A film that feels almost a physical object in its beautiful, rough-edged handmade craftsmanship, splicing together colour and black and white footage, complete with wipes, veering from blurry hand-held closeups to wide shots with an almost relentless dynamism that miraculously never loses narrative clarity.
There's not much else like it, except possibly some artist's film, but maybe it sits somewhere between the minimalism of early Jarmusch (who is thanked in the credits) and the inventive lushness of Schnabel's The Diving Bell and the Butterfly. The latter, being Schnabel, is just a little overcooked. Rockwell, like the third bear in Goldilocks, gets it pretty much just right.
The story is equally perfect - a sort of neo-Dickensian odyssey of waifish strays in desperate search of a safe berth in the ever-unpredictable homes of adults who can be everything from monstrous abusers to fonts of loving kindness.
Absolutely everyone in it plays their parts superbly and the soundtrack is the best mix tape ever.
How is it that a great and touching work of art like this has zero chance of getting Oscar recognition while deeply flawed efforts by better known directors make the roster? It ain't right, damnit.
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