Dedication wants to be an endearingly quirky character study in which expressionistic aesthetics lend lyricism to the saga of weird individuals struggling to attain personal contentment and fulfillment. What it actually is, however, is an unoriginal romantic comedy that vainly attempts to mask its conventionality with all manner of eccentricities. For his directorial debut, actor Justin Theroux comes off as trying to channel former collaborator David Lynch with every drone, clank, and clang of his pushy soundtrack, while simultaneously employing as many needless flash-cuts as he can possibly muster in 93 minutes. Such superfluous stylistics don't have any inherent relationship to the narrative at hand, and as a result leave one with the impression that the director wishes he were making a different, perhaps more abstract and avant-garde, film. Then again, one can only partially blame Theroux for not seeking an audio-visual schema to match his story, since what his hackneyed content most clearly deserves is a form of the most milquetoast sort.
Superficially, Dedication is anything but mild and plain, as its protagonist Henry Roth (Billy Crudup), an author of children's books, is a self-loathing, nihilistic, misogynistic prick who takes out his unhappiness and anger on friends and associates, as well as little girls by telling them that Santa doesn't really exist. He's edgy, unpleasant and ostensibly irredeemable -- except, of course, that he's a complete and utter phony, a blatant fictional construct with almost no credible traits. Henry is a compendium of odd habits and hang-ups, including but not limited to: He only turns/stirs things counter-clockwise; he owns a towel that he refuses to throw away because he believes it has feelings; he thinks black kids are cuter than white ones; he loves Gamera movies; he always wears a helmet while riding in cars; and when he gets anxious or uncomfortable, he likes to lie on the floor and place heavy objects on top of his chest. Crudup is typically proficient, embodying Henry with as much sincerity as is possible. Yet making this amalgam of OCD ticks and wacko neuroses seem like a living, breathing human being proves an impossible task.

After his illustrator/partner/sole friend Rudy Holt (Tom Wilkinson) passes away from a brain tumor, Henry is forced by his publisher (Bob Balaban) to fulfill his contractual obligation to deliver another book in the popular Marty the Beaver series -- a series which, in Dedication's typically strained-edgy style, was concocted during Henry and Rudy's trip to a porno theater. Thus, the pessimist finds himself unhappily paired with Lucy Riley (Mandy Moore), an artist contending with a kooky landlord mother (Dianne Wiest) who wants to evict her, and a two-timing English lit professor (Martin Freeman) who wants to win back her heart. Complications are plentiful, but there's nothing genuinely complicated about the film's tale, during which Henry is initially vicious to Lucy, and then slowly warms to her once he realizes that she too has lingering daddy issues (how convenient!). Everything plays out with such tiresome predictability - save for the surprisingly awful segments in which Henry imagines conversations with the dead Rudy while visiting the deceased's grave - that it's hard not to be embarrassed by all the effort extended toward trying to make it appear unique.

Early on, Rudy explains to Henry - whose favorite pastime is expounding on the cosmic awfulness of life - that most women don't truly want damaged boyfriends; rather, they want ones who just seem damaged. Though he implies that Henry is the former, the truth is the exact opposite, a situation that applies to the faux-tortured Lucy as well. Theroux's film benefits immensely from the charismatic Crudup and the equally captivating Moore, who are both so consistently charming that one craves something better for them to chew on than Dedication's flavorless pabulum. Far superior to their material, they make the best of a tedious situation. However, there's ultimately no salvaging the corny dramatics to which David Bromberg's script eventually resorts - an easy and unexciting mixture of prickly humor, romantic walks on the beach, contrived conflicts, and eventually a "will she marry the wrong guy before our hero races, last-second, to her rescue?" conclusion that once and for all exposes the film's formulaic staleness.