A Home at the End of the World

By Mike Prevatt

Signing Michael Cunningham to write the film version of his 1990 novel A Home at the End of the World was, for the project's many producers, a sensible step. Who else would be more sensitive to the book's elegiac prose, multi-narrative intricacies and touching connectivity?--all components that have made the book beloved among readers.

That the author could undermine the very world he created begs many questions about this otherwise worthwhile adaptation, directed by first-timer Michael Mayer. While it's unreasonable to expect the book's poetic flair and soulful nuance to be fully preserved, Cunningham silences the inner dialogue of his characters, leaving the actors to rely on charm and the physical embodiment of the resulting emotional internalization. By contrast, playwright David Hare wondrously transferred the personal narratives of the characters in Cunningham's Pulitzer Prize-winning novel The Hours, for Stephen Daldry's 2002 movie. So maybe Cunningham wasn't the obvious choice for the Home script after all.

The story chronicles the two-decade friendship of Cleveland natives Bobby Morrow and Jonathan Glover. Yet although fans of the book have long considered Jonathan the main protagonist--since he is representative of a coming-of-age homosexual--Cunningham's script makes Bobby the dominant character.

He's first presented as a young boy (Andrew Chalmers) in the 1960s, idolizing his teenage hippie brother (Ryan Donowho), who dies in a freak accident. As a teenager, with both parents also deceased, Bobby (Erik Smith) gravitates toward the family of his new friend, Jonathan (Harris Allan), fulfilling the role of older brother, giving him the occasional hand job and sharing joints with his mother, Alice (Sissy Spacek).

By the early '80s, Bobby (Colin Farrell), still living with Jonathan's parents, is grown but has retained his aloof, childlike idealism. Meanwhile, Jonathan (Dallas Roberts) is living it up in New York, sharing an apartment with Clare (Robin Wright Penn), an older, eccentric divorcee who is attracted to him despite--or perhaps because of--his preference for tricking with other men.

When Bobby moves in, a tense ménage ˆ trois is born: Clare expresses her unrequited love for Jonathan, who's still smarting over his childhood crush on Bobby, by seducing their seemingly asexual roommate. "I just want everyone to be happy," Bobby says more than once. A move upstate and a baby daughter hint at bliss, but only complicate this queer-in-every-sense partnership.

Home is as much about its individual characters as it is their relationships, and for the most part the acting reflects that. Farrell says the least but projects the most. He doesn't rely on wit or attitude to evoke emotion, and his performance is revelatory. Of all the actors, Penn best exemplifies the spirit of her literary character, quick-tongued and honest but reserved. Alice is a bigger presence in the book, but Spacek makes the most of her limited time here. And Roberts, in his feature debut, starts shakily but grows into a role whose main shortcoming--his character only bears a vague resemblance to the novel's Jonathan--is more the filmmakers' fault than his own.

The film's biggest misstep is that it feels rushed. In 96 minutes, there isn't much time for depth or reflection. Yet there are scenes that seem to emerge from nowhere and resonate powerfully--the death of Bobby's brother, Alice toking to Laura Nyro, nearly every interaction between Bobby and Jonathan. Most of them feel independent from the book, giving the film its own identity and making it feel like an alternate version. This Home may wobble on the author's foundation, but Cunningham has effectively rebuilt it to stand on its own.