mechanical film school exercise

Though well-acted, Troche's third film, an adaptation of short stories, is a minor addition of a fractured, ensemble narrative to the overly populated genre of suburban malaise and anomie in the wake of the success of Mendes' Oscar-winner American Beauty

Simply put, there's too much going on, and too many fragile, damaged characters to fret appropriately over.

It's a movie located in an interesting place, but without quite enough self-confidence really to inhabit it.

The sheer number and variety of miseries on view suggest a kind of wallowing.

The effectiveness of The Safety of Objects and all such 'burb-angst weepies comes down to how far viewers will go toward feeling empathetic, or even sympathetic, rather than resentful toward such self-absorbed and self-loathing characters.

One compelling story intertwined gracelessly with countless others ranging from mediocre to unspeakably idiotic.

Great for dissecting the American dream, but for pure movie entertainment, look somewhere else

In boldly departing from the safety of a strong, unifying plot, Troche makes virtual objects of her characters by showing us plenty that intrigues and not enough that enlightens.

Troche ... seems to be tuned into Homes' writing, but without really knowing how to translate it to a cinematic narrative.

The film skips back and forth between several short stories (originally written by A.M. Homes) that are more driven by atmosphere than plot. Yet Troche somehow fails to give them much of either.

Happiness is a Magnolia Ice Storm of American Beauty.

It pretends to be a meaningful slice of Americana, but only succeeds in serving masses of tedium while driving its heavy foot down its own throat.

I had a hard time keeping track of the members of each family from one jagged scene to the next, especially since no one says or does anything particularly interesting.

The episodes seem strained, the characters sketchy and underdeveloped, and the connections among them contrived.

While some plot threads may have looked less silly on the page than they do on the screen. The decent cast sleepwalks through the tangled stories and Troche's monotonous pacing without making much of an impression.

Its failed bid for originality takes the form of an unreasonably high quirkiness quotient.

Enough to give any audience near-terminal suburban angst exhaustion.

Troche has bitten off quite a bit here, and it's too much for her to chew properly.

A noble attempt that doesn't hang together.