Love and Grief, Singularly Expressed

The elegance of Tom Ford’s new film, A Single Man, has stayed with me for days. Based on the Christopher Isherwood novel of the same name, the picture studies a day in the life of George Falconer, a gay college professor whose partner has recently died in an accident. As we might expect from Ford, the renowned Santa Fe-based fashion designer, it proves a work of art in every respect, with close due paid to subtlety and nuance--right down to the glowing tip of its pink cigarettes. And the sets, costumes, and musical score are, of course, divine.

Cinematographer Eduard Grau has lensed the film with a palette ranging from highly saturated color to soft, brown-filtered grain. The action would seem to happen in pastel. Ford’s people are so very pretty, from Colin Firth’s impeccably groomed professor, to Nicholas Hoult’s wide-eyed schoolboy, to Julianne Moore’s gin-soaked fading flower. In stark contrast to the film's grief-infused theme, each surface, everywhere we rest our eyes, is lovely, pointing toward one of Isherwood’s meditations: Sometimes in great pain lies great beauty. As George discovers, grief can slow the world's pace, offering appreciation of the many details we may have otherwise missed: the sensual grace of a mouth, the buoyant spirit of an all-too-honest child, the aching heart of a lonely young man yearning for connection.

Having lived the typical life of a gay professional man in midcentury America, George has been walled behind a web of facades. His upper-class British background has wrought a template of strictures. He has successfully hidden a 16-year relationship with a much-younger man from all but his closest friends and family. And in his obsessive devotion to the surface details of his life, he appears to be even a mystery to himself. The film is set during the Cuban missile crisis of October 1962, when fear and paranoia have spiked to epic levels, and even in Los Angeles, a gay professor at a small college can be given no quarter. But curiously enough, he and his partner have built an elegant glass house in Santa Monica, bringing the light of day into their quiet existence and allowing those who would look to glimpse the truth.


This is just one of many metaphors Isherwood puts forth in his deceptively simple story. Himself a gay man, he seems to have clearly understood and reckoned with the apparent necessity for walls in a hostile environment, and the deep sensitivity they sequester.

Ford has wisely selected his cast, all of whom turn in outstanding performances. Each is pitch-perfect and skillfully directed by the fashion designer, who solely funded this project after years with Yves St.-Laurent and Gucci. Foremost is Colin Firth, who's received an Oscar nod for his adept rendering of the complex character behind the horn-rims. And young actor Nicholas Hoult positively glows in his white mohair sweater and crème-colored jeans, the epitome of twink naivete.

A film littered with such seductive trappings is a pleasure to watch. But observing what lies beneath as it bubbles to the surface like a lily bursting through blacktop is the real joy of this subtle masterpiece.