BOYS DON'T CRY

BOYS DON'T CRY

Directed by Kimberley Pierce. Starring Hilary Swank, Chloe Sevigny, Peter Saarsgaard

BORN OUT of an immeasurably sad real-life tragedy, Boys Don't Cry could easily have been betrayed in different hands. It's the true story of the short life of Teena Brandon, a Nebraskan female who perceived him/herself as male, stuffed a sock down her jeans, cropped her hair short and proceeded to live as a boy, so successfully that (s)he duped several girls into falling in love.

But such an existence is obviously laden with peril, and her life ended in brutally tragic fashion in 1993, garnering tabloid headlines all over the States. The tale was obviously destined to end up on the silver screen eventually, and it's a pleasure to report that Brandon Teena could never have dreamed of as loving and clear-eyed a memorial as Kimberley Pierce's film.

A word of warning, though: if it's laughter and merriment you're after, don't go here. 'You won't come out full of the joys of spring', warned the IFC's press officer before the screening, with uncanny accuracy. Upsetting enough to split the mind in two, Boys Don't Cry is all about fleeting microseconds of joy and love stolen from a world of harshness and brutality, and is likely to leave even the hardened viewer in need of a long lie down.

Filmed in a desolate, claustrophobic fashion reminiscent of Badlands and other journeys to the heart of the Midwestern nightmare, the film has the whiff of tragedy about it right from the off, and is somewhat akin to watching a train-wreck: you'll shield your eyes with both hands, but you can't avoid stealing the odd glance.

Few actresses have ever deserved an Oscar more than Hilary Swank, who plunges fearlessly into Brandon's doomed skin, and assumes a remarkably masculine appearance in the process. The story's centre concerns a tender but unworkable love affair between the nomadic Brandon (a fugitive just landed in Falls City, Nebraska) and the town's most notable beauty, Lana (Sevigny): Swank's storming performance almost obscures another perfectly-judged turn from the sweet Sevigny, while a host of redneck misfits provide the primary source of the film's menace.

From the off, it's a given that Brandon's secret will be rumbled, and that the consequences are unlikely to be pleasant. Brooding alcoholic ex-con hick John (Saarsgaard) is the most chilling screen presence since The Boys' David Wenham, an ill-tempered redneck timebomb who hangs over the whole movie like a black shadow.

The tension count gradually builds to an almost unbearable point, and two of the shocking closing scenes virtually redefine the term 'harrowing'. Friday-night thrillseekers and those with a low tolerance level for tragic love stories are advised to give Boys Don't Cry a wide berth. The rest of you: you know what to do.

Avoiding cheap sensationalism of any kind, this is a noble and deeply brave tribute to a troubled soul.