The Terminal (movie review)

A retarded guy handicapped by a war torn special case language, is in an unacceptable state, and so gets frozen into a holding pattern within the isotropic vector matrix, the realm of generalized principles, here projected as blue meanie enforcers, mostly male-hierarchical, and quasi-omniscient (lots of security cameras).

Our hero's freedoms are strictly limited. However, by working at various language games, including the solution of love triangles, he ascends in rank and worthiness, becoming more of an American icon. His war torn state is healed and the icey totalitarianism of the IVM gives way to an incommensurably free expression of personal individuality (symbolized by the jazz-playing saxophone).

Having fulfilled his destiny, our hero returns to his home country (somewhere close to Borat's no doubt), leaving behind the austere, unforgiving integrity of this alien Vulcan world and its intertwined male/female energies.

The Planters and Ramada Inn brands get the most focus, with Sbarro a distant third. New York itself remains in the background, somewhat ghostly, as do JFK airport (from the outside) and Napoleon, another retard on the eternal chessboard of life.