Between the sand that "growed" (sic) and the turkey fever that mkes people tremble and relive their worst Sunday morning hangovers, the soft sound of southern vowels articulates the old weird America that Greil Marcus dreamt he heard when he listened to Dylan and The Bands recordings,`The Basement Tapes'. Errol Morris manages to find a quintessential group of characters that define, without seeking, a peculiar version of reality. A man holds a fork, echoes of `American Gothic', and discusses the wrigglers and his own, superior, knowledge of these creatures that, if you didn't know better, you would swear were mythical animals befitting of amulets and statuary rather than the worms that they are. Morris has the ability to frame a shot as though its edges demand gilded plaster rather than the limits of projection. In the fetid atmosphere of the pan handle hamlet we are allowed to discover the meaning of life in its absurd quotidian realness. At just the right distance we watch a man wheel barrow a possum and gently kick the backside of a tortoise. The man's effortless speech patterns are mirrored by the perambulations of his carapaced companion. 55 minutes in the company of these neighbors of the swamp makes you realise that not all of the absurdity of the world is found in your dreams. Morris knows about the rhythms of speech and the rhythms of film and manages the two in a contrapuntal sonata, this is the music of America's other dreams. This is the kind of film that truely adds to our understanding of who we are.