A Single Man

Though it is undeniably its merging of visual imagery and sound that provides cinema its power for storytelling, it is also true that films often sacrifice compelling performances and meaningful dialogue to the seductive nature of the visual image. We may get our eye candy, but it’s at the cost of any deeper substance.

Early on in fashion designer Tom Ford’s impeccably stylish directorial debut, A Single Man (based on the 1964 novel by Christopher Isherwood), gay English professor George Falconer (Colin Firth) learns of the death of his long-time partner Jim (Matthew Goode) from a disembodied voice over the telephone. The moment is visually striking: as with so many other shots in the film, the camera is focused unflinchingly in close-up at Firth’s handsome, meticulously groomed face. But as his reaction slowly takes shape — a subtle shift from dawning realization to acute agony — we see that the light behind his eyes has died. It is here that the film first suggests that its aesthetic perfection is aligned with genuine exploration of grief and longing.

It’s a masterful performance by Firth, whose understated acting style is perfectly suited to the aging Falconer, a man who reads Kafka and Huxley no longer, it seems, for their revolutionary ideas, but simply to fulfil his teaching obligations. In the liberal Southern California sunshine of 1962, Falconer is a man defeated by life, whose loving relationship with Jim — a union that had to stay “invisible” in 1960s America — has been cruelly snatched away.

Falconer’s depression leads him to prepare an incredibly well-planned suicide. However, even the best-laid plans often go awry; the professor’s determination to kill himself is tested by others he encounters, such as his best friend, the beautiful and dysfunctional Charley (Julianne Moore), and a persistent young student (Nicholas Hoult) whose advances may not be solely in the pursuit of good conversation.

Ford’s success lies in his commitment to simplicity — in his shots, in his limited dialogue and in his direction of Firth’s remarkable performance. In fact, he often eschews sound completely: perhaps in order to allow the audience to bask in the gorgeous images onscreen, but also to let Firth’s forlorn body language convey the unspeakable nature of grief. Where Ford sometimes stumbles is in allowing some scenes to go on too long, losing grip of the pathos that can come of fleeting moments. When he does allow us a flicker of colour in Falconer’s carefully controlled, monochromatic world, it has an extraordinary effect: the film’s occasional subtle warming in tone or colour palette often carries more emotional weight than its most expressive dialogue.

In the confusing universe of 1962, where the threat of a nuclear crisis is terrifyingly real, the characters in A Single Man are trying to come to terms with loss of various kinds. With so much talk of the past and future, no one knows how to simply exist in the present. As Ford tells us with his accomplished debut, however, it’s the human capacity for love, in any form, that pushes us to go on. And though that love may sometimes be irretrievably lost, it’s the possibility of “connecting to another human being”, as Falconer puts it, that gives us purpose. It’s that substantial claim, found beneath the superficiality of daily life, that grounds this elegant story of alienation firmly in the real world.

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