For those fed up with the fake romantic posturing of Hollywood films like Spider-Man 2 and A Cinderella Story, there used to be a viable alternative. But it’s been well reported that Indiewood is now a place for would-be hacks to practice their craft on smaller budgets. Michael Mayer’s A Home at the End of the World, adapted by Michael Cunningham from his own novel, is basically a melodramatic threesome between a stoned-out, holier-than-thou fool (Colin Farrell, sporting the same dim-witted expression in every scene), a bohemian (Robin Wright Penn), and a nerdy homosexual grappling with emotional stress (Dallas Roberts). There’s even a pot-smoking mother to boot (poor Sissy Spacek).
Yes, it feels like every indie movie you’ve ever seen before, combining Threesome with a watered-down version of the Billy Crudup character in Jesus’ Son. There’s a little of that suburban ’70s ennui from The Ice Storm in early scenes where Farrell and Roberts’s characters are played by child actors, coming of age in a drug-fueled, swinging adult world. They discover their gayness (shades of only the lousiest films from the New Queer Cinema canon) and then discover New York City (shades of only the worst Bret Easton Ellis or Tama Janowitz novels) and then discover a voluptuous woman who wants to have a baby. Then they all form into a family, try to make it work, and the inevitable one-dimensional melodrama ensues.
The fact that the film has absolutely nothing original to say on any of these matters and is photographed in such a generic “indie” way suggests that young filmmakers have probably seen too many other movies. And it all reminds me of what the great screen icon Betty Boop once said: “Real life is so much more interesting than the movies!” American independent cinema is going to continue grinding its gears until filmmakers start trying to tell original stories again, not recycle the same old stuff that didn’t even feel fresh back in 1991.
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