A competent biopic that smartly alternates between the rise of Beach Boys impresario Brian Wilson (played as a young man by Paul Dano) and his later life (during which he is played by John Cusack), where the ravages of mental illness, substance abuse and the dubious oversight of Svengali psychiatrist Eugene Landy (Paul Giamatti) have taken their toll. We meet the older Wilson as he tries to buy a Cadillac from saleswoman Melinda Ledbetter (Elizabeth Banks), revealing the only peace he can find, alone with her in the car at the dealership, while Giamatti and his associates hover on the other side of the glass.

The film spaces nicely, and the early pressures on Dano (fear of flying, his abusive and controlling father, the stress of touring, an aversion to conflict) are manifested in Cusack’s caged, distrusting performance, one of many really nice touches in the film.  Near first time director Bill Pohlad delves into but doesn’t overplay Wilson’s demons, choosing to give equal access to his love of the art of pop music and visionary work in the studio.  Nothing in the picture feels hackneyed or stale, a difficult feat in the face of traditional musical biopics like Ray and Walk the Line.  Also, in the era where “Behind the Music” has left these stories vulnerable to the Dewey Cox treatment, the film feels fresh and immune to parody.

Banks and Cusack also radiate the wonder of first love, subordinating the “bio” aspect of the movie to a heartfelt romance.  They have a convincing chemistry, which bolsters the efforts she undertakes to wrest Wilson from Landy.

As Landy, Giamatti is the weakest link.  He is ferocious where he should be merely intrusive, maniacal instead of crafty.  Landy may well have been that excessive, but he didn’t just walk off the street; he was a pop psychologist to many stars, from Alice Cooper to Rod Steiger.  The performance is so over the top, you wonder how Wilson, even in his vulnerable state, could have succumbed to such a bully and how Landy could have had the smarts to set himself up so nicely.

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Moving, didactic and unsurprising.  The film suffers from what I call the Milk syndrome, a heartfelt fealty to its subject so strong it obliterates any sense of authenticity.  Martin Luther King (David Oyelowo) is etched in marble, and marble is both beautiful and boring.  While the film is occasionally poignant, we are left with its one-dimensional hero, colorless acolytes (Coretta Scott King and everyone who works with King) and cartoonish villains (Tom Wilkinson’s LBJ and Dylan Baker’s Herbert Hoover are particularly ridiculous).

The film’s best moments come when King is not ennobled, but crafty, as when he explains to two Selma locals why he needs to elicit violent repression from the authorities for publicity purposes; King as tactician is just more interesting than King as emblem.

The worst moments come in quiet discussions, where the activists trade speeches littered with biblical passages and maxims like “eyes on the prize.” There are too many long sermons provided to educate an audience director-writer Ana DuVernay doesn’t trust (a conversation between Coretta and her husband about his infidelities has a reserved dignity that is otherworldly).

In a film punctuated by Oyelowo’s expert recitations of King’s actual speeches, the effect is tiresome.  The characters are in the middle of a pressure-cooker maelstrom, uncertain as to which road to take, hemmed in by any number of political and social forces, and beset by violence at any turn.  Yet, they are reduced to the roles of resolute and/or suffering nobles.  When one black man wants to go get his gun after the marchers have been brutally bloodied, he is met with a sermon on the foolhardiness of his instincts and its effect on their historic struggle.  After an ass-beating, it’s a rare man who can summon a soliloquy.

The film is beautifully photographed. Cinematographer Bradford Young (who, in A Most Violent Year, captured early 80s NYC) employs a lyrical, classic style he describes as a “period, Kodachrome-esque look.”  The effect creates memorable moments, some stunning.

But pretty isn’t enough.