Julianne Moore is some kind of great in Savage Grace, but the film? Not so much. Tom Kalin's adaptation of Natalie Robins and Steven M.L. Aronson's provocative true-crime book centers on the life of Barbara Baekeland (Moore), her well-off husband Brooks (Stephen Dillane), and their son Tony (Eddie Redmayne), a dysfunctional clan if ever there was one. It's a tale of the screwed-up wealthy, spanning their ups and downs from 1946 to 1972, when their myriad hang-ups and compulsions finally culminated in perverse tragedy. Episodically constructed by screenwriter Howard A. Rodman, the narrative - full of drugs, back-stabbing, affairs, three-ways, and taboo sexual relations - revolves around the type of sordid stuff tabloids live for, though the director treats his inherently sensationalistic material with cool meticulousness, as if a serious approach might somehow counteract the overarching mood of scandalous tawdriness. It doesn't, which isn't to say that this reserved tack doesn't effectively grip one's attention. Yet the delicacy of Kalin's presentation, which is infused with more than a dash of self-conscious Sirkian artifice, never quite meshes with Barbara and Tony's descent into twisted psychosis.