History is your own life writ large! -- proclaims The History Boys. In the film's goofiest scene, a cocky high school senior compares his sexual advances toward his closeted mentor to Hitler's invasion of Poland. Is this what really goes on in Dead Poet's Societies? (Duh.)

Once upon a time in Margaret Thatcher's England, eight teenage boys perform so well on their no-child-left-behind exams (construct your own crass play on words here) that they stay an extra semester to try to make Oxford or Cambridge. Their high marks are due to all the crusty facts and figures drilled into them by their gangly scarecrow-like history instructress. But what keeps them in their seats is the high-culture (yet lowbrow) antics of their kindly, fat, harmlessly lascivious General Studies teacher, who stuffs them with show tunes, scenes from old movies and epigrams from Wittgenstein, Auden and A. E. Houseman. (Bonus question: What do those three have in common?)

Enter the polished, youthful new tutor the school hires to help them succeed with the next level of exams, who has the temerity to suggest they use that treasure trove of that other (secret [okay, gay]) learning to dazzle Oxbridge admissions committees. No, no, no -- argues the fat lecher -- these gems are not trinkets to be used for self-promotion; they must be put into the lock-box of one's heart to be admired privately later in life, when experience will lead one to appreciate their many facets. Oh my! -- gasps the scarecrow -- I had no idea you fondled their genitals!

And that, in a nutshell, is Nicolas Hytner's play. It's comforting to think of history as a collection of experiences for contemplation (though some are sacrosanct and not to be disturbed, for example, the Holocaust.) And the idea of dead author's hand reaching out to, um, touch one, is, well ... touching. History is a series of communal experiences which when beautifully expressed in a text one memorizes as a boy will later illuminate one's own experiences, and so on and so forth.

The actors are fun; the language is sparkling; and not until the end does the film slip in its whopping lie. In a scene straight out of Annie Hall, the characters take turns talking about their present-day lives. The good-looking gay Jewish boy with the beautiful singing voice confesses to having become a teacher who also lusts after his students (but takes greater care not to grope them.)

Damn Nicolas Hytner, damn the National Theater, damn the Tonys and damn this film. Because the history it presents has one vital thing missing: progress. What this guy would REALLY be doing right now is living with his handsome, rich stockbroker husband in the tastiest flat in the city, raising two Romanian orphan kids. It's what my gay friends are doing. It's what the New York Times prints. It's what's playing on HBO and NBC. But what should I believe, my own lying eyes or an award-winning Broadway play?

And what would Auden, Houseman and Wittgenstein say about this new state of affairs? I don't know. But I bet they'd be smiling.

History is just like watching TV! -- babbles Deja Vu. The trailer maybe be all car chases and explosions, but be prepared: the middle third of this movie is all about Denzel and a gaggle of techno-geeks gazing at a flat screen where a pleasant young woman walks around her apartment and takes an occasional shower (warning: PG-13 -- no boobs.)

Eventually, because the plot has nowhere to go, the Denzel Washington character physically crawls into that TV narrative to star in his own reality show where the hero gets the girl and terrorists get caught and punished even before they blow up the bomb.

Does Deja Vu offer anything other than couch-potato wish-fulfillment exploitation of recent American tragedies?

Yes. Lies.

Let me point out three: the title. There is no Deja Vu in the movie. Its a story of time travel, not weird presentiments. Not once is the psychological phenomenon of deja vu contemplated, discussed, or explained. Not a single character experiences deja vu at any point. I can go on, but it's logically impossible to prove a negative. See the movie if you don't believe me.

Lie number two: Katrina was a natural disaster. That's what a government spokesman says about the ferry explosion that opens the film: "This was not a natural disaster like Katrina." Wrong. Katrina the hurricane (downgraded to Category 2 by the time it swept over New Orleans) killed at worst a handful of people and caused minimal damage. It was the breach of the levees a full day later that brought about the enormity of destruction and death we (but not the head of FEMA) saw on TV, and that was the result of faulty planning, shoddy workmanship and no evacuations. Katrina the disaster was an act of terrorism perpetrated against the poor of New Orleans by a criminally negligent government. Perhaps a touch more "natural" than an exploding ferry, but not much.

Lie number three: Jim "Jesus" Caviezel portrays a domestic terrorist radicalized through having been REJECTED by the armed forces for (get ready) excessive patriotic zeal. Please. The army is so desperate for recruits, they're forming a Downs Syndrome division. Okay, that was in poor taste. But here's what happened historically: Tim McVeigh, on whom the character is based, had no trouble being recruited, fought in Iraq and was discharged with honor. It was while serving in the army that he was radicalized by a White Supremacist cell consisting of fellow soldiers and officers. It was his acceptance, not rejection, by the army that reinforced his racism and hatred of the democratic process. But what do you expect from an institution 80 percent of whose officers are Republican, and whose West Point chaplains are permitted to preach to 18-year-old kids that they will go to hell if they don't accept Christianity? (Recent court case, look it up.) Looked at historically, Oklahoma City fits on a continuum between My Lai, Tailhook and Abu Ghraib.

But this history is denied by Deja Vu.

With so many damn lies in the film, is it possible a Republican was involved in making it?

History can help you face death -- murmurs The Fountain. In Darren Aronofsky's film, a cancer researcher's dying wife finds inside an old Mayan myth a story that helps her accept her death. Her husband refuses consolation until he internalizes the bit of history she transmits to him via an unfinished manuscript and reconstructs it on his own terms. Disinclined viewers will get annoyed by scenes that are over-earnest, too on-the-nose or clumsily staged. But The Fountain does contain both memorable images and lucid ideas, and, unexpectedly for a film that contains an end credit for "galactic fluid," the two work hand-in-hand.

In the climax of the film, Hugh Jackman the conquistador plunges a dagger into the tree of life, which is his wife, who is his life, and rubs its sap into his wounds ... only to have them overgrow with vegetation. Inside a distant nebula, Hugh Jackman the space explorer climbs up the tree of life towards the nirvana of an exploding star ... and opens his eyes on Earth, kneeling where his wife had been buried.

If you fight against death, you will irreparably scar yourself, but maybe give flower to novel, lively, strange possibilities. If you accept death, you will spiritually transcend, but physically land back at the graveside.

This one-to-one correlation between concept and image may come off as naive. But as Pushkin said, "Poetry, God forgive us, must be a little stupid." And if that's not also true about movies, then cinema is doomed.

Like History Boys, The Fountain uses history mostly for personal solace. And yet, there is progress, if only progress towards death

History is here and now -- Bobby reminds us. Emilio Estevez's film does not have to reach too far for shocks of recognition: immigration and race tensions, electronic vote counting machines, a foolish, useless and divisive war all make an impact in the first ten minutes.

But there is more.

The bulk of Bobby depicts everyday personal events. A couple of boy campaign staffers get naked and drop acid with hippie Ashton Kutcher. A fading lounge singer apologizes to her hair dresser. A Latino bus boy gives a couple of Dodger tickets to the black chef.

But the movie never lost my interest. The actors all seemed to be having a blast. All are all good, and some -- especially the guru of The Matrix, the villainness of Basic Instinct and the apprentice of Six Feet Under -- are great.

But there is more.

A certain feeling, a spirit of exaltation pervades the proceedings. So strange yet familiar. What could it be?

It's hope. We don't see it often in movies. Or, lately, in real life. You see, 1968 was the last real morning in America, not the false dawn of idiot greed of the '80s, or the hypnotic computer screen glow of the '90s. (I've said enough about the darkness of the last six years.)

In Bobby, it's morning again. See, sometimes, repeating history is a good thing. The movie brings us so close to hope, the warmth lingers even after the unavoidable assassination, which in the midst of shock and grief is handled with skill, sensitivity, and integrity.

Bravo to everyone involved -- even Republicans, if there were any.