It had me at hello, did the surburban satire *Little Children,* and kept me for a long time, and then lost me in its final moments. If ever that dictum about an ending making or breaking a film were true, it’s here — I can’t remember the last time my impression of a movie was so dramatically altered by how it wrapped up.

Okay, let’s be clear: it’s the impact of this death on a range of *women* that Moncrieff is concerned with, the kind of women whose stories are also typically untold, unheard, ignored.

It’s not too often that I have to stifle a genuine urge to scream at a movie screen, but it was through gritted teeth that I sat through this trite, manipulative, excruciating nightmare of female pyschosis and idiocy presented as feminine adorableness.

Boo? Bah.