The Kids Grow Up

You are not Doug Block, of course. Except to the extent - measured by the depth of your absorption in this remarkable film - that you are.

The absorbingly bittersweet result ranks as one of the best non-fiction films of the year.

Block wears his neuroses so guilelessly on his sleeve and organizes his material with such skill, that what might have been insufferable navel-gazing attains poignancy.

The second in a proposed self-reflective doc trilogy, director Doug Block's embarrassingly honest follow-up to "51 Birch Street" (2005) is a neurotic, occasionally poignant rumination on his teenage daughter doing just what the title says.

How much of this you'll find enlightening and how much simply creepy will depend on your tolerance for cinematic navel-gazing.

By experiencing Block's films, we aren't merely witnessing his neurosis, we're abetting and validating it.

Maybe being able to look back in time is comforting for Block and company, but what makes him think complete strangers give a damn about his not-especially-interesting family? I certainly don't.