It's hard not to fall in love with Andrew Garfield's big brown eyes, eager face, and sincere stammer. Garfield, who has recently graduated to film from a short career in British television, fills Boy A with quiet torment: the desire to ascend, to do right, while struggling against a nihilistic self-loathing.

His character, who renames himself Jack Burridge, basically grew up in the British prison system after being party to a horrible, horrible crime as a young boy. Referred to as "Boy A" in the press, Jack has been paroled. The national news teems with death threats against "Boy A" and reporters hungry to out him. He spends the film trying to leave his old self behind and build a new identity with the help of his caseworker (the great Scottish actor Peter Mullan), who has the tough, hangdog air of an aging boxer. The suspense telescopes into the future and the past, as we learn what Jack's crime was and whether he'll be able to live a normal life: to keep a job, make friends, and maintain his anonymity.

Boy A has an exquisitely melancholy mood, a dark brooding and a bruised sweetness. If it sounds like a drag, that's because it is—but it's a pleasant, aching drag. "They're so fucking delicate, people," says one of Jack's new friends, after the pair rescues a little girl from a fatal car crash that killed her mother. He's talking about himself, but he doesn't know it yet—his own delicacy will trump his loyalty as Jack's tragedy unfolds. Unfortunately, the last five minutes of the film almost undo the preceding 95, as the conclusion of Jack's slow-motion tragedy teeters into mawkishness. But with a light application of selective memory, Boy A is excellent.