Roger Ebert famously said that “A movie is not about what it is about. It is about how it is about it.” That is an important observation worth dwelling on, for both film critics and casual filmgoers alike, but it is one that I am unable to always embrace. There are times when the ‘what’ overshadows the ‘how’ to such an extraordinary degree that it cannot be ignored, as in the example of Sin City: I find cannibalism and castration to be inherently distasteful, no matter how gorgeous the aesthetic that is layered on top may be. To those who would cry “Prejudiced!” I willingly plead guilty.

Henry Poole is Here is a ‘what’ over ‘how’ kind of film. I’ll happily say that we need more films like this, films that promote hope and redemption over despair and nihilism. However, director Mark Pellington’s intentions are so earnest that it makes the disappointment over his heavy-handed technique that much sharper in comparison. His ‘how’ shipwrecks his ‘what,’ and rather badly at that, although I am willing to eschew Ebert’s mantra in this case and grant him the benefit of the doubt.

Luke Wilson plays Henry Poole, a man with an omnipresent case of the grumps.

Luke Wilson is the titular Poole, an “angry and sad” man who moves into a ramshackle bungalow in the middle of L.A. suburban hell. His real estate agent (Cheryl Hines) hums around him like a happy bumblebee, suggesting landscaping improvements and insisting on fixing the mediocre stucco work. Henry rebuffs her. “I’m not going to be living here that long,” he says, telegraphing the Big Twist that will “surprise” the audience at the film’s midpoint. She fixes it anyways.

Subsisting on a strict diet of Krispy Kremes and Absolut and scowling at overly hospitable neighbors, Henry just wants to be left alone with his mediocre stucco. This becomes problematic when Esperanza (Adriana Barraza), his devoutly Catholic neighbor, discovers the face of God staring out at her from a water stain on the stucco. A few phone calls later and the entire neighborhood has ruptured Henry Poole’s hard-earned bubble of isolation, eager for a taste of the miraculous despite his protestations to be left alone.

Henry Poole Is Here, perhaps better than any film in recent memory, skillfully walks the fine line between faith and skepticism. It offers a balanced perspective between the two, neither descending into sermonizing or cynicism; no one drops to their knees for the groan-inducing Altar Call moment and we’re thankfully spared any intellectually bankrupt “God is dead!” rhetoric. While the film does end on a hopeful note, it leaves enough ambiguity about how the characters arrived there for the audience to make up their own mind. Henry Poole is designed to begin conversations between faith and athiesm, not end them.

I sense a montage approaching.

So then it’s a shame that Pellington feels the need to repeatedly beat his audience in the face with his Emotion Stick. Rather than rely on his leads’ performances to generate genuine emotion, he artificially fabricates a scmaltzy replacement through conspicuously hip pop songs, poorly motivated slow-mo, hazy out-of-focus shots, and trite lines of dialogue like “This is the last place I can remember being happy.” By the fourth montage designed to make one weep for Mr. Poole and his troubles (there might have even been eight – I lost count), my eyeballs were bleeding from repeated rolling.

Wilson and Rhada Mitchell (who plays Henry’s love interest) are both surprisingly good here, and Morgan Lily (as Mitchell’s mute daughter) steals every scene she’s in without uttering a word, so I am dumbfounded that Pellington had so little faith in them. Every time they manage to work up something approaching a connection with the audience he swoops in with a montage and sends the film reeling into Hamsville. This may stem from his extensive background in music videos (he co-directed U2 3D earlier this year), but more than likely indicates a lack of trust in his film.

The ‘how’ of Henry Poole is Here lacks the subtlety that its emotionally delicate story needed to truly succeed, but its ‘what’ remains endearing enough to recommend it to an unjaded audience. This is a charming, sweet film that inspires rather than depresses. Just bring along a blindfold and a pair of earplugs for when the montages kick in.