This movie so wants to be an epic drama about the failure of terrorism to stifle the human spirit in the face of mankind's determination to ... uh ... have more babies and ... uh, make uplifting music and, uh .... babies' cries drown out hate and ... uh....

I don't want to mock this well-intentioned movie too much. For one thing, Michelle Williams delivers a ferocious performance as a wife and mother whose grief will not be denied.

Williams is simply "young mother." She has a boy toddler and a husband on the police bomb squad who comes home exhausted every night and falls asleep in front of the TV watching his soccer team, Arsenal.

One night, she tucks hubby in on the couch and goes down to the local pub. There, she meets a reporter and they click. She is sex starved. They have sex.

Next day, hubby takes the boy to the stadium for an Arsenal game, giving "young mother" an opportunity for another liaison with the reporter. The two liaise, and are well into sex with the Arsenal game on the TV when a terrorist bomb explodes in the stadium, killing thousands, including her husband and boy.

She races to the scene. Debris falls on top of her. She wakes up in the hospital covered in lacerations. As she heals and gets out of the hospital, she goes on a quest. She is consumed with rage and guilt.

This is an incredibly good scenario to begin a movie and it has a powerful actress to carry it forward, but somewhere along the way it decides it does not want to be a thriller or a melodrama or even a conventional drama, but an inspirational Hallmarkian story about the triumph of love.

OK, maybe the cries of a newborn English baby will drown out the rants of mad-dog jihadists. Or, perhaps, political issues are involved. Hmmm.