Peter Weir's The Truman Show is not quite the brilliant media satire many have proclaimed it. Network and the vastly underrated The Cable Guy are better examples. But it's an interesting, oftentimes charming film with a terrific lead performance by Jim Carrey who helps personalize one of the movie’s most poignant and even, terrifying conceits— just how clueless our lives can be anyway.

The Truman Show takes a very Rod Serling-esque premise (what if one day you realized that your whole life was a TV show and that some other being was controlling your every move?) and stretches it to a simultaneously probable and questionable future in which one unknowing man is the center of an internationally broadcast soap opera.

That man is Truman Burbank (Carrey) who lives the “idyllic” life in the quaint seaside community of Seahaven. Married to his perfect wife, Meryl (Laura Linney), raised by his perfect mother (Holland Taylor), and best friends with his perfect childhood buddy, Marlon (Noah Emmerich), Truman seems to have it all.

But problems plague him, and disturbing questions surface. Why and how did a light fixture fall from the sky? What is the weird radio frequency that seems to be instructing his every move? How could he be caught in a rain shower that drenched only him and nothing else? Why were Meryl's fingers crossed in their wedding photo? And why did his father, whom he saw die in a boating accident when he was very young, resurface as a bum on the street and tell him that his whole life was a lie?

Truman's life is a lie, the longest-running lie in the history of television. Though he feels real, his surroundings are not. They are the creation not of God or Christ, but of Christof (Ed Harris), the mastermind behind the docudrama of Truman's life. Christof is also the creator of Seahaven, a domed utopia complete with (usually) picture-perfect weather, a rumbling ocean and a bunch of chirpy extras to whom Truman has said "Good morning, good afternoon, and good evening" for the last 30 years of his life, while the entire world watched.

OK—that’s where the film (written by Andrew Niccol, who also wrote and directed Gattaca and later Simone) becomes unrealistic. Though it’s believable the public's lust for "real TV" would help create this voyeuristic fantasy land of perfection, wouldn't that same lust have created a land of hell? The real TV that we couldn’t get enough of then (1998) was composed of cops busting wife beaters, prostitutes confronting their pimps, and an accused murderer fleeing in a white Bronco. And the reality television henceforth boomed into Survivors “forming alliances,” backstabbing, corporate wanna-be's squirming in their seats to be “fired,” ugly made Swan beauty contestants who’ll probably suffer mental breakdowns a la Rock Hudson in Seconds and catty girls fighting over who can tongue their bachelor longest in the hot tub. Sure, there’s some nice stuff (like those home makeover shows) but would we really watch a show about a town where everyone strains to smile and places products in the frame? And would there really be an entire network devoted to it?

Perhaps Weir is simply making the point that modern TV viewers want to identify more with the lives they see on the screen than with their own reality. But that doesn't explain the The Truman Show devotees—watching from bars, the bathtub or in a little old lady house complete with Truman Show pillows—they’re riveted by this guy’s life. But then, the only thing that seems to truly excite them is when something dramatic and unexpected happens—like when an extra infiltrates to expose the exploitation of Truman (and really, what they’ve done to him is pretty evil).

Manipulating these situations as part of the drama seems apt but then, wouldn’t Christof develop more soap opera situations on his own—with actors? Perhaps the tense subtext of Truman’s inner struggle’s would keep the viewer’s rapt (when is he going to crack?)—it certainly keeps the film interesting. But the media satire is strange because the warmer heart of Weir (Niccol had painted a darker picture in the film’s earlier script) has crafted Truman’s personal tale, most likely, to reflect everyone's role in what they see as a limited world. For some, their lives may as well be the show, as they mentally put a dome and screen around themselves. Many may think they can go beyond their boundaries, but they never do, existing only in one small plot of community, sometimes not even past their front yards.

So, is the film so cynical as to say, in spite of the protestors (who are shown), there’s billions of sheep-like viewers going along with this lie. That in the future, most of society will be so accepting and complacent about “reality” TV that not enough protest could pull a show that is at heart, so malevolent?  But then, what of (spoiler alert) their happiness when Truman escapes? Should we feel heartened that these viewers finally realize the guy needs to get out of there?

The rub, then, is not merely the corporate takeover of America but rather how that takeover has helped feed our existing anxieties. Weir is wise to make his harsher aspect of the film not just obvious evil. In a way, it makes the experience scarier, even more cynical. Though the actors and viewers greedily participate, they are not detestable people. Even Christof is not entirely despicable. Well played by the all-American, eternal-astronaut actor Harris, Christof, in many ways, cares for Truman. He believes what he has done for the boy has given him a better life.

But to watch the wonderfully nuanced Carrey go through this is deeply sad. The film was originally intended for Tom Hanks, which is no surprise since it could have had overwhelming Gumpness. Hanks can play the strained nice guy, but he lacks Carrey's almost beguiling dark side and hungry desire for people to like him. Though this film was viewed as a breakthrough for the comic actor Carrey (he even had a Time Magazine cover), I think he really broke through in a film that put forth similar notions of a TV- controlled monster: The Cable Guy. Critics and viewers couldn't stand The Cable Guy's Carrey because he was too disturbing. But when was Carrey ever simply a warm fuzzy? Like the viewers' take on Truman, the public's take on Carrey is wishful thinking: The actor is always disturbing. He was so effective that viewers couldn't stomach him. His cable monster was too much a reminder of the part of ourselves that we can't stand.

Carrey's warped cable guy serves as an intriguing parallel to The Truman Show: As a kid who was parented, babysat, taught and socialized by the TV set, the cable guy is both Truman viewer and Truman himself; a lost soul whose life is scripted by inane bits of dialogue from either past episodes of The Brady Bunch or a book of hackneyed phrases. He's also a stalker.

But The Cable Guy plays darker and in points of high comedy, even more realistic than The Truman Show. When Carrey karaoke's "Don't you want somebody to love" it is both hysterical and profoundly unsettling--in his ugly gyrations, he means it. The Truman Show, instead, though interesting is ultimately frustrating in questioning Weir’s depth. Though most leave this film heartened by the human need to break beyond their safety zone—they should also feel unnerved, disturbed. Again, if the film is to reflect common life, then maybe it is inspirational—we could all tear down that fake wall separating our “real” life from freedom. Or whatever is out there.

Paramount releases “The Truman Show: Special Edition” with a fine audio/visual transfer. Extras include the 2-part documentary entitled, “How’s it going to end” showing the genesis of the film, the casting of Jim Carrey, the changes in the screenplay and the nature of reality television. Also on board is the documentary “Faux Finishing” concerning the extra touches in creating Seahaven. There’s also deleted scenes (some are interesting, most are gladly missing). Trailers, photograph gallery, previews and TV spots fill out the disc.

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