The film, though, almost falls apart with her. The death of the child explodes into unfounded accusations of malice, and Alice finds herself in women's prison, which--as in The Green Mile and every other sincere film since the dawn of cinema--is overflowing with people who just need to be loved. Elliot and his screenwriters, Peter Hedges and Polly Platt, magnanimously want to award dignity to everybody, but end up lionizing Alice in the process despite themselves. ChloË Sevigny, as Alice's sullen, vindictive accuser, is left stranded in one dimension. It's an awful long slog until Elliot can bring the film back around on itself, and claim that Alice has only just recognized the larger meaning of community.
Julianne Moore, as Alice's faithful, devastated friend, turns in another performance of such wrecked grace that it's time she's granted sainthood. Along with Weaver's career-high turn, her tormented luminosity suggests the broader, more difficult film that Map is so nobly trying to be.