It’s rare for a picture to convey as profound a sense of despair as Barbet Schroeder’s extraordinary new film. Some of the neorealist Italian classics achieved a similar power, and more recently so did David Cronenberg’s “Dead Ringers”: by its close the sense of desolation was so pervasive that it was virtually impossible to shake it. “Our Lady of the Assassins” doesn’t have the exquisite craftsmanship of Cronenberg’s masterpiece; shot on the fly on locations in Medellin, Colombia, where the story is set, and on high definition video later transferred to 35mm, it has a grainy, gritty quality that instead gives it an extremely naturalistic, almost documentary look. But like “Ringers,” narratively it’s basically a prolonged death-rattle, a Dantesque journey through an inferno that offers no joy and no hope. By the close one feels as overwhelmed by sadness as its protagonist, who closes the shades on his apartment and–one is certain–his life as well.

The central figure of “Assassins” is Fernando (German Jaramillo), an aging gay writer who returns to his hometown after years of living in Europe. Cynical and disillusioned, he’s nonetheless shocked at how Medellin has changed, not only in size but in character: now the cocaine capital of the western hemisphere (if not the entire world), it’s marked by the casual violence that fills its streets: shootings are commonplace, and young men, all seemingly armed, cruise the thoroughfares ready, it seems, to dispatch foes with impunity. (Police are totally absent, and the glimpses we see of politicians on TV screens merely serve to remind us of their impotence.) Fernando soon links up with a handsome teen, Alexis (Anderson Ballesteros), and the two become inseparable, filling Fernando’s apartment with the televisions, recliners and boom boxes the boy lusts after and strolling about the city. On these jaunts Fernando revisits locales from his past, alternating nostalgic recollections with a stream of profane and acerbic remarks, especially when they go–as they do frequently–to churches, in some of which gang members make a point of lighting candles to the Virgin Mary, apparently to invoke her protection. (One of the recurrent motifs of the picture–capped by a moment when a street youth dispenses sweets to beggars as though they were communion wafers–is to juxtapose traditional religious practices with the soulless milieu in which they occur.) But on their walkabouts Fernando is also introduced to Alexis’ world. He’s understandably shocked when the kid offhandedly kills a noisy neighbor, but also is drawn into the fratricidal slaughter when he learns that Alexis is being hunted by members of a rival gang (he’s the only survivor of his group), securing the ammunition with which the boy defends himself against his attackers. It’s appropriate–though perhaps a bit obvious–that one of the street toughs who hover about the pair is nicknamed Deadboy. And it’s hardly surprising when their relationship takes a grim turn.

The film goes on, however, to introduce a new character, a second young man named Wilmar (Juan David Restrepo), whose relationship with both Fernando and Alexis may strike some as rather too much of a coincidence on the screen (it probably was less jarringly so in the novel by Fernando Vallejo on which the writer based his screenplay). Wilmar’s presence, though, doesn’t mark an upturn, but rather an opportunity for renewed tragedy. By the time the narrative reaches its end, all chance for happiness is gone, and only the sad reality of Medellin–a world from which all sense of morality and honor have vanished–remains.

Schroeder, who has shown in some of his films (most notably the exceptional “Reversal of Fortune”) that he can go the stylish route with the best of them, here eschews cinematic tricks to present the material very straightforwardly, with hand-held cameras and static shots. It’s a perfect decision: the very matter-of-factness of the presentation makes the horrors being depicted all the more ghastly. Inevitably there are sequences which jack up the emotional level and sometimes threaten to get out of hand–one in which Fernando visits the family of a dead boy, for example, and another depicting Alexis’ inability to shoot an injured dog, even after we’ve seen him kill humans without a hint of remorse; but even they are handled sensitively enough that they don’t derail the atmosphere of bleak normalcy the director manages to sustain so exquisitely. He also secures a fine, affecting performance from Jaramillo, who persuasively outlines his character’s descent into desperation without falling into melodramatic excess. Ballesteros and Restrepo seem completely authentic as the boys who come into Fernando’s orbit–low-keyed but compelling. And lesser roles are also filled by performers who aren’t flashy but nonetheless stick in the mind: even players who appear only for a few seconds are memorable.

In theme and execution, “Our Lady of the Assassins” captures remarkably well the pervasive sense of violence and dread that prevails in a place like Medellin, where virtually all laws of civilized behavior have simply disappeared. (In this respect it calls to mind the similar success with which Carol Reed depicted–though in a very different style–the corruption of postwar Vienna in “The Third Man.”) And it places against this harsh backdrop a story that shatteringly personalizes the horror of the place. It’s easily one of Schroeder’s best films, cannily employing understatement to convey unforgettably the despair of modern amoral society. Be forewarned that if you go to it already depressed, you may emerge from the theatre positively suicidal; but on its admittedly challenging terms, it’s a remarkable and engrossing film.

Even Homer nods, but the Disney folk have been dozing off more and more often of late. Fast upon the release of that horror of a family film, “Bubble Boy,” they’ve brought us a kiddie flick that’s not quite as awful, but is quite bad enough. “I know it’s hard on you,” the precocious hero’s mother tells her boy at one point in “Max Keeble’s Big Move.” She goes on: “It’s hard on all of us.” The line’s delivered early in the picture, but it’s a sentiment with which the audience can already eagerly agree. And they’ll be equally quick to assent to two of young Max’s observations. “This bites,” he says to his mother. And later he whines: “I’ve got to get out of here!”

The plot of “Max Keeble” is as simple as anything made for the Disney Channel, Nickelodeon or the Fox Family Network. The title kid endures a horrible first day at junior high; he’s literally trashed by the school bully, robbed by the campus cheat, and singled out by the officious, cruel principal for humiliation and opprobrium. He’s also physically targeted by a wild-eyed ice- cream vendor and made disconsolate by the news that the nearby animal shelter where he’s done volunteer work is closing down (predictably, the villain is none other than the principal, who’s diverting school funds to build a new football stadium). When his clueless parents announce that they’re abruptly moving to Chicago, Max formulates an elaborate scheme to take vengeance on all his tormentors before disappearing. His various shenanigans come off well, but predictably after he goes through with his plan the move is suddenly canceled, leaving him facing retaliation from those he’s succeeded in assaulting. Needless to say, he’s spunky enough to defeat his foes– with a little help from his friends, of course, both human and non; but the business requires lots more ingenuity, luck, courage and camaraderie.

It should be clear from this that the picture is like a pint-sized version of an old John Hughes movie–Ferris Bueller’s elementary school days, you might say. You’re supposed to find the little protagonist a charmingly feisty sort, and his adventures are chock full of slapstick designed to make you roar, with a soft core of squishy sentiment that’s meant to instruct its young target audience, too (a rather jarring subplot, for instance, involves being loyal to your real friends, however peculiar they might be, instead of defecting to the “popular” crowd). Unhappily, almost nothing goes right in the execution. Alex D. Linz, who plays Max, smirks his way through the proceedings, making himself virtually insufferable in the process, and his schemes are either sadly familiar, gross (e.g., a disgusting food fight in the school cafeteria), or so strange (the one directed against the bully involves a huge, plush, bagpipe-playing frog) as to be genuinely creepy. Then there’s Larry Miller, whose Principal Jindraike is obviously intended to be the equivalent of Jeffrey Jones’ smarmy authority figure in “Bueller.” Miller’s playing, as usual, is coarse and exaggerated, but he’s forced by the exigencies of the script to humiliate himself in ways that no actor, even he, should have to endure. One might recall that in “The Nutty Professor 2: The Klumps,” Miller was an abrasive college dean who, among other things, was raped by a giant hamster. Here he’s not only attacked by a lovesick squirrel but trampled by a farting chimpanzee. Just think of putting those accomplishments on your resume–or having them inscribed on your tombstone.

The rest of the cast is strictly of amateur night quality. The younger players engage in puerile facial contortions that wouldn’t pass muster on most Saturday morning live-action TV shows. (This includes Josh Peck as Max’s rotund buddy who for some reason goes about in a bathrobe, as well as Zena Grey as the girl pal who’s clearly smitten with our hero, though he’s not aware of it, and Noel Fisher as the school bully; we pass over in generous silence Justin Berfield, the second brother in “Malcolm in the Middle,” who segues to the big screen as a kind of kid chorus to the action, a caption writer for the school paper.) But the older performers are worse: they either sleepwalk through the proceedings (e.g., Robert Carradine and Nora Dunn as Max’s parents; Amy Hill, who’s a tepid stand-in for Edie McClurg as Jindraike’s secretary; and Clifton Davis as the school superintendent) or–more frequently–follow Miller’s lead in mugging and prancing about as though they were starring in something called “Ernest Goes to Junior High” (with all due apologies to the late Jim Varney). Jamie Kennedy, as the ice-cream vendor, is probably the worst offender in the latter group. One cast member falls into a separate category: Orlando Brown plays Dobbs, the upperclassman entrepreneur who torments Keeble and his friends. Brown’s supposed to be a junior-high kid, but he looks to be about thirty, and so it’s difficult to say whether he should be judged as a youngster or an adult.

Of course the actors are but pawns in the hands (obviously uncoordinated in this case) of no fewer than three hack writers and one inept director, Tim Hill. That “Max Keeble” has a poor screenplay is perfectly obvious, but had it been brought to life with a lighter touch than Hill provides, it would be a much less painful experience. (Certainly someone should have questioned the idea of having the school band march to the tune of “We’re Not Gonna Take It Anymore” in the denouement.) Even technically the film looks like a poverty-row production; on the small screen its technical flaws might be somewhat concealed, but in a theatre they’re cruelly obvious.

Despite the usually dependable Disney label, “Max Keeble’s Big Move” isn’t one that mom and dad should drop their pre-teens off to see on a Saturday afternoon. To the contrary, it’s one of those movies that the family should take pains to avoid together. It’s appropriate that one of the knickknacks Principal Jindraike keeps on the credenza behind his desk is one of those styrofoam sports hands bearing the legend “We’re Number One.” If it’s intended to serve as a message to the audience, however, one must ruefully observe that in the case of this dreadful movie, the wrong digit is extended.