Little Children (2006)

Idea: Depressed suburban housewife Sarah (Kate Winslet) and emasculated househusband Brad (Patrick Wilson) begin a tentative friendship that leads to an affair. Convicted sex offender Ronnie (Jackie Earle Hickey) moves back in with his mother (Phyllis Somerville) in the same neighbourhood. Larry (Noah Emmerich) becomes Brad's football buddy and obsessed with personally policing Ronnie.

It's been a while now, but I'm still not sure how I feel about this movie. Okay, that's not entirely true. I have a fairly good handle on how I feel about this movie, but I don't want to come out and say how I feel about this movie.

I know I have come out against narration in movies in the past, but I think my stance on the issue has been considered much more harsh than it really is. In certain movies, it more than works - it's necessary. It worked in, say, American Beauty because Lester, while the protagonist, was only one character, and he didn't go around telling us how everyone else felt. It was necessary for Sunset Boulevard because it was tied to the very conceit of the story - a writer telling the story of his death from beyond the grave. It works in the first Bridget Jones movie because it mimics the source material (all the events are Bridget's interpretation or memory thereof) and because it is used sparingly.

It works well here, in certain cases. Particularly for Brad's character. It's not that Wilson doesn't do a good job (because he does); it's that certain ideas and how they make Brad feel, like that bit about the jester's hat as it slowly sails to the floor, could do with a bit of exposition.

Of course, there were other times when I wanted to yell, "Shut up, Will Lyman, SHUT UP!" Again, particularly as they applied to Sarah. Winslet is an incredible actress - there isn't a fraction of a second where the exact right emotion, as well as a plethora of others, doesn't register on her face. Mind you, the idea of trying to make her plain is laughable, but that doesn't stop Winslet from putting her all into Sarah's boredom and detachment.

I get that there are difficulties in adapting a book for the screen, particularly when the director (Todd Field) works with the author of the novel (Tom Perrotta). I get that there are chunks of prose so beautiful, so rich and meaningful that it is painful to cut them. On other hand, I doubt you want your audience to waste the denouement thinking, "Really? X is surprised to find himself in this situation? This moment is meant to be, in some way, ironic? Thanks, narrator! How would I have discovered that on my own?"

Alright, leaving aside my personal vendetta against unnecessary narration, let's give credit where it is due. Hickey was both scary and incredibly sad. It takes confidence to return to the screen after more than a decade of absence to this kind of role, and he does it will aplomb. Jennifer Connelly, who I never thought much of in the past, dazzled me with her mincing gaze. Thomas Newman, whom I have railed against, wrote a score than is sparse but elegant, working with the natural sounds of the neighbourhood (particularly the train that rolls through town) instead of another Shawshank rip-off.

And, finally, Field. Let us marvel at his talent - his ability to get inside of people's emotions and insecurities and present them in a way that feels fresh and honest. His exploration of grief in In the Bedroom was heavy without being heavy-handed, and now, examining the causes and short-term consequences of infidelity (of all sorts), he creates an intelligent and wholly believable world littered with the debris of the everyday.

But Madame Bovary at the book club? Come! On! At least Winslet got an amazing line out of it. B+