Like Judy Berlin and L.I.E., Lymelife locates the polestar of American suburban malaise on Long Island, New York, played here by New Jersey locations. That botched local color seems apt for a movie that’s half dead-on and half way off, poised somewhere between genuine memoir and someone’s impression of what a memoir should look like. Culkin is the 15-year-old growing up for our edification, and Roberts is the girl he pines for. Two of their parents (Baldwin and a shrill Nixon) are having an affair, in part because Lyme disease has turned her husband (Hutton) into a depressive loon. Martini coasts on ambience and good song choices (some associated with the films of his executive producer, Martin Scorsese) and rallies with a refreshingly ambiguous ending.