The only good thing about watching, “The Only Living Boy In New York,” is the performance by Jeff Bridges, who is quite good playing the wise, always available neighbor in a melodrama that reeks of self importance and privilege.

Screenwriter, Allan Loeb, has created a movie that attracted a decent cast, then tosses them inside an over written human blender that rarely makes sense and plays on such an odd emotional level it comes off as trite.

Callum Turner, plays the angst ridden twenty something who has no relationship with his father, makes awkward personal decisions, and ends up having an affair with his father’s mistress. One of many bad choices.

Pierce Brosnan plays the angry father exactly like he’s written, over the top and angry. Cynthia Nixon plays his tragic, long suffering wife, and Kate Beckinsale plays the mistress who might have roomed with Julia Roberts in “Pretty Woman.”

Throw in a great soundtrack that elevates such poorly written dialogue and you have a movie about wealthy, smart New Yorkers living a life of personal chaos because it appears they have been habitually making poor decisions for years. All of them, every single one.

I want to take all of these characters by the hand and spend a day feeding the hungry and reading to children.

Director Marc Webb faired much better with his honest, eclectic romance “(500) Days of Summer.” Here it just feels over-wrought and staged for cameras until the end of the film when Bridges does what he always does whether it’s an alcoholic country singer, a West Texas Ranger, or a melancholy dad looking for his true place in life. He just feels real.

Thank you, Mr. Bridges. Cue the melodrama

• Gary Cogill