The stiflingly beautiful "A Single Man"

In terms of visuals, art direction, and even emotions, A Single Man is frustratingly immaculate. The costumes and hairstyles scream their perfection; the color-drained and -flooded frame looks exactly as it should. The framing is artful, the editing precise and striking, and every choice announces itself in every second of every shot. The performances constitute the one realm that escapes this constricting network of decisions, their more human aspects coming through almost in spite of themselves. On the whole, the film is too exceptionally lovely to make an impact beyond the kind of touching beauty of the way the story is told.

But it’s also a testament to the strength of that story that the film succeeds largely with the better half of a mixed bag. Colin Firth is very excellent, and the supporting actors—Julianne Moore and Matthew Goode, principally—are just as good. When they are onscreen—and particularly when they are onscreen with each other—you almost forget about the sets, about all the choices being made, and feel the poignancy and urgency of the grief and life underwriting the story. Its observations seem fresh and strikingly modern; I guess the way people make friends and flirt hasn’t changed much since the 60s, cinematically at least.

If only the thing weren’t so damn beautiful. It’s frustrating, and irritating, the way it incessantly announces its aesthetic choices. Every time you sink into the story, every time the truth of an interaction or a facial expression captures you and makes you forget about the movie you’re watching, within a few frames the screen will be reliably flooded with sepia-toned angst or another devastatingly sharp ensemble worn by a devastatingly attractive person and there you are, watching again.

It feels strange to complain about the movie looking too good, and admittedly I didn’t mind too much in the moment. But it was a constant barrier that stood between my senses and my emotions, a constant reminder that I was watching cinema, high art damnit, and I better acknowledge it as such. Consequently, the impact of the story was only glancing at best, while the rest seemed like a particularly weighty fashion shoot. (I’ve been trying to avoid saying that since the beginning because it seems like such the expected criticism of this director, but damnit, you brought it on yourself Tom Ford!)

In short, the movie is a museum piece that’s just effective enough to make you wish it were something more.