Though on the surface, Frank and April Wheeler (Leonardo DeCaprio, Kate Winslet) are the perfect burbs couple - with the usual two children; a dream of a home on the newly developed, comfortably treed, suburban Revolutionary Road; and promise of great things at the office, - and, indeed, they present the image of the ideal Eisenhower era upward mobile family. Then why do they philander on the side, chain smoke, drink excessive quantities of martinis and alternate calmer moments with bicker, bicker, bicker? For two hours we wonder with awe as they dig themselves ever deeper into a tragic existence.

Truth is, they don't realize why, either. If opposites are supposed to attract, they should be ideally suited. He fits in well with the Stepford Wives burb atmosphere and with the securely comfortable sameness of his work; she seeks action and adventure. He needs to talk; she, to think. For gratification, he's controlled by his libido; she, by her desire to be free of conventions.

Hemmed in by friends of similar nature - all woodenly clinging to their suburban dream of the promised 1950s. It's "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf" one moment and "American Beauty" the next. (The latter film was also directed by Sam Mendes, who has a real understanding of the inner workings of suburban people living lies in intimate situations.) Observing their little climaxes and epiphanies may be sad, but never boring.

Adapted faithfully by Justin Haythe, the original 1961 novel by Richard Yates also illustrates the button-down generation; in a single introductory scene it is penciled in for us: she, at home in broomstick skirt, blouse and high heels, managing all the womanly household things; he, commuting among dozens of other briefcased men in fedoras and grey flannel suits, pouring out of the trains and down into Grand Central Station like a cascade of look-alikes. Chilling effect - an emotional sameness that probably touches them all in their intimate lives as well as at work.

At one point, there comes the naked fact that, "No one wants the truth; they just get better at lying."

The movie is rich in nuances - home details, décor, swing dancing under changing colored spotlights at a local hangout, people on the edge of hidden tensions almost too raw to witness, frequent verrrrry slow camera movements zooming in or out (not just for show, but to underline issues), Thomas Newman's gentle tinkly music of the period - it's the kind of movie with bravura direction and acting that holds us, profoundly shaken, right to the final credits. Ironically, it is the finest film for the weekend, while it goes nearly vacant at each performance. Figures?