STILL, WE BELIEVE: THE BOSTON RED SOX MOVIE By Mike Miliard

On the Green Line on my way to the press screening of this film, a kid in a red T-shirt and "B"-adorned cap sat in front of me, tapping out the primitive riff of the Standells’ "Dirty Water" on his knee with an empty soda bottle. It’s springtime in Boston, and the denizens of Red Sox Nation are dreaming of Fenway victories. Again. Always. Something better happen soon, because these keep-the-faith, reverse-the-curse, this-is-the-year bromides are getting tiresome. And these fans deserve better. Paul Doyle & Bob Potter’s funny, heartfelt film follows the Sox’ 2003 season from a resplendent February sunrise in Fort Myers to that awful blustery October night in the Bronx. It succeeds grandly, steering clear of cliché because, despite unprecedented access to the clubhouse and the front office, the filmmakers focus on the fans.

Only in Boston will you find characters like these. There’s Steve, the earnest jake who watches every game in his Roxbury firehouse. Jim from Foxboro is a Masshole in exile, so he opened a Boston-themed bar in Santa Monica where Sox chairman Tom Werner sometimes pops in (the place is silent as a tomb after Aaron Boone’s home run). Wheelchair-bound Dan’s fandom spurs him on as he labors dirt-doggedly to walk again — his ecstatic contortions as Nomar sends one into the Monster seats are viscerally affecting. But the film is carried by two compulsively watchable, completely opposite extremes of Red Sox Nation. Erin and Jessamy are two "professional fans," buoyant bleached blondes with endearing Eastie accents. Joined at the hip, they buy tickets by the bunch and sit in the rain with beers in hand until the last hope of getting the game in is extinguished. "Angry Bill," on the other hand, is the quintessence of doom-and-gloom despondency. Rotund and irascible, he sits in his reclining throne and spews forth vitriol. "They’re gonna fail again. . . . They’ll lie down like dogs. . . . They can’t hurt me anymore. . . . This game is over: O-V-A. Ovah." Still, he watches.

Back at Fenway, we’re privy to private moments: Theo Epstein with cell phone glued to ear, Pedro Martínez and David Ortiz shaking a tail feather in celebration, Kevin Millar getting into post-season tonsorial shape. Then we get post-game-seven Grady Little, whose eighth-inning inaction rendered him the instant goat (and who in an earlier scene confesses his erstwhile affection for the Yankees), being told by Rudy Giuliani that he deserves the Manager of the Year award. "I don’t know about that," he says in Gump-esque drawl.

The cameras are omnipresent, flitting from on-field action to dugout camaraderie and living-room viewing parties. Although there’s some overuse of time-lapse photography, the filmmakers find inventive angles and linger on telling details (water, colored red from infield paint, swirling down a Fenway drain?). And though the gut punch of an ending is expected, it doesn’t hurt any less. As Tim Wakefield weeps head in hands, comforted by Trot Nixon and Jason Varitek, Erin from Eastie wails plaintively. "We deserve to win so much more than the Yankees do!" Sure we do. But whoever said life is fair? (109 minutes) At the Flagship, Opera House, and Showcase cinemas.