December 27, 2002 | Can a movie be profoundly distressing and exquisitely affecting at the same time? In the case of The Hours, a quietly and methodically devastating masterwork, the answer must be resoundingly affirmative.

Indeed, I find myself unreasonably, almost indescribably fond of The Hours, a movie that chilled me and exhilarated me all at once, that forced me to contemplate the terrors and drudgeries we must endure when we decide to keep living, and the anger and envy we might inspire (along with the exultant triumph we might savor) if we decide not to. Quite often, I scribble notes to myself during screenings, to record choice bits of dialogue worthy of repeating in reviews. But I'm afraid I won't be able to repeat any dialogue from this movie, because I forgot all about the pen in my pocket and the notebook on my lap while watching The Hours. And, trust me, this doesn't happen very often.

If I seem, even more than usual, eager to describe deeply personal responses, please take it as fair warning: This definitely is a case of love it or hate it. Or, to put it another way, you're either on this movie's wavelength, or you're not.

Adapted from Michael Cunningham's Pulitzer Prize-winning novel by playwright-screenwriter David Hare, The Hours glides gracefully back and forth among three contrapuntal stories that unfold on single days in three different decades.

In the early 1920s, Virginia Woolf (Nicole Kidman) grapples with suicidal depression as she begins to write Mrs. Dalloway, her first great novel. She knows the work would be easier for her while she coped with the "violent jolt" of everyday London. But Leonard (Stephen Dillane), her husband, acting on advice from his wife's doctors, has transported the deeply troubled Virginia to the tranquil boredom of a secluded suburb, hoping the peace and quiet will be soothing for her.

At the end of World War II, in suburban Los Angeles, Laura Brown (Julianne Moore) feels she is every bit as trapped and isolated as Virginia Woolf while she goes through the motions of being a dutiful wife and mother. She must prepare a birthday celebration for her loving husband (John C. Reilly), and care for her anxious young son (Jack Rovello). But Laura much rather would check in to a hotel room, finish reading Mrs. Dalloway, and then take a fatal overdose of sleeping pills.

In contemporary New York, book editor Clarissa Vaughan (Meryl Streep) comes off as a modern-day Mrs. Dalloway, driving herself through the day's chores with a chipper determination fueled entirely by sheer strength of will. With a little help from her long-time lover (Allison Janney) and grown daughter (Claire Danes), she prepares a dinner party to celebrate Richard (Ed Harris), a brilliant poet who is dying of AIDS. Clarissa - long ago nicknamed "Mrs. Dalloway" by Richard, her ex-lover - wants to help keep Richard alive. Richard wonders why she, or even he, should bother.

Under the seamless, sensitive direction of Stephen Daldry, The Hours ticks along at a measured pace, propelled by the ineffably portentous musical score of Philip Glass. But if that makes the movie sound dull, then I do it a grave disservice. The pacing is intelligently nimble as the characters progress toward what we're made to feel are inevitabilities. There are adagios in which we have sufficient time to contemplate the meanings of actions. But these serve as apt counterpoint to intense, emotionally charged sequences that reveal, all at once, pent-up desires, long-standing grievances and terribly logical quietuses.

The lead players are flawless: Streep is heart-wrenchingly excellent, Moore is hauntingly precise - and Kidman is so flat-out perfect, you stop paying attention to her much-publicized prosthetic nose a minute or two after her first appearance. In addition to Harris, who is fearlessly persuasive, and Dillane, who impressively conveys unconditional love and uncomprehending rage, the stand-out supporting players include Jeff Daniels, who brings a touch of Harvey Fierstein to his portrayal of Richard's feckless ex-lover, and Toni Collette, whose one-scene appearance as Laura's next-door neighbor is the cinematic equivalent of a show-stopper.

In the end, The Hours nudges us, gently but firmly, toward facing a truth both elemental and unsettling: Some people are simply unknowable. We may think we know them and what's best for them - the same way Virginia Woolf's husband, and even Meryl Streep's Clarissa, might presume to possess such knowledge -- but, ultimately, they know the true color of darkness, and we don't. Which, I might add, probably is a very good thing for us.

A footnote: Some critics whose opinions I usually respect have chided The Hours for having a "gay agenda" - their term, not mine -- and for making too many metaphorical references to the anguish of remaining inside the closet. All of which leads me to respond thusly: "Huh? Say what?" Mind you, even though I'm a hopelessly heterosexual cineaste, I wouldn't be quite so quick to dismiss any film that truly did deserve such a narrow interpretation. (Besides, what the hell is wrong with a "gay agenda," anyway?) But I insist on seeing The Hours as something more universal in its intent, and much, much less specific in its unflinching insights.