Advance word about A Home At The End of The World trumpeted (f’nar, etc) the full-frontal presence of Mr. Farrell’s bistouquette. Well, it’s not there anymore. That is to say, I’m sure he still has one, and equally sure that he’s putting it to good use as we speak. But A Home At The End Of The World isn’t the balls-out flick it once was, and Colin’s manhood has been cut and discarded, having been deemed too big a distraction. Quite. Indeed, if anything, this adaptation of Michael (The Hours) Cunningham’s novel is rather coy given its potentially kinky subject matter.
Kicking off in Cleveland, 1967, against a Jefferson Airplane soundtracked, ‘Hello Trees! Hello Flowers!’ counter-cultural backdrop, End Of The World quickly heaps tragedies worthy of a Thomas Hardy novel upon its sensitive protagonist, Bobby. After losing his LSD dispensing, loved-up peacenik brother in an unbelievably horrific accident (then pretty much everyone else he’s related to), Bobby moves in with gawky best friend, Jonathan. A charismatic little chap, Bobby soon has stand-in mom Sissy Spacek (in superb housewife role #367) toking from joints and baking munchie-friendly brownies. More importantly, he starts enjoying nocturnal fumblings with Jonathan. Is it love or some kind of hormonal fug? Well, before they get the chance to find out, the boys get caught, and Sissy teaches her adopted charge to channel his libidinal energies into, er, baking.
Years later, Bobby has morphed into Colin Farrell with a terrifying Bay City Rollers haircut, Jonathan (Roberts) is a busy gay slut and their relationship has taken on a never-the-right-time dimension. Rather than idle about, Colin takes solace in the arms of Jonathan’s bohemian chick New York flatmate (Wright-Penn). She’s an ostentatious fag-hag with a yearning for a baby, so you just know that somebody’s going to lose in the re-jigged Jules Et Jim ménage which ensues.
A small, unassuming film, not everything about the micro-budgeted End Of The World entirely works, and occasionally its independent origins tell. (One road-trip scene with voice-over, in particular, is just flinchingly cheap.) Adapted for the screen by Cunningham himself, the material is sometimes as slight as the financial backing, and unfortunately shares certain earnest characteristics with those well-intentioned, well-worn straight-to-video AIDS movies of the ’80s.
That said End Of The World is tender, heartfelt and beautifully performed. Robin’s flamboyantly shrill, Colin’s wide-eyed (not-legless) and newcomer Dallas is suitably troubled looking. It’s all perfectly sweet and torrid, but alas, if it’s an intimate depiction of Mr. Farrell you seek, you’re going to have to wait for some aspiring slapper to sell her home videos to the tabloids. A most unlikely scenario, I’m sure you’ll agree.