Starring Colin Farrell, Robin Wright Penn, and Dallas Roberts. Rated 14A.

"It's just love," someone says at the beginning of A Home at the End of the World. "Nothing to get freaked-out about." Love is definitely the drug that binds, and blinds, the characters in this enigmatic, painfully earnest feature--which, sorry to say, could have used a little more freaking-out and a little less understanding.

The film was adapted by Michael Cunningham (who also wrote the book The Hours) from his own novel of the same name. And it was directed by theatre veteran Michael Mayer, a first-time filmmaker with a strong feeling for surfaces, and a penchant for suggesting subterranean impulses that never quite materialize or reveal themselves in any genuinely meaningful way. That's a pity, because the movie was made with a lot of conviction, especially by the actors.

One of its problems, oddly enough, is that the beginning is so powerful. When we first meet Bobby in 1967, he's a Cleveland boy whose Zen-hipster older brother exposes him to more drugs and sex than most nine-year-olds know about. Played first by Andrew Chalmers and then, as a teenager, by the memorable Erik Smith, the character we get to know seems gently self-confident and intuitive beyond his years. When, in the bad-hair '70s, he befriends Jonathan, the latter's vaguely formed proclivities tip Bobby into a kind of what-the-hell sexuality, and a compelling bond is formed.

By the time he hits his 20s, however, Bobby has met more loss than a human can bear. But that doesn't quite explain why his personality changes so much when he's played by Colin Farrell. To begin with, Farrell's shaggy mane and winningly lopsided grin make him come across like George Clooney doing The David Cassidy Story. But even after you get used to the effect, his beautiful innocent never coalesces into a believable or even a very interesting adult.

In a Toronto that very haphazardly passes for '80s Manhattan, he's reunited with his childhood pal, now played by fine-boned Dallas Roberts, who doesn't really match the big-jawed fellow we met earlier. What connects them this time around is Jonathan's roommate, an older hat designer called Clare who has '80s hair but '50s dreams, most of which are not going to be fulfilled by yoking herself to a raving queen. That's where Bobby steps in, and the results aren't exactly scintillating.

Certainly, Cunningham is being faithful to his own text here, but don't you wish there could be just a few more stories about gay life in the past two decades that didn't depend on AIDS to provide a dramatic spectre otherwise lacking in the story? I do.

On the other hand, the soundtrack, featuring smart choices by Laura Nyro, Leonard Cohen, Duncan Sheik, and others, helps make this yet another film that sounds hipper than it looks.