Tom Ford’s “A Single Man” more or less plays out as one would expect of a fashion designer’s debut film.  Visually the film is impeccable, as vivid and opulent as the contents of an Assouline door stop. Ford's eye is unerring in most details, from the cut of Colin Firth’s suit to the unexpectedly rich color palette cooking under the pitiless L.A. sun.  On the negative side of the ledger there are the too-perfect touches, like the Janet Leigh “Psycho” mural screaming out behind George and Carlos in a parking lot. Bits like that make the film feel too arranged, too manicured. Too designed. Ford’s painterly eye for composing his images gives the film an unreal gloss.

To Ford’s credit, the film faithfully attempts to recreate the cadence and high polish of Isherwood’s short story. Mostly it succeeds. Firth is good, but as with everything else it’s all surface; the emotional payload of the film stays locked away inside the laconic Brit. There’s just no room to breathe. “A Single Man” is as dazzling as a fashion billboard over Sunset Boulevard and just as lifelike.