"I don't feel so good....Bleccch!!!" All over the morning newspaper, did little Johnny Grasso vomit. No school for Sonny Boy's sick friend. Trip to the hospital. Nosy police. Anti-pervert sentiments graffiti'd on unassuming suburban house. Sonny Boy asks Pervert Dad, "How was it?" Dad, through tears: "Great."

Movie ends. Non-moviegoing friend meets Happiness-viewer outside of theatre. "How was it?" "Great." Assertion of greatness uttered in same hush of embarrassment.

Greatness confirmed by reviewer, who provides meager entrée into Chekhovian world of distress.

Lara Flynn Boyle as Jersey-bred, reluctant shock-poetess: "Raped At 11," "Raped At 12." Only character in movie who does not participate in sexual activity. Never raped. Feels empty. Wants danger. Stalks stalker.

Jane Adams as overly trusting, meek, sad singer-songwiter. Hooks up with swarthy Russian ESL student. Has time of her life. Loses stereo and guitar to student's thievery. Reluctant shock-poetess and meek, sad sucker are sisters.

There's a third sister (played by Cynthia Stevenson), the matriarch of the average-or-isn't-it family: the youngest son plays w/ mashed potatoes and hates school; the eldest, eleven, is learning how to pull the pork. Eldest son confides in Pervert Dad: "Everyone at school has come." Dad: "You will, son. Keep trying." Matriarch, unsuspecting, lets sisters envy her for HAVING IT ALL.

Stalked stalker, as pre-stalkee, is wet-palmed, yellow-undershirted bachelor/neighbor. Computer guy, obviously. Works the cubicle circuit. On office phone making "what kind of underwear do you have on" calls while colleague tries to engage him in sports discussion. When stalking-as-avocation fails, the formerly stalked former stalker befriends rape victim who hates sex. Of course, everyone in the movie hates sex, just as an alcoholic is spiteful of the scotch in his cabinet.

Happiness gets behind (no pun intended) the lives of people who have just enough pride and intelligence to keep it off Springer. Todd Solondz, since his first two features, Fear, Anxiety and Depression and Welcome To The Dollhouse, has given his actors a wealth of meaty silence. Whereas Hal Hartley's awkward non-sequiturs come across as a screenwriter's devices to infuse the characters with some sort of surface depth (or as they say in the rock journalism field, quirkiness), Solondz's knack for glossolalia has a very real deer-in-headlights feel. It's about inappropriate vocabulary breaking through the will to be silent, and speech never coming when the words in one's head are zipping by at a supersonic pace. This lack of sure footing can be heard in the nervous little voice of Sonny Boy's friend Johnny, hesitant to accept the oft-repeated offer of a (drugged) late-night snack, but compassionate enough at that wee hour to give in and say, "Dr. Maplewood, can I have a tuna sandwich?"

Happiness is contentment, or the illusion thereof. When the workday ends, the face of duty and resolve must come off to reveal to loved ones an emotion on which they can rely and expect, be it Ward Cleaver jauntiness or Willy Loman bitterness. The pain comes out at the head shrinker's, and then goes back inside, building itself up in a wad, if you'll allow the phrase.

Happiness is delighting in small things, like Pervert Dad having a minute alone with his teen-hunk magazine before the family in the next car returns with their groceries. It's the calm that precludes the tsunami, like not having enough small things over which to delight, and misdirecting the guarded disappointment into rage. How about twisting the neck of the too-courteous doorman, as the formerly stalked former stalker's new female friend does? How about violently kicking and screaming as a desperate ploy to avoid the school bus, as the youngest son does?

Solondz recognizes the impact even the slightest of dysfunctions in the family crux can have on the children. He also gets the compulsion and self-loathing of one who is unable to stop. Why do it? It feels good. If you stop, it won't feel good. You can admit the sickness, as Pervert Dad does, but when you're the doctor, you have to pen your own prescription, and that often means raping the neighborhood boy whose parents are away, no matter how much it hurts.

The eldest son: "Would you ever fuck me?" Dad: "No. I'd jerk off." Tears for both parties involved.

Ten minutes later, the punchline comes. The family members drop their forks, their faces flushed. Credits roll. Audience is too spooked to double-take.

The nausea level is high. The theatre is devoid of its usual post-show chatter. People line up for the bathroom with their heads down; the women adjust their miniskirts so no one will see. Showers seem necessary. Dessert is out of the question. Short walk to the subway. Long, disquieting night ahead.