By Jennifer Merin

Little Children

Directed by Todd Field

Todd Field’s Feature, Little Children, is a searing, satirical and soulful story about suburbia. Based on Tom Perrotta’s best-selling novel, the film follows Sarah (Kate Winslet), Brad (Patrick Wilson) and their respective spouses, kids and neighbors—including Ronnie (Jackie Earle Haley), an ex-con pedophile, and Larry (Noah Emmerich), an ex-cop out to oust Ronnie from the block—on unanticipated journeys of self-realization.

Field’s sensitive handling of the controversial multiplex plot, striking cinematic style and his ensemble’s brilliant performances make Little Children an extraordinary work of art.

“When I read the book, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I was affected in ways I wasn’t quite comfortable with,” says Field. “Now, I’ve spent two years making the film, I recognize it interested me because of the times we’re living in and how these characters cope with circumstance. Larry’s character fascinates me because, in a way, he represents our current administration. Given the state of our country, it’s frustrating how quickly we judge people based on first impressions, villainizing each other. I find the moments of grace between these characters enlightening.”

MERIN: What are the “moments of grace?”

FIELD: When, despite or maybe because of how you stumble, you’ve an opportunity to experience a kindness or extend one to another human being. It doesn’t mean “happy ending.” People are dubious about happy endings—for good reasons. But a moment of grace is potentially meaningful for people sitting in a dark theater together.

One thing I love about NYC is you see grace everywhere—because there’re so many people and so many interactions. I grew up in Oregon, where social routine limits opportunity for chance. NYC’s the living realization of what’s cinematic: chance, circumstance, coincidence—and grace. Magical things happen in NYC—things that only happen in movies.

Who are the “Little Children” in this movie?

Everyone. In a way, Sarah and Brad’s toddlers are the most grownup because they know exactly what they want—like all three year olds. But this is a hard time to be a young parent—bombarded with propaganda that we’re supposed to stay eternally young, have wild sex and the latest gadgets. So, what’s adulthood? It’s a tricky time. 

Why use a narrator’s voice, and who is he?

In the book, Tom’s third-person observation is so rich and funny. Why lose that? All 19th Century novelists—Tolstoy to Austen, take your pick—used third-person narrative. I didn’t hesitate: it frames the story and retains Tom’s voice.

The narrator introduces each character except Ronnie, who appears an hour and 20 minutes into the film—at the public pool—and all hell breaks loose. It’s important we see Ronnie only through other characters’ eyes: he’s been discussed; we’ve already judged him on hearsay. He represents the way people judge, forming damning opinions about someone they know nothing about. When Ronnie’s around, the narrator’s gone.  

Actors say you’ve got a clear vision of what you want, yet encourage them to freely contribute ideas. Seems contradictory. How do you create that balance?

First, you get the best actors—not just best performers, but people who’ll collaborate in a meaningful way. You must truly admire your actors, ’cause they’ll know if you don’t. You engage them as early as possible, praying they’ll bring a point of view you haven’t seen because you’re juggling the characters, not knowing one intimately, as an actor does.

Figuring how to make sequences work? Things occur to you before casting, others come in rehearsal. As quickly as possible, I get actors on location and rehearse, rehearse, rehearse. It’s clear where cameras should go, clear what the scene wants to be visually. On set, I’m not working it out with cinematographer and crew. It’s figured out with the actors—and we’re dancing together.

You were an actor but seem to have found your calling in directing. How did you make the switch?

Actually, I wanted to be a musician, playing in Broadway shows. But in college, I met a girl who did theater and followed her. I found myself doing Chekhov and Calderon. A professor told me if I wanted to act, I should go to New York. So, I did. I shared a place with my sister, worked at O’Neill’s Balloon, met fantastic, generous people who changed my life by giving me tickets to the opera and the New York Film Festival, where films by Jarmusch, Truffault and Louis Malle blew my mind. I knew I wanted to do that—and maybe one day have a film at the New York Film Festival. That was 22 years ago—having Little Children at the New York Film Festival is very exciting for me.

How does musicianship influence your filmmaking?

Well, we live in soundscapes—rhythms of daily life. My wife says I’m overly sensitive to sound—everything sounds 10 times louder to me than to anyone else. I always consider what the film’s soundscape should be and work with Edward Tise, a genius sound mixer who collects sounds with me. Little Children’s soundscape is natural, with little enhancement—even the trains. We found locations—like the football field—with trains nearby.

I don’t like recording dialog after shooting. I’ll never walk away from a scene unless dialog’s perfectly performed, perfectly recorded. Even if it’s not good visually, I want the sound—we will digitally replace words, breaths or sighs. 

Life has a soundtrack that affects us in subconscious ways. We go to movies to watch people, but sound’s an important part of the impression. The marriage of image and sound are magical—that’s what makes film exciting.