Happy Endings

All my girlfriends swear by Colin Firth's interpretation of Mr. Darcy. . .but I can only vouch for his performance in Tom Ford's directorial debut, A SINGLE MAN – as an English academic in 1960s L.A., consumed by grief over the loss of his male companion. Firth is very good – much better than Ford's drizzly and sentimental examination of a man's search for clarity and resolution in the bleak aftermath of tragedy. We certainly feel Firth's desperation – the slow procession of each day (as we gather from the representative anecdote of a single one) is registered in unfriendly monotones, and the presence of time – arduous, sluggish, unrelenting – is unbearable. Firth is painfully aware of every single moment of his captivity; he must suffer a despairing routine of wading through shrouds; intimacy is but a memory – though when briefly excited by the sensual dimension (a pair of young men playing tennis; the sudden apparition of a pig-tailed innocent in a frilly dress) that has otherwise forsaken him, the screen blooms with warm, rosy hues. In these moments something is rekindled within him – but it isn't sustaining. Nor can he be consoled absolutely by his swanky, alcoholic friend and former lover, Julianne Moore (who is absolutely superb in this role). She resents his melancholy and even challenges its authenticity – though this is only an ostensible doubt; by her own admission, she is infatuated with Firth and longs for a traditional American fantasy in which they find deep communion and solace through marriage and healthy breeding. (Even this may be a convenient confusion for the ineffable yearning of the soul.) There are some amusing exchanges between Firth and the tidy, nuclear family that lives next door (Ginnifer Goodwin, as always, is a major treat in a minor role as the radiant housewife and mother), and Ford nails the spirit of the early 1960s, with its Cold War tensions and jacket-clad rebels and extravagantly coiffed hairstyles. Sometimes the style is very effective and funny – as when a distorted close-up of Moore's eye (with generous amounts of black mascara and liner) seems to be conducting a phone conversation with Firth (that largely concerns the hopeful acquisition of gin). But some of the quick cutting (particularly at the beginning) is unnecessary, and there is at least one troublesome accessory: the shiny and doting and vapid androgyne that stalks Firth throughout the picture. One has much difficulty understanding this character's motives (not to mention his appeal); his eyes glisten with wonderment, curiosity, surprise – there's even a rather obligatory incident wherein the student and teacher strip down for some old-fashioned skinny dipping (this is a movie, after all). The silly hiatus is cooked up by the boy, of course – but finally he seems more of a protector than a seducer. And by the end of the picture, it's clear he's been but a device all along – a deliberate contrivance in a film that, despite its few outward moments of dazzling splendor, feels too familiar and overwrought – even much of the score recalls the weight and fussiness of THE HOURS. Firth might be living in quiet desperation, but Ford entrenches the audience with a deafening lack of subtlety.