Joe Gould's Secret might well remain a secret from moviegoers based on its lukewarm reception at its premiere here at the Sundance Film Festival. Based on a story in the New Yorker about a Harvard graduate who becomes a street bum (or in today's vernacular "homeless"), it's a sympathetic but rambling and superficial story of one man's sorry situation. Although USA Films will likely find an initial art house audience for this film based on director Stanley Tucci's delectable Big Night, it's unlikely that this "Secret" will capture much of a following.

Set in the Greenwich Village literati world of the 1940s, a time when writers burst with enthusiasm for the printed word, Joe Gould is a tale of two men and a tale of two very different worlds that intersect on the common ground of writing. As anyone with an appreciation for literature knows, there's a fine line between being a drunken failure and a celebrated author. One need only look at the lifestyles and psychologies of some of our greatest writers - F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway, Dylan Thomas - whose alcoholic intake both fueled and decimated their creativity.

In this instance, we see the ravages that it has taken on Joe Gould (Ian Holm), a fifty-ish vagrant with a gift of gab and an uncommon ability to tell where people are from by listening to only a few snatches of their speech. Joe bounds about the Village, soliciting $2 contributions for "The Joe Gould fund," his cerebral and savvy way of panhandling. He also lives by the kind graces of restaurant owners who sneak him a bowl of soup now and then. It's at one of Joe's counter-seat slurpings that a fastidiously square editor/writer, Mitchell (Tucci) for the New Yorker comes across him. Mitchell is fascinated by Joe's erudition and equally intrigued by his seedy demeanor. To the mild-mannered family man and writer, Joe sparks an interest: Mitchell decides to do a profile on him for the New Yorker. Indeed, he does a polished job, and Joe soon becomes a local celebrity among the smart-set Villagers. With his new-found fame, Joe careens around the streets and bars, showing off his article and cadging free drinks and food for whatever the market will bear.

While Joe's story is certainly a curiosity, writer/director Stanley Tucci has not unveiled a particularly thorough or comprehensive portrait of Joe other than to show how Joe makes a jackass of himself wherever he turns up. He barrages into book readings, alighting at the top of a table and pronouncing, "In the winter I'm a Buddhist, in the summer I'm a nudist." Not surprisingly, such level of charm and creativity soon gets old, and we come to believe that underneath the trappings of his New Yorker fame, Joe's merely duped Mitchell and the literary set into believing he's something he's not - he's the Emperor's New Clothes. To wit, he's just a passing fancy among people who have nothing more substantial in their lives. Underneath the shabby dress is just a shabby man, a verbose and arrogant lout.

Even the wimpy Mitchell becomes upset at Joe's pestilential demands for money. Still, the kindly magazine editor comes to believe that Joe is actually embarked on writing a major opus, namely a Studs Terkel-like history of the world as seen through the eyes and stories of the working class. Well, guess what?

Overall, this character portrait contains some warm sentiments, particularly Mitchell's benevolent manners and protective regard for Joe. However, Tucci's phlegmatic dramaturgy does it in: Tucci never gets beneath Joe's outer garb, never plumbs sufficiently his psychology and, obviously, dementia. As such, Joe is merely a cartoon, and not a very charismatic or sympathetic figure at that. In addition, the bookish-editor is portrayed only in the blandest, goody-goody tones, and ultimately we become very tired of him. After enduring Joe's whoppers and intrusions way too long, we come to regard Mitchell as merely a wishy-washy dupe.

While there are some smart historical touches, and Tucci aptly conveys the pretensions and ardor of the literary world, it is limned in only the broadest strokes. In short, Tucci doesn't have much of a point-of-view, either towards his characters or the setting itself. Alas, what is the secret to Joe Gould? We never really find out.