What a warm, cheerful film Finding Neverland -- like a cup of tea on a winter's day -- and what a surprise it is coming from director Marc Forster, whose previous two films, Everything Put Together and Monster's Ball explored such radical depths of human desperation. This new film, which recounts the origin of Peter Pan, is appropriate for the whole family. This may come as a bit of a disappointment to fans of more serious cinema, and I admit was taken aback by the mildness of the material. This is a film designed to make you shed a few tears and then leave the theater smiling broadly; there's room for a little sadness, but not darkness.

Forster and screenwriter David Magee certainly could have taken a darker route; in telling the story of playwrite J.M. Barrie, they certainly must have considered the rumors that still circulate about how his consideration for young children might have bordered on the inappropriate. These rumors are given only a few moments' acknowledgement in Finding Neverland, although being a grown friend to children is shown to be tricky business, particularly when one eschews one's own wife to spend time wth a lot of boys -- but as many spouses before and after Mary Barrie certainly learned, being married to a creative genius is never easy.

Johnny Depp plays that creative genius, and in the opening scenes when his latest adult oriented play flops and he has to answer to his financier (a droll cameo by Dustin Hoffman), I was reminded of his performance in Ed Wood, and his immortal claim that "my next film will be better!" Depp's Barrie is very much like Wood, actually, with the main difference being that Barries was actually very talented; his next play was better.

Barrie wrote Peter Pan for -- and, to some extent, about -- the three sons of a put-upon widow named Sylvia Llewyn Davies (Kate Winslet), one of whom was of course named Peter. He meets them one day in a park and finds in their innocence and exuberance all the inspiration that is devoid in the stifling social parties his wife Mary (Rhada Mitchell) wishes he'd attend with her. In Peter, especially, whose wide eyes express a sadness that he's far too young for, he sees a reflection of himself, a creative soul adrift in a world with no imagination. Peter is played by an utterly winning young lad named Freddie Highmore, and his scenes with Depp are the best in the film.

The play is written between scenes of domestic strife between and beautifully realized excursions into the world of make believe. Little figments of inspiration occupy the corners of the screen in the form of clocks and alligators, and Peter's games with the boys involve wild Indians and pirates and flights of fancy involving flight itself. Mary Barrie, meanwhile, suspects her husband of dalliances with Sylvia, and Sylvia's wealthy mother (Julie Christie) assumes likewise; Barrie seems to scarcely comprehend these accusations, but then he's operating on a completely different plane.

These are lovely themes that the movie deals with. Constant readers will surely know of my affinity for Peter Pan and all that it represents, and I was pleased to see the story celebrated and not condemned. But -- and of course there is a but -- I was also rather unimpressed; the film moved me, to be sure, but it never surprised me; it was very much about creating art, and yet too little artistry seemed present in it. From Marc Forster I sensed endless confidence and occasional joy, but too little passion; to be blunt, this film fits all too perfectly in the tailor-made-for-Oscar-season category, and that's something that always seems to hamper great directors. Particularly when they're working for Miramax (just look at Lasse Hallstrom).

After confessing my problems with a film like this, I always feel the need to backtrack and offer assurances that it's still worth seeing, and indeed there are many wonderful things about it; the performances, for example, are truly outstanding all around. But then mentioning the performances reminds me of poor Julie Christie's utterly thankless role, which exists merely to provide conflict and a terribly cheap bit of satisfaction at the end; in keeping with the Miramax-Oscar theme, this could have been the Judi Dench role. And somehow that leads me to the score, so technically perfect, so pervasive in every scene, so consistent in making sure we feel what we need to feel for the movie to work -- in advance, just for safety. At a certain point, I wondered if this might actually be a brilliant film buried beneath a layer of oppressive music.

Enough of that, though. You know by now what type of movie this is, and any disappointment that the film is not a masterpiece does not alter the fact that it's still a decent enough film, and that it will most likely succeed where it counts: audiences and Oscar voters alike will love this, will find their dispostions lifted by it, will most likely be enchanted, particularly the young and young at heart and those like me who feel their heartbeat surge every time they hear the phrase "I do believe in fairies." If that scene doesn't work for you, then there is another that you might sympathize with. There comes the inevitable moment where Mary reads Peter Pan for the first time, and comes to Barrie and wonders, sadly and enviously, what it's like to go to Neverland; she knows that she's far too grown up to ever experience it herself.