But I digress. Even though I didn't grow up on a farm, I feel like I know something of that world. When my grandfather would begin to reminisce, I could easily sense the pride he took in that part of his past... and a kind of sadness, as if that way of life was quickly disappearing forever, without anyone to remember it.

So as I sat down to The Real Dirt on Farmer John, I immediately felt a wave of familiarity wash over me. Seeing images of corn stalks stretching out across the land, an endless blue sky dotted with clouds and balls of dust kicking up as the dirt is plowed through for planting, I thought, "Yes, this is the farming life." What I never saw, though, during any of my trips to the family farm, and what I never heard my grandfather speak of when waxing nostalgic was that he or my great-uncle or anyone else for that matter actually ate the dirt to see if it was any good. But then again, that's what makes John Peterson a farmer apart from the rest.

He eats dirt. And he likes to wear feather boas and tiaras when riding his tractor. Oh, and when riding that tractor, he just might have a naked lady smeared in mud dancing behind him. Okay, so maybe in New York or LA or even Ann Arbor, Michigan, that kind of behavior would go unnoticed. Perhaps even be encouraged. But this is Farm Country, Illinois, Baby. We don't go for that here. And hence Farmer John's dilemma, that he is merely an individual.

Although John grew up on a farm, was part of a farming family, knew only other farmers- to put it another way, farming was his entire life- he discovered something else once he went away to college in the 1960s. Art. Performance. Culture.

Now, let me get one thing straight here before the pitchforks come after me. The farming life has a unique culture all its own, one for which I have a tremendous amount of respect. Yet it comes as no surprise to me why John Peterson suddenly went from the son of a respected farming family to that weirdo who might be part of a satanic cult. No joke. He was rumored to have made human sacrifices. All because he let some of his long-haired, tree-hugging, free-loving friends stay at the farm. I mean, come on, we all know how dangerous the hippies really are.

From there, things just went from bad to worse. The friends eventually left, but the rumors continued. And John didn't know what to do with himself. Hundreds of thousands of dollars in debt, he was forced to sell most of the land, much to his shame and the disappointment of his mother. Feeling lost and alone, he fled to Mexico. During his travels across the border, however, John came to a realization. He missed farming. He loved farming. He needed farming. And so he came back, the prodigal son, ready to make a new start. What he didn't realize, though, was just how hard that would be.

Although the farm was considerably smaller now, he still had the daunting task of how to get it producing crops again. Not only that, John was broke. With no other alternative, he had to borrow the money from his elderly mother just for seed. But with this new beginning, John also had a vision, that this farm would be completely organic. No genetically altered produce, no chemicals or pesticides. Just the seed and the land.

Farmer John returned on his own terms, and despite years of struggle and doubt, he has made it a success. More importantly, though, he has continued to live his life according to his own standards and creed. In a community that frowns upon eccentricity, he has not only survived, but also thrived. And to their credit, John's neighbors have finally welcomed him back into their communal fold. They may not understand him, but they have come to accept him.

The Real Dirt on Farmer John is a film that celebrates both the traditions of American farming life and the individualistic spirit that we value so highly in this country. Through John Peterson, we learn that idiosyncrasy and conventionality can co-exist. Never sacrifice who you are. Never stop pursuing your dreams. And don't let anyone tell you that tiaras and tractors don't mix. 

Anna Keizer is a film critic and writer in Los Angeles.