Tadpole

Tadpoles turn into frogs and frogs into princes. That's the way it used to be. This one turns into Oscar (Aaron Stanford), who would tell you in all seriousness that fairytales are metaphors, used for concealment and/or enlightenment, depending upon the geopolitical relevance, purporting to pond life, which represents the socio-biology of parent/child relationships, within a structured field of emotional dependence.

In other words, the kid's a prat. He's only 15, but thinks like his dad (John Ritter), a pompous self-important academic. Amongst his peers, he sticks out like a wet patch on a dusty highway. He's not interested in girls. He's interested in Voltaire and his stepmother (Sigourney Weaver).

This is a story of that blinding pain some call love - unrequited, desolate and hungry for the heartmeat. Such a subject deserves the passion of Lancelot, not panty-smart put-downs from a nerdy boy in a designer duffle.

Despite a performance of sustained intelligence from Stanford and another of subtle humour from Bebe Neuwirth, as an older woman who seduces Oscar, the film founders on its lack of empathy for the social milieu - rich New York intelligentsia - and its offspring.

The shock value of a teenager lusting after the wife of his father is cushioned by the marriage's lack of impetus, as well as Oscar's mental age of 45. Weaver's role is not that of the star in a small budget indy flick, because, being the object of infatuation, she is seen rather than heard and, as a result, remains enigmatic, quite dull and dressed.

The doorman at their apartment block greets Oscar as "Tadpole."

"They don't call me that any more," Oscar replies.

"What do they call you now?" the doorman enquires.

"Stupid."

Gary Winick's film is not that. Misconceived, maybe. Or lacking the depth it so desperately wants to reach.

A boy with brains is not a toy. He's a grown-up, still waiting for the rest of himself to catch up.