A murder mystery for only part of the way, after which it applies itself to outlying areas of moral curiosity and courage, and demonstrates thereby that emotional complexity is a satisfying substitute for the idle tricksiness and foggingness we are more accustomed to in the crime field. It puts us, at the outset, snugly in the shoes of the parents of a teenage boy suspected of bludgeoning to death his back-alley girlfriend, and compels us to consider what we would do if we found, ahead of the police, a bloody glove, among other incriminating items, in the trunk of the family car. From that point on, the movie proceeds deliberately and deliberatingly; involvingly; convincingly -- if not always in perfect concord with your own inner voice. Barbet Schroeder directs with a level head and an even hand; and his regular cameraman, Luciano Tovoli, decorates the family home (though not the coldly institutional settings of courthouse and jailhouse) with his distinctive delicate shadows and gentle light. Meryl Streep makes a completely believable bewildered parent, and a fine fool of herself in an awkward run-in with the mother (a clenched Ann Magnuson) of the dead girl. Less completely believable, closer even to completely unbelievable, is Liam Neeson, handicapped in part by the exotic accent, in part by the "glamour" profession of Successful Artist, and in largest part by the greedy neediness of that yearning-burning gaze of his. Edward Furlong tilts the scales back toward the believable as the sullen silent teen, albeit a somewhat puny one to have issued from these strapping adults. And Alfred Molina, enlivening the movie with each fleeting appearance, is believable, too, as the Greek-American attorney whose loyalty lies strictly with his client, and none to spare for those paying his bills or for something known to the lay person as The Truth. "I'm gonna defend your son even if you don't," he rips into the scruple-burdened mother. "When I'm done with you, you're gonna look like Medea!" (1996) — Duncan Shepherd