It’s hard to know what to make of the protagonist of “The Only Living Boy in New York,” a dour but idealistic aspiring writer in his early 20s who, when he learns that his father is having an affair, embarks on his own ill-advised relationship with Dad’s 40-something mistress. Why on Earth would somebody do that? I mean, beside the fact that she’s Kate Beckinsale?
As explained by the mildly troubling, and more than mildly implausible, story by screenwriter Allan Loeb, Thomas does what he does for two reasons. Partly, it’s to derail the affair between his father (Pierce Brosnan) and his lover, in consideration of Thomas’ mother (Cynthia Nixon). And partly, it’s a devious means to a dubious end: making Thomas appear more desirable to his true love, a young woman (Kiersey Clemons) who has relegated Thomas to the friend zone.
On the one hand, our hero is an immensely likable kid, thanks largely to the angsty charisma of Callum Turner in the title role. The ethics-and-credulity-straining nature of his actions is mitigated by his immaturity and his charm. What’s more, Thomas is egged on by a roguish authority figure, a writer who lives in Thomas’ building, from which he leads the young man down the garden path, in a series of boozy man-to-man talks.
In the role of W.F. Gerald, Thomas’ neighbor/mentor – and the film’s narrator – Jeff Bridges tears into Loeb’s archly literate dialogue as he dispenses equal parts bad advice and liquor.
On the other hand: Are you kidding me?
Let’s grant the movie leeway. Its rendering of cultured, neurotic Manhattan is spot on, if, at times, precious. Thomas’ father owns a successful publishing house and his artsy mother is depressive. Yet the moral universe the film depicts is one of pure expediency. Gerald’s philosophy, for instance – and maybe the film’s, it’s not clear – seems to be that all misbehavior is permissible, as long as it’s potential fodder for art.
But as misguided as Thomas’ impulses may be, they’re nothing compared with the decisions Loeb ultimately makes. In about the third act, “The Only Living Boy in New York” veers wildly off whatever course it had been on, leaving the realm of the improbable for the preposterous. Suddenly and without warning, it introduces a maudlin plot turn so far-fetched that it destroys all goodwill the film and its appealing lead have managed to create.
The fault is not in the film’s direction. Mark Webb brings the tale to the screen with as much authenticity as he can muster, and a real feel for the literary lifestyle, not to mention human imperfection. How ironic then, in a movie about word-smithing, that “The Only Living Boy in New York” is tripped up not by tawdry behavior but by terrible writing.
The Only Living Boy in New York
(Playing at Animas City Theatre)
Rating: R
Genre: Drama
Directed by: Marc Webb
Written by: Allan Loeb
Runtime: 1 hr. 28 min.
Rotten Tomatoes Tomatometer: 29%
