I seem to be comparing movies I've seen recently to syntheses of movies past. I feel like that gives people some idea of what to expect (though I've been told about a recent film that not only am I off the mark, but once again that I "misunderstand Napoleon Dynamite more than any other movie ever" [and no, it was not Greg who said that.] Gee, thanks a lot. Guess I'm just an idiot.)

Little Children, starring Kate Winslet (gee, why'd I see this?), seems to me at once to be a more mature and subtle, yet occasionally more humorous and eccentric, retelling of the quiet desperation in middle America that was portrayed in American Beauty. I shared the reservations of Joe Vitus regarding that earlier movie - mostly, the reaction the public had to it: cheering the quite obviously immature acting out of Spacey's character. In this movie, it's murkier as to whom one should cheer for, except in the sense of hoping that they all acquire some meaning to their lives. That is, other than the meaning born of the emotional pain that has the odd effect of making us feel alive by making us feel something.

Sarah (Winslet) and Brad, aka "the prom king" (Patrick Wilson) find each other amid the malaise of suburbia (both are married) and begin spending time together as an outlet from their respective frustrations. She's been suffocating among the local chattering flock of Stepford Wives and her porn-obsessed husband, while Brad has been suffering under the constraints of his micro-managed role as primary care giver to his son. Their relationship is at first relatively wholesome, and one of the best moments of narration in the film is the description of her ambivalence about whether to take their relationship to the next step.

The concurrent plotline involves sex offender Ronald James McGorvey (played by Jackie Earle Haley of Bad News Bears fame) who moves back into the neighborhood, causing no little commotion and aggressive bullying by ex-cop Larry Hedges, ersatz friend to Brad.

In between voluntary self-patrols and late night harassment of McGorvey, Larry brings Brad to his nighttime football games and Brad, a college quarterback not so long ago, finds yet another means to derive some meaning out of life. It's later in the film we realize that, like watching the neighborhood skateboarders Brad wistfully admires, this is just one more thrill-seeking adventure that reveals Brad for what he really is: a shallow and self-obsessed ex-jock whose too-beautiful wife isn't enough to make him feel alive.

A key scene between Brad and Sarah is her mid and post-coital daring inquisition as to the particulars of Brad's wife. His confession that she's a "knock-out" but that "looks aren't everything" feels like a punch to Sarah's gut. As the narrator puts it, Sarah realizes that "only someone who takes his own appearance for granted could make such a comment." Of course, she begins to spy on him and once she gets an eyeful of his wife (played by Jennifer Connelly), her sense of confidence about this whole affair begins to crumble.

The tension and ambivalence about the two's relationship builds up toward the moment *SPOILER ALERT* after Brad has scored the winning touchdown for his team and looks up to find that Sarah has snuck into the game and cheered him wildly. It's then that Brad feels like Sarah "gets him" and he asks her to run away with him. She struggles with the idea that it can't possibly work, but finally agrees. It's a strange moment for the viewer to want this to succeed knowing full well the overwhelming likelihood of its failure. They agree to meet in the park in the middle of the night, but on Brad's way to their rendevous, he is sidetracked by the skateboarder's invitation for him to finally join them. This puzzling jumble of his priorities is what finally reveals the precise depth, or lack thererof, of his character. And while he's off with them, Sarah is having a striking and revelatory encounter with McGorvey - one which sends her back to the comfort of her own home. In the end, it seems like a dream between the two of them, and this viewer was left wondering exactly what I was supposed to be rooting for.

Sarah's moment in the park involves finding her wandering daughter in the middle of the street looking up to a streetlamp surrounded by fireflies, and it's an apt visual metaphor. Sarah, Brad, and even McGorvey each struggle with making any stable sense of their lives (granted, with wide disparities in their respective cases) and seem to be drawn to those dangerous things that thrill them to the point of exhilaration and disaster. And in all cases, the behavior is negligent toward the those around them to whom that kind of behavior is most inherent - little children.

I can't honestly suggest to anyone what to make of the film's examination of discontent except that I found it much more realistic and evocative than American Beauty. There were so many moments in this movie that felt familiar in a way that American Beauty never managed to capture, probably due to AB's one-dimensional take on the issue. The most significant complaint I can make about this movie boils down to the one scene where Brad contemplates Sarah as "short", "boyish", and "with thick eyebrows." Surely it's me, but I found it straining credibility to accept that Jennifer Connelly (admittedly attractive, though moreso when she wasn't thin as a reed) is the pretty one and Kate Winslet is the dog. That kind of totally misguided apprehension of facts could almost upend an entire movie. That I managed to get past it is a testament to the film's strengths.