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"You free my life from routine. See you next Thursday, same time."

Each of the characters in Jill Sprecher's intricate Thirteen Conversations About One Thing searches for something, for happiness, for meaning; some for redemption. It's a familiar, almost archetypical description that can, in fact, be applied to any movie worth its salt. On the surface, it would seem that there is nothing new to be found here; one might also describe it as Magnolia, only half the length and free of whatever mind-altering substances that P.T. Anderson opus was on. While superficially accurate, such a description would not come close to doing justice for this small, quiet movie, full of surprises and powerful character moments.

It is true that the movie adopts the Magnolia/Short Cuts format of telling the stories of a group of unconnected people and then weaving them together in seemingly random ways. Thirteen Conversations fractures the chronology as well; different characters' stories take place in different time frames, and piecing them together will take a modicum of consideration (nothing Christopher Nolan-challenging).

First there's Troy (Matthew McConaughey), a cocksure prosecutor for the DA's office, a man who doesn't believe in luck. He considers himself happy, genuinely believing that the work he does directly makes the world a better place. He is wracked with guilt, however, when he accidentally hits a woman with his car; the next day, he finds himself walking around the office like a zombie, all of his convictions suddenly shattered.

That incident follows an interesting conversation at a local bar, in which Troy meets Gene (Alan Arkin), a deeply cynical man who enters the movie with the words "I knew a happy man once..." He tells his own story, perhaps the film's most potent: at his office -- he's a supervisor in an insurance company department -- worked a truly happy man, one who never seemed to get upset over anything, always had a smile for everyone, constantly looking on the best side of things. Naturally, this made him insufferable to all of his co-workers, who, while not exactly miserable people themselves, couldn't stand the sight of someone impossible to irritate. The anger builds until, when Gene's bosses ask him to do some cost-cutting, he decides to fire the happy man. I won't reveal what happens at this point, except to say that I was sure I knew what would in fact happen, and was wrong.

There are others. Walker (John Turturro), a college professor, is a man so obsessed with routine that he turns his extra-marital affair into a routine too. His wife (Amy Irving) is incredibly unhappy, though Walker hardly even notices. Beatrice (Clea DuVall) is a maid who has an accident when the wind literally blows her over, and decides to change her life.

There are no "big scenes" in Thirteen Conversations About One Thing, and few direct emotional climaxes or pay-offs. It isn't a saga but a meditation, and what it's actually "about" isn't easy to pinpoint. Some say it's a movie about happiness and how to attain it. To me, what it had to say was simpler, more elegant: people exist in a void, and sometimes yearn to be noticed, be it with a look, a touch or a word.

Sprecher, who directed the acclaimed Clockwatchers four years ago, has a deft, light touch, and she trusts her audience explicitly. She is clearly disinterested in "messages" and doesn't hammer her themes to death either. The best scenes in the movie aren't big revelations, dramatic monologues or directorial set pieces, but subtle character moments: a conversation that hits the right note, a glance that suggests a subtext, a smile. Thirteen Conversations About One Thing is a movie that refused to leave my head for weeks, one with an impact disproportionate to its tone. 2002 has been a great year for American independent films, and this one's a doozie.