As part of its efforts to spotlight American independent cinema, the Criterion Channel is now streaming A Single Man, that 2009 Christopher Isherwood adaptation that saw Tom Ford step away from the fashion atelier and into the film set. Terminally stylish, the picture proposes a study on grief that appears deadened itself. Stretch your senses and you'll feel the cold of cadaver skin buried under powders meant to give back the blush of life. And as much as your nose might search for rot, that stench has been suppressed. Instead, one inhales the aroma of mortuary makeup, the nostril-burning cleanness of embalming fluid, the floral notes from perfumed tissue paper stuffed inside the cheeks to fill them out, gift-like. It's all fake, yet its splendor can't be denied.
Within this extended perfume commercial, a couple of performances shine bright. There's Colin Firth's Oscar-nominated turn as a suicidal gay man in the early 60s, while Julianne Moore plays his devoted friend, Charlotte – Charley for short…
Set over one day in November 1962, A Single Man follows George, an English college professor living in Los Angeles. He's still reckoning with the death of his beloved, Jim, whose demise in a car accident has left him unmoored. Though the threat of nuclear war looms over most in the immediate aftermath of the Cuban Missile Crisis, he remains stoic, bored by life, and calmly accepting of its end. It's as if George is anesthetized by grief, a notion Ford visualizes through color, rendering his character's worldview in muted tones, so desaturated as to risk a monotone of deadwood and dove gray. Only, sometimes, a rush of brightness transforms the screen.
These moments come with pleasure and curiosity, an epicurean delight to combat suicidal ideation. Or perhaps to speed it along, a sweet oiling of the throat that helps the poison go down. It's a schematic device that, curiously, refrains from affecting the camera's perception of Charley. In some ways, she exists beyond George's subjectivity, a wild thing who first comes to us in a flurry of memory – images from the night when Jim died and the grieving man searched for comfort in his best friend's embrace. She's barely discernible within frantic shots, unfocused and grainy, on the verge of abstraction.
One can't surmise much about Charley from these impressions. The sloppy tenderness of her gestures makes a mark and little else, some maternal whisper in a time when empty assurances that everything will be alright are one's only option. Eight months later, on A Single Man's single day, she phones George, desperate for some company. Her voice is hoarse, the relic of a late night of lonely libations and cigarette smoke, tinkling with an affected British accent that strains credulity. One would suppose Ford would mold the character to his actress' particular sound when adapting Isherwood's novel. That isn't the case.
Instead, Moore makes the forcefulness of the act part and parcel of this person, an alcoholic fruit fly whose every pore perspires need. Charley needs George like a moth needs the flame, so she reaches out and preens contentedly when he agrees to have dinner with her. The woman doesn't realize that what she pursues will only lead to hurt and heartbreak, her soul on fire, reduced to cinders. Even in these early moments, it's a florid turn that deserves reams of purple prose in lieu of a simpler description. Looking around her home – always bright, never desaturated – one assumes she'd like that.
After all, Charley is the kind of woman who picks her gin based on the bottle's prettiness and whose entire day is dedicated to curating her image before dinner. Sitting at her vanity, Moore presents the woman as focused as she'll ever be in the course of the movie, quasi-sober and almost sharp, drawing an exuberant cat-eye while schmoozing on the phone. You'd imagine she was getting ready for a grand gala rather than a two-on-two dinner between old friends. Even her hair is under construction, teased to high heavens in preparation for a bouffant, glamorously ugly in that way the unfinished artifice of beauty tends to be.
For her part, the actress puts on a show of paradoxical intimacy. These glimpses into Charley's boudoir should feel voyeuristic, exulted by the unselfconscious ease of someone who knows they're safe from prying eyes. Yet, even alone, the woman's body language does too much, broad with mugging to contrast the cosmetics, a stage impression of being by oneself. It's a miracle that Moore manages to make it come off as an organic behavior, a quirk among many for a woman we don't get a lot of time to know. Without snide or smack, it's fair to say that, had she been born in another time and into another social circle, Charley would be rocking the club as a drag queen diva.
She certainly plays the part of the camp hostess when George arrives, exuding an amusing sort of self-involvement befitting the socialite type. It's easy to picture how she'd be good company. It's just as easy to consider how that energy could grow annoying, exhausting, mayhap hateful. Again, everything about her is big. Charley doesn't just laugh - she'll contort the face in guffaws that soon run out of breath and teeter on tears. Jokes are too punctuated to be funny without some liquid aid, and affections come clothed by a veil of vampirism. As much as she loves George, it's an attachment with fangs and a big appetite. If he's not too careful, she'll take a bite.
Still, for all that Moore hones on the clichéd facets of Charley, there are dissonances that hint at something more. A beat or two of contemplation, the falling of a smile, suggests a perspicacious friend who can recognize how her companion longs for oblivion. In Moore's hands, it's a warm recognition quickly covered by more booze and even more exuberance. This compensating dynamic goes on as the drinks flow, with Charley pulling George into a pantomime of mindless joy that's out of their reach. Better fake it than admit defeat or get too real. Because, when things get real they also get painful, vile truths spewed out with a gag of jealousy for good measure.
At the suggestion that what he had with Jim wasn't as deep as what he could have with a woman, George explodes. Suddenly, the two throw hard truths at each other, exposing the kinship of dramatic self-pity that binds them together. As much as the two thespians project for the cheap seats, their barbed chemistry makes the viewer believe their years in the other's' life, how nights like this have played out before. How they will continue to do so if George goes on to see another dawn. And as soon as the fireworks start cracking, it's over. Time to say goodbye to Charley, who, at the last second, seems haunted by the knowledge this will be the last she'll ever see of George.
All in all, this is no refined work by Moore's standards but it does the job well enough. It's punchy and vulgar with a melancholic aftertaste, a lovely lacing of the feminine grotesque to make the film feel alive for once. It's also the kind of memorable limited turn that gets awards voters buzzing. Indeed, A Single Man earned a couple of major Supporting Actress nominations, including citations from the Critics Choice and Golden Globes. But, ultimately, AMPAS chose five other stars, nominating Penélope Cruz in Nine, Vera Farmiga and Anna Kendrick in Up in the Air, Maggie Gyllenhaal in Crazy Heart, and Mo'Nique in Precious. The latter took the gold in 2009, while Julianne Moore would win a Best Actress Oscar five years later, for Still Alice.
Beyond the Criterion Channel, A Single Man is also streaming on Paramount Plus, Showtime, Apple TV+, Hoopla, Tubi, and Plex. You can rent it on Amazon, VUDU, and the Microsoft Store.