Long live independent movies. Long live filmmakers who still try to think visually, are willing to experiment with storytelling form and can on shoestring budgets somehow turn out memorable films. Unfortunately, so-so indie stalwart Jon Jost's The Bed You Sleep In is total garbage. If the energetic and lovably talentless director Mark Borchardt, subject of the hilarious documentary American Movie, were to be locked in a room for a year with Andrea Dworkin, a VCR, and all the movies of David Lynch and Frederick Wiseman, his next film might closely resemble The Bed You Sleep In. An earnest cast of bad actors, led by Jost regular Tom Blair, gamely deliver Jost's hopeless script. The first forty minutes are devoted to mostly uncontextualized but presumably pretty shots of Pacific Northwest lumber mills. Then there is a turgid stretch of extremely bleak melodrama as our mill owner's (Blair) marriage suddenly implodes after his wife gets a letter from their college-age daughter (who we never see) about her recovered memories of being sexually abused by Daddy. Jost's paper-thin plot then disposes of this mess with an absurd string of tidy suicides, and it's back to picturesque Nature shots interspersed with implausibly long credits. The apparent Moral of the story is that the iconic middle-aged American white male is a tortured though bland Satan who sweeps over the landscape cutting down trees and women. But one weeps not for the all the pretty wasted trees, but rather for the film stock, oh the film stock.