshackle homestead, surrounded by horse corrals and a creaking water tower, against which Jackman leans, grubbed-up and bearded in his Clint Eastwood duds. On the veranda stands Nicole Kidman, in an elegant green period dress, her pale skin the ward of an assistant with a brolly. It’s 100F in the shade, but there is no shade. Sweat drips like a tap with a worn washer. Arms flap reflexively in the great Aussie wave, beating off the incessant flies. “The film truly is about the landscape and how the outdoor experience can have an effect on your soul,” insists its director, Baz Luhrmann. Done up, quite impossibly, in an immaculate, pressed white outfit, complete with dandy stetson and neckerchief, he looks like Mr Benn after he’s just stepped out of the changing room.

When Luhrmann titled his movie, he was laying down a marker. “Why Australia? Well, first of all, to get people all uppity about it, so there’s a lot of comment,” he explains. “I think about films like Lawrence of Arabia, Out of Africa, Casablanca, Hawaii, by James A Michener : epics that use one word to describe a place. The film can’t be definitive about Australia, but ‘What does it mean?’ is not a bad place to start when you’re creating a story.” Sixty years ago, Casablanca meant “faraway, exotic”, he adds. “I think even now, to the rest of the world, ‘Australia’ just means big, somewhat mysterious, somewhat misunderstood. This is a land far, far away. It has a sense of fairy tale about it.”

Dubbed an antipodean Gone with the Wind, Luhrmann’s film tells the story of Lady Sarah Ashley (Kidman), a haughty British aristo who, on the eve of the second world war, inherits her own Tara — a Belgium-sized ranch named Faraway Downs. Arriving in the apparent back end of nowhere, “she’s forced, kicking and screaming, into having to engage, not only with the landscape, but with the people”, as Luhrmann puts it. “The act of doing that transforms her.” The land of Oz, though, is not all merry. Rival land barons are circling. In 1942, to save her home, Ashley is forced to drive 1,500 head of cattle along her own yellow brick road, accompanied by Jackman’s man-with-no-name “Drover” and an Aboriginal boy (Brandon Walters). Their quest concludes in Darwin in the aftermath of the port’s bombing by the Japanese.

Shades of Red River? With classic imagery aplenty, let’s just say that Luhrmann has always been a sucker for the iconic reference. “The Beatles didn’t just make that sound up. It was an English interpretation of American rock’n’roll,” he counters. “Shakespeare made popular cultural references all the time. Picasso is probably the best example of it. You draw from the vernacular that’s around you.” Devotees of the Aussie screen legend Chips Rafferty might also cite 1946’s The Overlanders, a film with a similar story line.

Maybe we should just remain in thrall to Australia’s old- school sensibility: those days before blue screen, when an exotic backdrop meant lugging your production, kitchen sink and all, into the heart of darkness, as Zulu or The African Queen did, but without the turbulence of Apocalypse Now. There was, says Luhrmann, no way to fudge it. “I love being in the northern Sahara, but you can walk along and a Bedouin will serve you a Coke from a hole in the ground. The cellphone reception is better than in Beverly Hills.” It was plenty of nothing he craved — “And the greatest abundance in the northwest of Australia is nothingness.”

Kidman slinks into the tight, tented gazebo where we are talking and perches elegantly while a lackey divines water. “This is the last of a dying breed, this kind of movie,” she echoes. “They don’t build stuff like this any more. To feel that air and see people ravaged by the elements, as hard as it is, it’s exquisite. I dreamt of making a film that had the passion and the weight of the films I grew up watching — Gone with the Wind, Doctor Zhivago. When Baz and I first started speaking about this, seven years ago, I said there needed to be a film about our land that speaks on a much broader scale.” I wonder whether Lady Ashley might be something of metaphor, too — the quasi-royal who comes down under, only to have the Aussie knocked (back) into her? She laughs: “I don’t know that it’s ever been knocked out of me.” For all her cool grace, a couple of dark patches have started to spread around even her sainted armpits.

Australia marks the third collaboration between Luhrmann and Kidman, after Moulin Rouge! (filmed in Sydney) and that weird Chanel No 5 ad. “I’ve been able to enter into the psyches and ideas of some of the greatest minds in the world and that, for me, is a big gift,” Kidman chirrups, not merely content with her Nintendo Brain Training. “When you enter into the vision that Lars von Trier or Baz Luhrmann has, or Sydney Pollack or Jane Campion or Kubrick . . . These are the philosophers of the world. They’re good professors.” She did her “thesis” on Virginia Woolf and Henry James, she says; she’s learnt to speak Russian; she can hammer out a passable Moonlight Sonata, not to mention parley an “array of accents”. Should her husband, Keith Urban, ever step out of line, he should note that, on Australia, she acquired the ability to crack a whip. “I’ve got a busted shoulder at the moment,” she says, giving it a rub. “You gotta have a few scars, right?”

In recent months, what with marriage, the baby and hitting 40, Kidman seems more in the public eye than ever, despite her secluded life in Tennessee, near the heart of Urban’s music business. (“He’s in my trailer,” she confides. “He’s forbidden from coming down, though. He’s actually very jet-lagged, so he’s up there asleep.”)

It is Catherine Martin, Luhrmann’s wife, who remains his most steadfast collaborator, going back to Strictly Ballroom in 1992 — a film, indirectly, that has reshaped Saturday-night telly. While her husband has done the front-of-house stuff, it’s Martin, the production/costume designer, who has been furtively bagging the baubles (two Oscars for Moulin Rouge! and a Tony for their Broadway La bohème). On Australia, wearing a producer’s hat has added to the responsibilities, an unenviable task given the logistical woes of building everything out here from scratch (transporting every last nail up from Sydney) and wrestling with meteorological vagaries. They hadn’t felt a drop of precipitation here in the dry season in 50 years. Recently, however, it chucked it down, turning the set into a quagmire and causing the whole shoot to be rescheduled.

For both Martin and Luhrmann, the film is a venture into the unknown, a departure from the “red curtain trilogy” (Strictly Ballroom, Romeo + Juliet, Moulin Rouge!), films that, like their exceedingly amiable author, are as camp as the village of tents within which 200 of his crew have been billeted. Australia would have been the second instalment in a trio of historical epics. Yet after two years of prepping a version of Alexander the Great, with Leonardo DiCaprio, it was shelved once Oliver Stone’s version began. “It was devastating,” Luhrmann admits, “but the only way we could have done it was to race to beat Oliver, and that seemed destructive, pointless.”

The pair may revisit it “when we’re both in wheelchairs”, jokes Martin. Indeed, Luhrmann’s film output can hardly be described as prolific, this being only his fourth in 16 years, which can be put down, he says, to his pursuit of other life interests and the fact that he and Catherine are “research junkies” whose meticulous groundwork takes for ever. “The list is very long where people have knocked on the door and said, ‘I’ll give you the income of a small country, would you do this?’ Sometimes I think, ‘That would be fantastic... James Bond, that could be fun.’ We’d be a whole lot wealthier, that’s for sure. But when we make something, I say, ‘What can we do that is truly reflective of an interest we have?’ ”

Here, it’s about Australian self-confidence, the right of a nation to pursue its own destiny “instead of being caught in a sort of cross- fire of other people’s stories”, as Luhrmann puts it. “I guess what I’ve received in bucketloads, no matter what the outcome, is a much more direct understanding of my country, particularly its relationship to England and the sense of the republic, as well as the whole indigenous question.”

At the very least, he can throw a spotlight on the bombing of Darwin, the “Australian Pearl Harbor”. The strategically important city suffered more than 60 raids during 1942-43, as the last line of defence against an intended full-scale Japanese land invasion. “Nobody knew about it,” he says. “Even Australians didn’t know about it.” Back then, it was an “end of the world” place, a cut-throat mishmash of Anglos, Greek pearl-divers, Chinese gold-panners and, of course, Aboriginals. Darwin’s centre now looks too modern to be a location; Bowen, on the Queensland coast, is its proxy.

With the likes of the veteran Australian actors Jack Thompson and Bryan Brown cropping up, and Stuart Beattie doing the screenplay, native sons are out in force. Luhrmann has emphasised the melting pot, with Aboriginal actors such as David Gulpilil and Crusoe Kurddal. The real winner would seem to be Walters, an 11-year-old mixed-race boy, plucked from obscurity, who had never been to a cinema, yet finds himself as third lead to two of the biggest stars in the world.

There is also the fact that those very stars have returned home. The Hollywood A list seems positively cluttered with their compatriots, who have enjoyed most of their successes abroad. “In acting, we’re over-represented,” Jackman says. “Of course there’s a desire to want to give back to or support the industry that gave you a start.”

Backwoods Australia is certainly staging an almighty homecoming for them. In Bowen, the whole town turned out as extras. With an eye to what The Lord of the Rings did for tourism in New Zealand, local governments had been outbidding rivals for the right to host the film. In a dream piece of synchronicity, Luhrmann has just been signed up by Tourism Australia to do a series of commercials promoting the country. Despite the wonderful independent films made in Australia over the years, and the huge Hollywood imports (such as Superman Returns) that have been made in Sydney’s impressive studios, this is the biggest film, by a considerable distance, to be made about the host nation, everyone points out. “It would be so fantastic,” Jackman says, “if we could all look back and this was the dawning of a new era.”

Back on set, the tropical sun descends quickly. Luhrmann has made heavy use of the “magic hour”, the twilight period beloved of cinematographers. “Every sunset there’ll be a majestic transformation and you forgive it all,” he sighs. “It’s like flicking a switch between brutal and beauty.”

“Have you seen the sunset? It’s of the gods, put it that way,” Kidman vouches. “People go to Africa, and they never come back. I think this country has a similar ambience. It casts a spell. For the first week I was here, I thought, ‘I’m not gonna survive’ — then I just felt it turn. I know it’s an extreme way to put it, but it’s a ferocious land.”

As the rocks are kissed to a peachy hue, Luhrmann shoots a campfire scene — Jackman and the Aboriginal stockmen (Aussie for cowboy) lounging around after a hard day’s cowpoking. Given both Luhrmann and Jackman’s musicals credentials, it wouldn’t seem amiss if the actors suddenly ripped off the buckskin and burst into a disco version of The Surrey with the Fringe on Top. Amusingly, for all the millions of boab trees in the area, the one Jackman lolls against is made of fibreglass, there not being a natural one in the right place. But do not underestimate the zeal of the thespian gone native. “I would encourage you to take your shoes off, even if just for a second,” he intones. “That doesn’t anger the spirits as much.”

Sydney, September 2008: a whole year later, and Luhrmann still hasn’t finished his movie, juggling the editing while the score is being recorded. He’s sailing mighty close to the wind, given the November opening date in Australia. In the end, they had to tweak a few scenes in the studio, “doing it Lean and Lucas”, he quips. When the actors came back in to “loop” some of their dialogue (“Baz has a penchant for talking over the top of it,” Jackman says), Kidman wasn’t the only one to have given birth in the interim: no fewer than 15 babies were born to cast and crew during the course of the film, underlining both what a protracted affair it has become and that being stuck in the middle of nowhere leads you to make your own entertainment. (Jackman has even shot another film, Wolverine.)

“There’s a crushing ambition behind the film,” Luhrmann says. “We don’t make things very often, and when we do, we try to make something that isn’t always out there, a meal that maybe isn’t being served every day. Some of my favourite films are sushi, rarefied treats, but this sort of event cinema is like a Sunday meal — it’s got a starter and a main course and a dessert. It’s high comedy, high tragedy, tears, laughter, costumes. Everything big. Big actors. Big landscape.” Jackman chuckles: “Mate, if I told you the film was coming out this time next year, Baz would still be working 24/7 on it. The print will be wet as he gives it over. But, fingers crossed, I think we have something special.”

Australia opens in the UK on Dec 26

Don't cry Nicole: you may be overpaid, but all that's about to change

Forbes Magazine has done some research about how much money Hollywood actors are actually worth – not how much they are paid, but how much profit they generate, compared with how much they are paid. And this means that, by making a list, we can easily see which actors are the most "overpaid" – a list that lots of people will want to print, thus advertising Forbes. It's a really good piece of publicity for the magazine, because everybody likes to hear about vastly wealthy people failing, particularly during the credit crunch.

Forbes got their figures by looking at the last three films each actor had made, and found that Nicole Kidman, whose films have made a pound for every pound she was paid, is therefore the "most overpaid" actor in Hollywood – and therefore, I suppose, the world. A bit further down the list comes Tom Cruise, whose films make £4 for every pound he makes. His films, if you think about it, tend towards the blockbuster end of the spectrum, while she does a lot of more risky, arty stuff.

A bit further down the list is Jennifer Lopez, who makes £4.10 for every pound she pockets, and Jim Carrey, who makes £4.11 – not a bad return, I would think, when you compare these results with, say, city traders. After Carrey, moving upwards, as it were, through the bottom ten, we find Nicolas Cage, followed by Drew Barrymore, Will Ferrell, and Cate Blanchett, who makes almost a fiver for every pound she's paid.

I think it's pretty clear what's happening here. I once read that, if you play the stock market, you shouldn't listen to gossip that has entered the public domain, because once a stock is known to be a good bet, it has stopped being a good bet. Now, if you apply this to film stars, the same tendency will apply: once a star is known to be good box-office, he might look a little stale. Also, those who are known to have been big box-office winners in the recent past will command the biggest fees, and so their films will make less profit per dollar they earn than, say, their co-stars, or actors in successful films who are relatively unknown.

So hats off to Forbes – it certainly made me take notice. It hooks straight into the schadenfreude vibe we all feel about big-time actors, whose millions always make them seem overpaid. But they're paid that much because film-makers have made the decision to gamble on them. And sometimes – quite often, in fact – film-makers do not make good gamblers.

EXTERMINATING ANGEL

When it premiered in Cannes, Lars von Trier's Dogville had the American critics up in arms. Placing Hollywood stars on a minimally-adorned stage, the film played like a Brechtian version of Our Town with a nasty agit-prop coda. Still, as Howard Feinstein discovers, the film is a natural progression for the director of Breaking the Waves and Dancer in the Dark.

Dogville was the barometer movie at the last Cannes Film Festival.Variety called it an “ideologically apocalyptic blast at American values.” Screen claimed that it “emerges as a vivid and thoughtful exploration of a world condemned to suffer from the constant, grinding disappointments of human nature.” Whatever it is, it fits snugly into the arc of Lars von Trier’s oeuvre.

The film centers on Grace (Nicole Kidman), a beautiful, well-dressed woman who, several decades back, wanders into dead-end Dogville, Colo., which abuts an abandoned silver mine and the Rockies. She is running from gangsters, and the seemingly kind townspeople take her in. She forges her strongest bond with Tom (Paul Bettany), a folksy intellectual. But once a police search commences, the townspeople turn against her, forcing her to suffer cruel behavior and even crueler acts. Christlike, Grace turns the other cheek until the person she considers her most trusted friend betrays her. In a microsecond, she shifts gears, then unleashes vengeance like a Fury.

One of von Trier’s first feature-length projects was an abstract video version of Medea (1988), the archetypal revenge drama. With his later films — Breaking the Waves (1996) and Dancer in the Dark (2000) — he moved away from his headier early work and began to focus on good versus evil, female martyrdom and sacrifice. (His idol, after all, is fellow Danish “spiritual filmmaker” Carl Theodor Dreyer.) In all his films, he closely observes power and its abuses. Ever the moralist, he synthesizes all these concerns in Dogville.

Moving even further away from the Dogme 95 manifesto than he did with Dancer, in which artifice-laden musical numbers evolved out of naturalistic scenes, von Trier eschews realism completely in Dogville. The set is a single stage, with chalk drawings marking the site of walls and doors. An offscreen narrator relays much of the action. Von Trier has mentioned several sources of inspiration, among them Brechtian theater, Kurt Weill’s song “Pirate Jenny” (also set in an isolated town) and the television plays that were popular in the 1950s and again in the 1970s. Americans will think of Thornton Wilder’s play Our Town, but von Trier says he had not read it until after preproduction.

Von Trier has never visited the U.S. — he has a fear of flying — but Dogville, like Dancer, is set in small-town America. He defends his right to set his films here: Hollywood has used the world for its sets, he points out. He also has a love/hate attitude toward America. He asks, shouldn’t the world’s only superpower be just?

Dogville is the first in a trilogy of films — Manderlay and Wasington are the next two — that were supposed to star Kidman. But like Dancer star Björk, Kidman and also Bettany have spoken publicly about the difficulty of working with von Trier. If this man were easygoing, however, he probably wouldn’t be what he is: the most provocative director making movies today.

Filmmaker: The title of the film — Dogville — reminds me of the name of your filmmaking manifesto, Dogme 95, but also of Dogpatch, the village of the American cartoon “Lil’ Abner.” Where did the name come from?

Lars von Trier: I had a discussion with a guy who was helping with the script. The film was [originally] supposed to be about something else; it was supposed to be about how you kind of destroy people. We were talking about concentration camps, and he had a theory that the most important thing was that [the prisoners] should be [made into] animals. It made it easier for everybody — it made it easier for the inmates, it made it easier for the guards. So he said, why don’t we call [the town in the movie] Dogville? That was where it started. Actually, it should have been “Dogsville,” but I liked the little mistake. That’s all there is to it.

Filmmaker: In some ways, this film, with its themes of betrayal and then revenge, looks back to your first, in 1988, which was an adaptation of Medea.

von Trier: That’s right: Medea. I haven’t thought about that. I was not very pleased with Medea.

Filmmaker: The combination of the sets, the offscreen narrator, Kidman’s subtle, reserved performance and perhaps the overall tone of the film — it seems as if Dogville steps back from the more emotional dramatics of the previous two films.

von Trier: Yes, it is more intellectual and less emotional. I am not afraid of that. I don’t think there is one way a film should be. I’ve tried the emotional, and I think Dogville has a little of everything. It lies very close to me. It’s filled with sarcasm and narration. The whole setup is to me more personal than the “Golden Heart” stuff with Breaking the Waves and all that. This is kind of more “me,” I think.

Filmmaker: At what point did you decide on the “filmed play” approach?
von Trier: I originally wrote the script for, what should we say, “normal” locations. And then I went out fishing, and I kept seeing this whole thing from above. I was thinking about maps, and then suddenly it was very clear to me that this is how it should look. It has a Brecht thing in it, this little town where you can see everybody all the time — it was perfectly logical. I think the last drop was when I saw Lord of the Rings. I said, “Oh shit.”

Filmmaker: Why?

von Trier: Watching Barry Lyndon, you know that they’ve been waiting three months to have this cloud and this mountain, and that gives it some power. If you know they did it on a computer, it’s completely uninteresting, I think.

Filmmaker: When shooting, did you follow your script directly or allow the actors to improvise?

von Trier: We made one take where we followed the script completely, and then we destroyed it more and more. In the end we only improvised or had no words. We did all kinds of little theater-school games, and then I used all this raw material and cut it together.

Filmmaker: And you ended up using more of what part?

von Trier: I probably used mostly what was written, but then all the other stuff I used as “spices” here and there.

Filmmaker: Todd McCarthy in Variety famously reviewed Dogville and seemed to think it was anti-American. How do you respond?

von Trier: Of course I am not anti-American in that sense. How could you be “anti” a country? But the politics that I see — and I was against the war — yes, very much so. This whole Western world against the Muslim thing — that’s not a war that can be fought with guns, even if you are a superpower. I think there’s 10 percent of the American population that have more or less the same political views as I have, but then again, the same goes for Denmark. So you know, there are probably more people that I agree with in America than in Denmark because Denmark is much smaller!

Filmmaker: Why did you cast such well-known actors in the smaller roles in your film?

von Trier: It’s not that I go for them because they’re known, but they are known because they have a quality. America has a big underworld of fantastic actors just below the star level. I have tried many times to work with Ben Gazzara. Philip Baker Hall I think is a great actor. All of them it would have been nice to work with [singly] instead of with 14 other actors. So the film is a little “over-cast” in that sense.

Filmmaker: But how can you have actors like Lauren Bacall in the film and consign them to such small parts?

von Trier: Yes, it’s terrible, but then they all wanted [to do the film]. Lauren Bacall came and said, “There’s no part.” I said, “You read the script!” She has more lines in the film than she has in the script. I told her it was a small part, and [she must have thought], “Oh, he’s only joking.” I think that having such good actors in minor parts makes the town alive in another way. Because they are so good, so you only have to see them for a very short time and you get the whole character.

Filmmaker: What did Nicole Kidman bring to the part?

von Trier: A lot. I wrote it for her after seeing her in Eyes Wide Shut. I think my technique is actually trying to “pull out” the person, and I think we did well. I think we got a lot of the human being — her sweetness. I had a very insistent camera that I carried myself.

Filmmaker: If she had declined the film after reading the script, what would you have done?

von Trier: That’s what happens all the time. The reason we used Emily Watson [in Breaking the Waves] was because somebody else said no. And the good thing is that you never know how it would have been, you only know how it turns out.

Filmmaker: How do you feel about the production company Zentropa selling your movie in both a three-hour version and a two-hour version?

von Trier: Well, it’s a compromise. I am not very particular about what you do to my films as long as you know which one is the original. And the original is the [three-hour version]. [The two-hour version] was not cut down by me — it’s like [an abridged] version of a book. I have seen it, I think it’s okay, but I’m not approving or disapproving. If I approved it, I could just have made it! I had a contract that said it had to be two hours, but which law do you follow? I made it for three hours because it had to be three hours, you know, and this was kind of the compromise that came out of that.

Filmmaker: The simple setting of Dogville and this new trilogy, is it a reaction to the complexity of making Dancer in the Dark?
von Trier: Oh yeah, I always think I have found a very simple way to make a film, and it always turns out to be hell. These six weeks of Dogville were not pleasant at all, not at all — it was such hard work. To have 15 actors at the same time, it was so frustrating. It was difficult. We shot six minutes a day.

Filmmaker: The way you describe your life, or your work, it sounds like you have to put yourself through punishment.

von Trier: Yes, I’m punishing myself all the time. But it’s like a mountain climber, you know: “Argh, okay, I’ll take this” — masochism, or a fear of emptiness, call it what you will. My problem is that I have a lot of adrenaline, and if I don’t use it for climbing a mountain, I use it for something completely destructive, which I’m trying not to do. I would love not to make films.

Filmmaker: What would you do?

von Trier: What would I do? That’s the question. I would go fly-fishing. I like the quietness of it. I would love doing that, but I’ve tried many times, and I’m very poor at it [laughs]. I’d also go hunting, but I’m poor at that too. Animals laugh at me — I’m afraid of the animals.

Filmmaker: I understand you don’t enjoy traveling too much. You actually have a phobia — a fear of flying?

von Trier: Yeah. I’m hysterical about flying, but phobia? I think that all of us have something we like to do and something we do not really like to do. And then it’s a matter of how much you press yourself. In my life, I can actually “go around” these places that I do not want to touch. Maybe that’s not very healthy — maybe I should just sit on an airplane and kind of panic about it. I don’t know, I’m working through this stuff [laughs].

Filmmaker: In some ways, not traveling is sort of like avoiding life.

von Trier: Yeah, I know it’s avoiding life, and I’m trying not to.

Filmmaker: By making films?

von Trier: Well, that’s avoiding life, making films. For me.

Go to Sidebar: Planned Interference: Carol Nahra on The Five Obstructions.

Also see the Online Feature from 6/11/02: Our Town.

Go to Dogville's Offical Web site: www.tvropa.com/Dogville/.