A Single Man. It’s okay. Heavily art-directed in a Wes Anderson kind of way that’s both really sharp and a little bit dead. It sometimes feels like a product shoot. Ponderous. Never funny. Both of these things could be conscious choices tied to the main character’s public facade of neat, refined detachment that hides his inner chaos. His lover is dead. I like how Ford plays with the colors and hues in this one. Most of Colin Firth’s daily life is in a muted, greyish-brownish palette. In moments of clarity or lust or novelty, the palette becomes richer, warmer, shades of red and gold. Not at all subtle, but it’s a neat trick.