A daffy, dreamy, drunken distortion of family relationships; a hot mess whose weirdo clash of tones and feelings, whose loopy verbal mazes and iceberg-tip conflicts, cuts a bigger piece of the truth than conventional realism (or traditional comedy) could suss out of the same subject. Like a funnier Cassavetes, a gentile Noah Baumbach, a looser John Sayles, a less operatic Margaret... if you're not sold yet, I'll never sell you. That this isn't widely recognized as one of the absolute great movies, or even as a particularly noteworthy one, is all the more reason to (re)discover it. My final word: not even the all-consuming boringness of Dylan McDermott, who shows up in an important-ish role, can sully the beauty of W.D. Richter's script or Jodie Foster's(!) fearless stewardship.