Around 3/4 of the way through Everybody’s Fine — the new dramatic comedy from Kirk Jones that functions as a remake of the Italian film Stanno tutti bene — Robert De Niro’s character Frank Goode has a conversation with a female truck driver as he hitches a ride to visit one of his grown children who have dispersed themselves across the country. The driver acknowledges that she lost her husband to alcoholism, while Goode mentions that he’s “lost” his wife as well.

Actually, Goode has lost everybody important to him. His wife has passed away, and she was the one who the children (played as adults by Drew Barrymore, Sam Rockwell, Austin Lysy and Kate Beckinsale) felt more comfortable communicating with; in her absence, he learns nothing new about his family and almost all threads have been severed. His journey to reacquaint himself with them is motivated by loss and the impending fear of death, while the two words are constantly substituted in our daily dialogue. “Losing” something can mean losing many things, great and small, and the one word throws all of our feelings of regret into a fog of ambiguity.

It struck me, as I was meditating on this concept, that these sorts of philosophical musings are most prevalent in a film which gives you the time and space to think along with the characters, which is precisely where Everybody’s Fine succeeds most brilliantly. As Frank bumbles along and observes the impact of his fatherhood upon the lives of these people, we are allowed the space to feel along with him and understand the suppressive burden of isolation and loss that come with age.

I’m positioning the film to be more pertinent and substantial than it is, which isn’t my intention — the film has no grand agenda other than making an accessible comment on its subject matter. Like cleansing your palate after tasting wine, or huffing coffee beans in a candle store, Everybody’s Fine sticks out this year as being a dramatic film that doesn’t feel the urge to bombard you with a message like this year’s Precious or even a Little Miss Sunshine. Critics will accuse Jones’ film of being emotionally coercive, which isn’t fair — it deserves every emotion it gets, simply because it’s universally relateable.

Robert De Niro lends a beating heart to Everybody’s Fine that stands toe-to-toe with any of his performances. He’s most remembered for his heightened (though miraculously always grounded) characters such as Travis Bickle or Meet the Parents‘ Jack Byrnes — here, he’s as average of an average joe as he’s ever presented himself on screen. For an actor that inherently exhibits authority (an authority that is brought into question in the film, as his children remember Goode’s method of parenting), it is no small feat to be as wounded as he is here. The lines multiplying on the actor’s face don’t betray the role: De Niro cares about this subject matter, and it shows.

He’s backed up by a superior trio that turn in good performances. Barrymore, as Goode’s (assumed) oldest daughter Rosie is the most approachable and affectionate of his offspring. The actress is an acquired taste, but she stands out in this film for being so sympathetic in a film that treats its main character so coldly. Beckinsale, who I’ve never appreciated due to the icy quality of her performances, uses that exact characteristic to her benefit here.

In watching Rockwell’s world-weary performance (the strongest of the bunch), it’s apparent that the actor is channeling some of De Niro’s mannerisms into his own approach. This tactic is interesting, and he gets away with it simply because he’s one of the best in the business. The characterization of these roles is the crux of the film — the dreams they had as children and those that were formed for them by Goode have, to various degrees, gone astray. As realistically as possible, Jones wants to show us that the direction of life isn’t simple; there was only so much Goode could have done to lead his kids in the right direction.

But the film is simple. And that works to its benefit. It is a breath of fresh air from the rest of film, and the way it dawdles is well-timed, appreciated. In the grand scheme of things, it will be overshadowed: the cinematography and script are good if unspectacular, and Frank Goode won’t be the name that pops into anyone’s head when they think of De Niro. But time is kind to grounded films with grounded performances: in many years, someone will catch Everybody’s Fine on TV and be immensely moved by it, thinking it to be an undiscovered and personal gem.

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