Adam Goldberg wears a furrowed-brow scowl of perpetual distrust and discontent; even in screen romances he seems unhappy, or at least convinced that the world is basically a dreadful place. So in theory he could be the perfect guide for a piece like (Untitled), a loose-limbed comedy that casts a skeptical eye on the contemporary New York art scene, as seen by and experienced through a pair of quietly competitive brothers. In reality, though, Goldberg is let down by the material.

Josh (Eion Bailey) is a commercially successful painter, even though his work is sold discreetly to corporate clients out of a gallery’s back room. Self-important composer Adrian (Goldberg, above), meanwhile, fronts a performance art trio who peddle atonal, disharmonious works involving buckets, chains, duck calls and crumpled paper. When gallery owner Madeline (Marley Shelton) attends Adrian’s concert, she commissions a work from him and a weird quasi-love affair ensues, even though Josh had earlier introduced Madeline as his girlfriend.

Almost from the start, (Untitled) seems conflicted about what sort of agenda to pursue, or perspective to advance. Is it a satiric send-up of the modern art world, a wry debunking of avant-garde sensibility in general, or just a very specifically rendered comedy of upward social mobility? Where (Untitled) really drops the ball is in not getting into the brothers’ relationship in a more substantive way. With Madeline, there’s ostensibly a love triangle here, but director Jonathan Parker and his co-scripter, Catherine di Napoli, never plumb any deep conflict from it. Perhaps most damningly, Adrian embraces experimentation in the realm of music, yet has disdain for every other artist in the film, whom he regards as fraudulent, insincere, untalented or a sell-out. That’d be fine if the movie at least had Adrian self-justify his point-of-view, or argue about it with Josh, as they grapple with contrasting notions of success. But he doesn’t, so (Untitled) itself comes off as fuzzy and false.

Zak Orth quietly steals scenes as a collector (“a guy who did something with a computer and got rich,” as one character describes him) given a personality infusion by art, and Shelton gives an invested performance. True, too: there are bits and pieces of the movie — an inquisitive woodwind score, a few fun zingers, Madeline’s penchant for noisy clothes — that give it some punch. But the characters here don’t ring true, and a problematic ending only further sullies what comes across as a rich concept unconvincingly explored. (Samuel Goldwyn, 96 minutes, R)