Screenhead

When I read The Awakening by Kate Chopin in college, fellow women in my class responded not with applause, but anger. In the world of the post-feminist movement, I was surprised. They were furious with the heroine for embarking on an affair, not putting her children first, for not just “being happy enough” with her huge house, for not, in a nutshell, accepting her lot in life.

A similar scene occurs in Todd Field’s latest film Little Children when Kate Winslet’s character Sarah Pierce, knee deep in an affair, goes to a book group to talk about Madame Bovary and defends the need to keep wanting despite social constraints (like, say, a husband and a daughter).

It is this sentiment of intolerance toward the status quo which permeates every frame of Little Children. Based on the critically-acclaimed novel by Tom Perrotta, the film is very much about what defines happy, when we should give up, and the difference between right, wrong and the grey areas in between.

Like The Awakening which shone a brilliant light on the social conventions which yoked women in the 19th century, so too does Perrotta’s screenplay with his characters both male and female.

The film pulls no punches with its omniscient narrator voice from the first scene at the playground of Sarah Pierce (Kate Winslet) with her daughter. The tone of the film is a social skewering of white collar suburbia, the icy housewives who inhabit the playgrounds of America, upholding all their values with an armor of twin-sets, pearls and marginal unhappiness. These women go atwitter when the man they dub “the Prom King” – stay-at-home dad Brad Adamson, played with perfect “Oh, I’m just your average perfect looking man,” demeanor by Patrick Wilson – makes an appearance at the playground.

Like a nature show, we are pulled in as we watch the characters pull each other apart. The film is mostly centered on Sarah – played with subtlety and passion by Winslet – a housewife fighting against the norm at every turn, either by not bringing snacks to the playground for her daughter, or by making snide remarks to the other mommies. But it’s clear when she spontaneously kisses Brad that she’sheading into uncharted territory. The first quarter of the film suffers from the weight of the dark material, often taking too much glee in pointing out the hypocrisy of white suburbia. From the internet porn romps of Sarah’s husband to the somewhat unintentional emasculation enacted by Brad’s perfect wife Kathy (Jennifer Connelly) on her husband. No one is safe, except the outsiders. Like Happiness crossed with American Beauty, Field’s film is not for the faint of heart.

It’s gut-wrenching on many different levels. The steamy affair Brad and Sarah embark on (get ready for lots of nude Winslet), the foreboding presence of a pedophile in the neighborhood, the disgruntled former cop with a tragic past trying to redeem himself, the characters are all placed for destruction. It is the true despair of those on the outside, not just Sarah and Brad’s quick dance with danger, that give this film its weight in tragedy and humanity.

Jackie Earle Haley’s performance as convicted pedophile Ronald James McGorvey (seems that all pedophiles must have three names) has Oscar written all over it. His character is so human, both terrible and fragile, that even as you are disgusted by his actions you only hope for the best for his situation. Haley’s face tells conflicting stories as he tries to please his mother and control himself. His protective, weary, yet hopeful mother played with dignity by Phyllis Somerville is perhaps the most tragic figure as all of the pent up frustrations and anger of the community come crashing down on her doorstep.

The cinematography also tells its own story, with the soft light of the forbidden sex scenes and the sunlit paradise-like shots of the public pool where Sarah and Brad hide behind the thin disguise of taking their children swimming. The characters navigate through all that is cloistered, from the claustrophobic clock and figurine filled-house of Ronald’s mother to Sarah’s perfect white colonial home with immaculate rooms.

There’s rampant dark humor as well, much of it from the deadpan narrator — such as the over-the-top football games played by “star” quarterback Brad and a team of local cops, and Brad’s silly daydreams of freedom while watching teenage skateboarders. One brilliant scene sees Ronald decide to go to the public swimming pool (after his face has been plastered on signs all over the city). Slowly, the crowd recognizes him, and children and parents run screaming from the pool, until this lone figure swims under the waters surface, defiant and alone in his snorkel and flippers.

Watching Little Children is like peeling an onion, a layer of every character being revealed in each scene. Clichéd characters slowly become poignant truths, as the fine line between judgment and being judged is blurred. Storytelling on the screen is rarely this fearless without damning someone, but Field finds the humanity in everyone and so should be applauded for having the courage to capture the stories we would rather avoid.

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