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In a suburban town full of perfect parents devoted to rearing their children for Harvard futures, a stay-at-home mom has an affair with an ex-jock, stay-at-home dad who rebels against his wife's wishes that he become a big-bucks lawyer.
Little Children takes a penetrating look at suburbia and its flawed individuals with an unflinching yet humane eye.
Little Children is disturbing and smart and the best satire of modern American suburbia since American Beauty.
As in Field's first film, the characters are drawn with such compassion their follies become our own and their desires seem as vast as the night sky.
Playing up her sturdiness, her furry dark brows and the wiry unruliness of her old-gold hair, Winslet is the best Emma Bovary I've seen-even if she's named Sarah, not Emma.
Well-acted and meticulously crafted, Little Children can feel less like a full-blooded representation of life than a disquieting literary exercise.
Little Children includes all the clichéd scenarios of a midday TV sudser, but they're ratcheted up several seedy degrees.
More than just another dissection of suburban sexual frustration, its concern with children, parents and those of us who lie somewhere in-between make Little Children a minor masterpiece.
I didn't like any of these characters, but I kept pulling for them anyway -- right up to the shock-o-riffic ending, when I felt I'd been sucker-punched.
A beautifully observed, profoundly moving tale of suburban malaise.
It's not necessarily a cautionary tale, but more a look within a surface utopia that doesn't really exist.
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