We do not speak in verse, it's true

Not in real life; nor movies, too.

But "Yes" unfolds in rhyme, like song

At first, you pause — then sing along

Averse to verse? Then Sally Potter's gloriously affirmative drama "Yes," written entirely in carefully metered rhyme, is most definitely not your cup of tea. But for many of us, it's the sort of thing we go to the art houses (or to film festivals — "Yes" recently played the Seattle International Film Festival) to find: a wildly uncommercial, quirky vision that rewards audiences willing to tolerate its oddness.

Movie review

Showtimes and trailer

"Yes," with Joan Allen, Simon Abkarian, Sam Neill, Shirley Henderson, Sheila Hancock, Samantha Bond, Stephanie Leonidas. Written and directed by Sally Potter. 100 minutes. Rated R for language and some sexual content. Harvard Exit.

The story of an unhappy woman's journey to a place of serenity and love, "Yes" reminds us of James Joyce's Molly Bloom (particularly in a final scene in bed, ending with the word "yes"), of Shakespearean or Greek drama, and of nothing at all except itself.

Potter, a fiercely independent British filmmaker best known for her opulent 1992 "Orlando," structures her film around a simple plot: a love affair between an unhappily married Irish-American woman (Joan Allen) and a Middle Eastern man (Simon Abkarian).

But the verse quickly lifts the movie into a celebration of language, both spoken and unspoken. One of the film's most moving monologues comes in voice-over, from a character who has just died: The woman's aunt (Sheila Hancock), who in death instructs her niece to react, to weep, to mourn.

Occasionally the rhythms are distracting and the cacophony of accents difficult (there are a couple of scenes in a restaurant kitchen that are especially difficult to make out). But in the film's best moments, the words glitter like gems, spoken by actors who don't overstress the rhyme, but find their character's soul within.

Allen, who can in some roles seem remote and formal, has never been more beautiful on screen, or more moving. Her character, identified only as "She," is fragile and elegant but spends the film on the verge of cracking her physical perfection. In one scene, she wakes up on a blue satin pillow, and there's a look of tremulous wonder on her face that's enchanting: This man, and his words, have opened up another world.

As "He," the brooding, dark-eyed Abkarian has some fine moments, but at heart this is a film about women: not just Allen's character, but also the aunt, an insecure goddaughter (Stephanie Leonidas), a friend who resents Allen's perfection (Samantha Bond), and most of all a cleaning woman (Shirley Henderson) who acts as a sort of Greek chorus, seeing all. ("Dirt doesn't go," she says. "It just gets moved around.")

Henderson's scratchy, helium voice here has a haunting quality; she's the perfect narrator, never visible to the owners of the rooms she endlessly cleans, but observing those things they wish to keep secret.

All is beautifully filmed by Alexei Rodionov, whose vision of Allen walking in a cherry-blossom-filled park could fit in any fairy tale.

Potter's film, which she has said was written as a response to the events of Sept. 11, may not speak to everyone. But to those willing to listen, it's music to the ears.

Moira Macdonald: 206-464-2725