'Far From Heaven' gently pulls back the bland masks of the '50s

To even vaguely appreciate Todd Haynes' "Far From Heaven," it's vital to know that it's a conscious recreation of the filmmaking style of Douglas Sirk: the Danish emigré and Hollywood director of such splashy 1950s melodramas as "Magnificent Obsession," "Imitation of Life" and "Written on the Wind."

MOVIE REVIEW

FAR FROM HEAVEN

DIRECTOR: Todd Haynes

CAST: Julianne Moore, Dennis Quaid, Dennis Haysbert

RUNNING TIME: 107 minutes

RATING: PG-13 for sexual content

WHERE: Seven Gables

GRADE: B-

Critically dismissed in his own time, Sirk is now very much a posthumous icon and, in film circles, the word "Sirkian" connotes a distinct kind of lush, even slightly overblown, "woman's picture" that masks a swirling sea of hidden sexual undertones.

It's a style that's very easy to parody, and to his credit, Haynes ("Safe," "Velvet Goldmine") avoids the impulse: He re-creates that lost movie world with a straight face, while opening it up to show some of those sexual conflicts at which Sirk could only hint.

Like most tributes to great film styles, this one ultimately comes off as a rather pale imitation of its model, and one in which the emotion of the story never comes through with much impact. But it's a daring failure that should delight many devotees of Classic Hollywood.

The story is about Cathy (Julianne Moore) and Frank (Dennis Quaid) Whitaker, an upper-middle-class couple who, with their immaculate home and two swell kids, seem to embody the good life and button-down values of suburban Hartford, Conn., in 1957.

But beneath that perfect exterior, all is not well. Frank drinks too much and he's not a bit happy, mostly because -- like Sirk's favorite star, Rock Hudson, in his own real life -- he's very gay and, though he's fighting it, slowly emerging from his closet.

And as Cathy recovers from the shock of discovering her husband locking lips with another man, she finds herself emotionally attracted to their noble, understanding and sexually non-threatening Sidney Poitier of a black gardener (Dennis Haysbert).

It is, then, the saga of the destruction (or perhaps liberation) of a '50s family by an early intrusion of the '60s. And, as such, it's an old story, pioneered by a legion of earlier surreal debunkings of the Eisenhower era -- to the point of cliché.

But the film's production values -- extravagant compositions, poetic landscapes and an irresistibly gushy Elmer Bernstein score -- makes for an enjoyably bittersweet journey back to an extinct film sensibility.

As a filmmaker, Hayes has an eye for originality, and his film is also filled with the kind of satisfying little touches that make a scene seem to be happening for the first time, and play an indelible part in creating a larger, credible, self-contained world.

And both lead performances are Oscar-size. Quaid is utterly fearless as the tortured husband living a painful lie, and Moore wonderfully underplays the long-suffering heroine with an unflappable '50s dignity somewhere between Jane Wyman and June Cleaver.