Little Children: A-

In Todd Field's lusciously mature new film Little Children, not everyone acts their age. Set in the shady sprawl of Suburbia, Little Children takes its name from the pint-sized co-stars that are the focus of every major plot line in the movie, true, but it also enjoys a sort of perverse voyeurism from watching these childrens' parents - and the way they all collapse. Based on a novel by Tom Perrotta, who also helped write the screenplay with Field, and starkly photographed by Antonia Calvache this is a richly satisyfing piece of art; seemingly created with a dispassionate documentarian's eye that ensnares in its gaze numerous moments of quiet heartache and sharp satire.

Sarah Pierce (Kate Winslet) doesn't know how her life ended up the way it is now. She doesn't seem to remember marrying her once-divorced husband Richard (Gregg Edelman) and then having a daughter named Lucy (Sadie Goldstein). Now she spends her days haunting playgrounds trying to convince herself that she hasn't actually succumbed to the likes of other suburban zomibe women. It isn't working. That is, until she meets Brad (Patrick Wilson) and on a bet kisses him. From then on, their desires ignited, they spend precious weeks crafting a life for themselves amongst their respective shells they once called lives. But, just as we all know - and thanks to a magnificent touch involving trains - there is pressure building in the background and it is prepping to explode.

The film itself is a long one, nearly 140 minutes, and it packs in as many devious sub-plots (martyred pedophile anyone?) as it knows we are willing to take. But it also pays considerate, trenchant attention to the main act: the intertwining of Brad and Sarah. Their affections pay out with pained grandeur (it is a nice touch watching Brad's wife Kathy, played by Jennifer Connelly, working her way through her husband's new passion) but the film neither condescends to their love, villifying it, or exaggerates it, vindicating its torpid nature. Todd Field instead finds a decidedly adult middle road: a collective partaking of Perrotta's wit and his own ability as a painterly filmmaker, creating his stories with beautiful, morose strokes.

The movie's true brilliant achievement lies in its overarching metaphor, one that even manages to overcomes the film's occasional inconsistencies: that these studiously grown-up individuals are every bit as whiny, needy, simple and immediately magnetic as any four-year old. Playing their parts for all they are worth, mining emotions otherwise lacking from somewhat underdeveloped characters, Wilson and Winslet are sensational as narrow-minded lovers discovering for the first time true passion. It is no coincidence that Sarah discusses Madame Bovary at one point with a neighborhood book club. As for those touches of satire? They're to prove that though we are part of the joke, we are also in on it. By the end though you'll be completely hooked and there's no reason not to be. Todd Field has made a poignant statement of hypnotic voice and power: everyone is a child, just fumbling through the dark.