'Raining Stone' (NR)

In "Raining Stones," British director Kenneth Loach offers a description of his homeland so unremittingly bleak that the landscape itself appears to have given up hope.

The same social circumstances apply in this drably brilliant movie as they did in Loach's last film, "Riff-Raff": There's no work and little hope of any and barely enough money from the dole for the lucky ones to pay the rent. In "Riff-Raff," though, Loach's approach was overtly comic; in "Raining Stones," he plays it straight, following his characters from cramped flat to pub as if he were tracing the slow, plunging flight of a wounded bird.

Except that these poor souls have never even gotten off the ground. The central figure is a quick-tempered redhead named Bob (Bruce Jones), who despite every effort to the contrary -- including a brief, bungled attempt at pilfering sheep -- can't seem to catch a break. Not 10 minutes into the story, his van is stolen. And later, he can't make it through the first night of his gig as a bouncer without getting bounced himself and beaten up for good measure.

Remarkably, this grind of daily disappointments hasn't completely worn down Bob's spirit. Though Jim Allen's astoundingly authentic script emphasizes Bob's Catholicism as a source of inspiration for Bob and wife Anne (Julie Brown), their faith is also a source of problems.

The immediate difficulty is caused by the need to buy a dress for the first Holy Communion of their young daughter Coleen (Gemma Phoenix). While the film's first half is virtually plotless, the second half is driven almost completely by Bob's futile efforts to come up with the cash.

Loach's vision of England's working-class poor is resolutely small, and there's not a trace of the literary in his approach. Even in the scene where Bob -- out to earn some extra money by cleaning septic drains -- is roped into doing the job for the local church and, for his pains, is left both without pay and covered with excrement, Loach avoids turning Bob into a symbolic figure, choosing instead to stick with what is observable and commonplace.

This may be the most impressive aspect of Loach's talent. His style is so low-key as to seem almost styleless. Yet, still, there is evidence of a subtle, designing hand.

"Raining Stones" doesn't follow the standard rules of storytelling or rise to any great resolution. A dedicated realist, Loach examines the lives of his characters with the meticulousness of a documentarian, and the results are so unforced that they almost look as if they had been happened upon -- found, rather than staged. Still, even near the end, when the film metamorphoses into a thriller, it continues to unfold according to its own logic.

The actors, too, play their parts without ever coming across like actors. And though everyone in the cast is superb -- the women are particularly remarkable -- it feels forced and artificial to judge their work in terms of performance or effect.

This sense of natural urgency is what allows the movie to engage us despite the desolation of its subject. The picture doesn't break new ground -- this sort of kitchen-sink realism has been a British specialty since the '50s. Yet Loach creates a story that is so gripping and sadly true to life that the need to stretch the genre or transcend it seems beside the point.

Raining Stone is unrated.