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"This is the story of eight American children," informs the opening title, and the best thing about "Spellbound" is that these American children are such wonderful examples of our nation's melting-pot promise. One is Angela, the daughter of Mexican immigrants, whose father doesn't speak English, even after 20 years on a Texas cattle ranch. (Neither do the cows, he cheerfully points out.) Another is Emily, a Connecticut blue blood. Nupur and Neil are of Indian descent.

Perhaps the most immediately engaging is Harry from New Jersey, a hyperactive uber-nerd who can turn spelling a single word into a symphony of facial contortions. The most moving is Ashley, a bright African-American kid from southeast D.C., whose optimism is a heartbreaking contrast to her bitter, chain-smoking mother.

The competition itself is a real nail-biter. It can also be a humbling experience for those of us who tend to spell along with the contestants and inevitably get it wrong.

The filmmakers have admitted on National Public Radio that their favorite won. But you don't see any favoritism in the coverage of the different contestants except, perhaps, a sense that rich Emily (who's a really nice girl) doesn't deserve to win as much as her less privileged rivals.

Fewer kids would have made a better movie. At 97 minutes, the film can't do much more than an Olympic-family sketch of each of its subjects. Still, there are a few telling moments. The Hooters in Tampa congratulates Nupur for winning the regionals with a sign reading, "Congradu tions Nupur." Neil's father drills him daily and has paid 1,000 people back in India to chant his son into first place.

"Spellbound's" raw material is so innately charming that there wasn't much for Blitz to do besides show up. This is very much a straightforward documentary, as opposed to Moore's more compelling, essay-like Oscar winner. Even so, by the end, when the last word has been spelled (or is that spelt?), you feel like Nupur's local Hooters: Congradu tions to everyone involved.