Weekly meditations from your humble messenger
The
Frontlines of Passion
(Little
Children, 3/26/07)
By Nicholas Nicastro
Evolutionary
psychologists speak of the human mind being specially adapted for certain
traits, such as a taste for animal fat (and, incidentally, Ring Dings),
or for social hierarchies (like ranking those poor suckers on American
Idol). The experts might as well add a predisposition to enjoy risqué,
edgy, well-crafted stories of domestic futility in middle-class America,
as these never seem to wear out their welcome. At the movies, think
of Sex. Lies and Videotape, Your Friends and Neighbors, Happiness,
In the Bedroom, et al.; on TV, you might think of Big Love, Nip/Tuck,
Six Feet Under, etc.)
Todd (In the Bedroom) Field's
Little Children is the latest and perhaps the most self-conscious
example of this bottomless genre. Based on the 2004 novel by Tom (Election)
Perrotta, it's designed to seem like some measured, clinical PBS documentary,
in this case about the rites and rearing practices of a particular tribe
of suburban hominid. It even has narration (oddly, uncredited) by the
guy who does the voice-overs for Frontline, Will Lyman.
Sarah (Kate Winslet) is a graduate
school dropout married to an executive (Gregg Edelman) who, in her word,
"lies" for a living. Both committed and repulsed by parenthood
to her young daughter (Sadie Goldstein), she's like a brainier Madame
Bovary, but without the fancy frocks. After eyeing Brad (Patrick Wilson)
entertaining his son at the playground, she strikes up a friendship
that she hopes and dreads will become more. Brad, for his part, is nowhere
near a skilled enough liar to throw his wife Kathy (Jennifer Connelly)
off the scent of his betrayal. Meanwhile, above these subtler crimes
looms the specter of Ronnie (Jackie Earle Haley), recently arrived in
the neighborhood after serving time for indecent exposure to a minor,
but himself still a child.
None of this sounds very radical,
especially when gingerly summarized to avoid spoiling the plot's often
hilarious surprises. The pleasure of the film, though, lies more on
the level of execution than of who, what and where. By interweaving
the tasks of parenthood and the torments of each character's particular
passion (in Sarah and Ronnie's case, to touch someone; in Brad's, to
recover the significance of his youth), Field and Perrotta find a way
to speak of the little children in all of us who can never grow up and
never be satisfied. It's an impossible reconciliation with parenthood,
of course, and one that far predates Flaubert or Freud. It will also
continue to haunt our descendants long after our species of suburban
hominid goes extinct.
Kate Winslet is, as usual, terrific
as the forlorn and feckless Sarah, pulled in so many opposite directions
at once. Her performance here makes for an interesting comparison with
her trapped debutante in Titanic—or her tragic Sue Bridehead
in Jude, who is also too smart for the world she inherits. Patrick
Wilson is equally fine as Brad the simmering Mr. Mom. Only Jennifer
Connelly, who has been so strong elsewhere, gets short shrift as Brad's
knockout wife (and, incidentally, a producer of PBS documentaries).
Her profession actually explains the Frontline conceit of the
whole film, but her role seems like the rump left over after a subplot
gets left on the editing room floor.
©2007 Nicholas Nicastro
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