This is one of those films that I felt really, really, belonged on a stage. The moody, sometimes seedily provocative settings; the occasionally jazzy soundtrack; a lighting and a visual style very much shot from a POV (even peeping) perspective all create an intimacy that falls a bit flat on the screen, but could work far better in a theatrical setting using our own naked eye. I'm genuinely convinced that Harris Dickinson is going to amount to something as an actor. Regardless as to whether you think this is surreal nonsense, or something altogether more ethereal, there is no denying that for a young, straight, man, Dickinson has a self confidence and honesty about his acting that really cuts through. Ostensibly about a group of sophisticated rent boys - or "raconteurs" as they prefer, this is not in any way seamy. It's seductive - even teasing at times, but it isn't about sex; even sex workers. It's about this young man using art as a (slightly contrived) conduit for his aspirations for friendship, acceptance and of his determination to do what he needs to do when he needs to do it - but not to allow that behaviour or attitude to become habitual or toxic. The story, insofar as it actually matters, is poor though, almost irrelevant. The film is presented as a disjointed collection of instalments that don't really deliver on any level; the overall narrative is just a bit too fanciful and boy, can it be slow at times. Indeed, it's not a very good film, this - the stuff of a vivid imagination that would take someone of greater experience than auteur Steve McLean to hone it into better shape - but flawed as it undoubtedly is, it's a visually compelling series of mini-stories held together well by a man not afraid to push his boundaries and show us he can act.

Tjhis movie is a pretentious and self-serving pile of manure. It has absolutely no redeeming features, other than some of the actors, who are at least very easy on the eyes. In fact, the most attractive of those actors is not the main character.

Postcards From London, starring Harris Dickinson, might well be renamed, "Flights Of Fancy: An Introspective On The Beauty Of Harris Dickinson". While the work itself is not without intrinsic value, the meandering quality of the plot and the film's premise do not lend themselves to easy enjoyment.

Harris Dickinson stars as Jim, an out-of-towner who dreams of moving to London to live a life of glory. While Jim appears to be a gay man, his sexuality is extremely downplayed in the film, as writer-director Steve McLean chooses instead to focus on Jim's medical condition, known as Stendhal Syndrome.

Along the way to Jim's journey of self-discovery, we meet various young people who form the underbelly of London - bartenders, rent boys and homeless artistes. To focus the story on any one subject might have created a cohesive theme about which a compelling and interesting story might be based. Instead, Steve McLean chooses to mosh several different themes together in order to create a cornucopia of a gay man's coming of age story - a story which is mostly written in the safer language of PG-rated, rather then the reality of R-rated.

One focus of the film is art, and the film succeeds if viewed strictly from that point of view. Unfortunately, since this is a film about gay men, the point of the movie may be lost on its intended audience. Pretty pictures do not a fantastic story make, and Postcards From London is in the end nothing more than a collage of beautiful images.

Kudos to writer-director McLean for daring to be different. But if you're looking for an uplifting story of a gay man coming to terms with his identity and finding his place in society, you may want to look elsewhere. I, for one, couldn't wait for the film to end.

• Chipper F. Xavier, Esq.