An uncomfortable blend of sentimentality and viciousness, not to mention the sort of beam me up memoir writing which effortlessly reconstructs, word for word, lengthy conversations from early childhood, sours what could have been a powerful and moving tale of the blighted lives of four kids from the wrong side of New York's mean streets. Lorenzo Carcaterra puts a semi fictional spin on his story of systematic abuse at reform school and the victims' subsequent quest for revenge, so that instead of reading like a genuine tragedy it reads like a script for a rather unremarkable movie. Which, if our film critic is to be believed, is exactly what it is. And guess who won't be queueing up for a ticket?