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The film's title, on a literal level, could refer to Tom's personal history … that is, if Fogarty and Company's accusations prove true. But on a thematic level, the focus on star-spangled nostalgia makes parallels to American history obvious. Stall's Diner looks like an Americana museum, just down the road from a post office and a general store, protected by a likeable old sheriff, and offering slices of home-baked pie. We end up, of course, in "the City of Brotherly Love," knee-deep in the surrealism of Blue Velvet or Chinatown, both of which dig up nasty tumors beneath the skin of American idealism.

Predictably, some are hastily characterizing Violence as a slam on the Bush administration. But Cronenberg, a Canadian, is quick to deflect such interpretations. He told The Village Voice, "People wanted to take it as a critique of America … [but] let's not just jump on the U.S. because there's no country in the world that doesn't have a history of violence."

Ed Harris plays Irish gangster Carl Fogarty

No, Cronenberg isn't preaching sermons here. Instead, he's raising questions in the mode of Flannery O'Connor, whose harsh revelations shocked readers. "Show, don't tell"—that's art's first rule. Hitchcock would have applauded Cronenberg's subversive approach, as he sets up familiar images to make audiences comfortable, and then exposes our flawed assumptions by defying our expectations.

For example, when Tom defends the diner, he seems a towering action hero. The audience cheers! But then the camera reveals what we don't expect to see—fleeting images of carnage—and the rejoicing stops. Big screen heroism seems more complicated, less glorious, when we see the damage done. If more films told the whole story, involving us not just in the bold act but in the consequences and cleanup, perhaps audiences would be slower to embrace violence as "entertainment."

Cronenberg also raises timely questions about the precedent set by retaliation, about what happens to the heart and soul of the person delivering such violence, and about the cost of freedom. How often do we contemplate the blood being shed so families can enjoy a peaceful dinnertime? Is the reward worth the price?

Wait, there's more: Tom's dilemma examines the consequences of extreme historical makeovers. This story shows that the sins of individuals (and by implication, nations) pretending to be blameless will find them out. (For years, Hollywood portrayed Indians as evil and disposable obstacles for righteous cowboys. We're still recovering from the damage done by such gross whitewashing.)

Director Cronenberg (center, blue cap) on the set with Mortensen and others

Hopefully, A History of Violence will serve to encourage a sobering sense of responsibility, a more truthful perspective on our identities (individual and national), and a stronger tendency toward restraint in those who might find violence appealing, practical, or—God forbid—"sexy." After all, we have a Savior who valued restraint, and who reprimanded the Apostle Peter's violent retaliation, even when there was a reasonable cause for lashing out.

The Stalls' story shows that human beings cannot rely solely upon guns and guts for redemption. The crosses around Tom's and Edie's necks point to the source of redemption, but they fail to notice. (Tom, like his enemies, uses Jesus' name only as an expletive.) Only Tom's little daughter Sarah (Heidi Hayes), with her wide-eyed innocence, seems capable of grace under such circumstances, and it's unclear whether Cronenberg takes her seriously after the corruption he's exposed.

Sadly, Cronenberg's crosses are intended only as irony. How could "Christian" people engage in such behavior? He told The New York Times, "I'm an atheist, and so I have a philosophical problem with … God and heaven and hell and all that stuff. I'm not just a nonbeliever, I'm an antibeliever—I think it's a destructive philosophy." It's also ironic, then, that his film exposes humanity's helplessness and need for salvation from beyond.

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