I'm a sucker for romantic movies, with meant-to-be relationships that last a lifetime, but "A Home at the End of the World" is a mishmash of romantic ideas, most of them cobbled from other movies (say, "Jules and Jim"), and yet it never gets its central relationships right. Colin Farrell plays a young man so guileless, we can't tell what his sexual orientation is; after having risen from childhood tragedy, he seems to grow up under a guiding star--he's innocence personified, an angelic virgin man-child, and everything falls into place for him. You would think any struggling, directionless gay man would worship and adore him, but boyhood friend Dallas Roberts treats him casually (Roberts' role is so underwritten, we at first don't even know that he's supposed to be homosexual, and the word is never used). We never see passion, we see 'free spirited' understanding. Robin Wright Penn, playing a kooky hat-designer, is here simply to stir Farrell's hetero side, not so much as a catalyst in the proceedings; it's a hopeless role and I couldn't wait for the movie to be done with her (Penn, a good actress, gets the worst of the screenwriter's pretensions, immediately having a baby and then just as quickly griping about the responsibilities of raising one). The finale is admirable, and--realistically--not a tidy one, yet I still didn't believe anything in this picture. They wanted a rosy ending so badly, they were willing to beg, borrow and steal. That's fine, but it's hard to stir the heart with characters as unreal as these. ** from ****
Review of A Home at the End of the World
