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A single man.  A solitary man.  A serious man, perhaps.  The point is, a Man (see also: island).  Cinema has always loved men, and indie cinema has always loved leveling them into bleak disintegrating poignancy, but since “The Wrestler” reminded us that Mickey Rourke needs to be in movies if only to afford whatever he needs to keep his face from further melting off, Hollywood has been issuing forth thinly disguised variations of the Aging-Has-Been-Reaping-Consequences-of-Bad-Behavior formula in increasing numbers.

And sure, there’s some variation.  In “The Wrestler, Part II,” Mickey Rourke is played by Jeff Bridges, Marisa Tomei’s body is played by Colin Farrell’s ponytail, and the writers bypass all conflict-rich wrestling ring scenes in favor of some hearty guitar strumming.  But this trend–its central role, specifically–is morphing into a convention-full genre of recent years: a vehicle with award-bate promise for perhaps that fading star himself who wants to reestablish glory days of serious acting recognition.  The screen never wants for the leading washed-up old guy, and delightfully plays out varying degrees of his demise, self-destruction, and general sadness.  And doesn’t the pitch alone sound like a blast?

The women in the Man’s life are saints and saviors–or at the very least, sexually willing. They forgive, offer redemption, stand by the Man through his screw-ups.  And usually flash him some breasts, too.  Nowhere is this bizarro world of lady logic so clear as in “Solitary Man.”  The Man creepily chats up his girlfriend’s teenage daughter about her unfulfilling sex life?  It’s cool, she’ll sleep with him as soon as she can ditch her cute age-appropriate mate.  (I mean, who can resist a Father Figure type without boundaries, right?)  The man treats his daughter’s husband like crap?  No worries.  She might roll her eyes, but she’ll still be the emotionally supportive BFF who giggles at his exploits and loans him huge chunks of money.  He cheats on wife?  She’ll understandingly feed and shelter him years later, and even leave her boobs at least half exposed while consoling him.

If the film is queer-friendly, à la “A Single Man,” same rules apply for hot young male things, and the lady is wacky.  The colleague is sage and attractive, the dead love is handsome and charming, the hooker is deep and spontaneously poetic, and the pretty student is literally the reason to go on living.  Also, we get the sense that any of these guys would and might hop into bed with Colin Firth in an instant.

And true, Colin Firth’s sorrow stems from real loss rather than past sins, but we crucify the gay Man for the hell of it anyway.  Let’s call it martyrdom.

The primary commonality of this brood–and I do mean brood–of movies is the age of the protagonist.  The Man is old. Old enough that the charm and talent that brought him to greatness is now starting fail, but not so old that he’s given up last-ditch efforts for romance with kiddos.  And if there’s any confusion about the youth of the May part of the May-December set-up, screenwriters/directors/wardrobe may put her in stupid hairstyles to remind you.

The strikingly angelic ingenue type may even be interestingly written enough to attract decent talent like Evan Rachel Wood or Scarlett Johansson, who for some reason are not yet demanding the leading roles of their male counterparts.  Also available for casting are the slightly quirkier second stringers like Olivia Thirlby, who play the kind of roles that ERW and Scar Jo did back when they were underachieving teenagers.  (I’d lump Anna Kendrick in with the first group for her Oscar nod alone, but her continued participation in the Twilight franchise has me baffled/thrilled.)

It’s important that filmmakers use marketing to impress upon the audience a couple of crucial characteristics of this emerging film type:

1. This film is about the Man. Pay little attention to the fine-print supporting cast.  (And Danny DeVito’s desaturated shade is only on the poster to enhance the silver sheen of the Man’s coif).

2. He is lost/alone/isolated. If you’re literate, you’ll probably get this from the title.

3. He’s heroic. If you didn’t catch that much from the rugged faces or proud stances, maybe the tag-lines will help you.

He’s still got unabashed swagger and stamina, which, in the midst of health/mental/relational/financial decline, obviously make him noble.  Screenwriters will only put him on the stake to romanticize his burning.  Maybe he’ll even make it out alive.

Most likely, though, they’ll “conclude” with some kind of ambiguous limbo ending in which nothing has changed, but might.  And if that’s not a fulfilling filmic experience, I don’t know what wasted time is.  Kind of like when I saw a headline on the news: “Break in case may be imminent.”

I guess we’re not all operating under that assumption already.

*Special thanks to Hugh Jernigan, whose text conversation with me largely inspired this post.  He had a lot more insightful things to say about our current cultural climate’s attitude toward the Bernie Madolfs and Tiger Woods of the world.  I stick with boobs.