It's 1977 and Chris is a 30ish bloke who still has the eager, wistful face of an angelic adolescent, enjoys a placid existence in the London suburbs, taking comforting in his wife, his baby, and his garden. Yet he's a haunted man. Spurred by the arrival of Toni, his rakish counterculture chum, he is tormented by visions of what might have been - the enticing word of sexual possibility he left behind, embodied in memories of his blissed out love affair with a sultry secretary during his bohemian Paris days in the late '60s. As the film glides back and forth between eras, the churning of Chris' heart comes to the force with with disarming intimacy. We feel as if we're seeing the formation of an individual: his all too brief fling with hedonism, the sadness and hidden wisdom of a path that seems to have choosen him rather than the other way around. "Metroland" is a no-fuss movie that casts a rich, tranquil spell. It's a rare portrait of a happy marriage that is honest about the complex currents of desire, and the drama is beautifully played by Bale who gawks with soulful sweetness, and Emily Watson does her most piercing work since "Breaking the waves."
