Once, when I had free cable, I sometimes caught “Househunters,” a show as addictive as it was irritating (although not as much as “Clean House,” where overgrown 20-something hoarders had to have Niecy Nash’s two-inch-long acrylics pointed sassily in their faces to convince them to sell the Kegerator because it took up the entirety of the baby’s nursery) as it followed care-free couples in their search for new homes. For most of them, it was their first home purchase, yet they were approved for massive sums of money that allowed them to sneer at things like the size of the yard, the big white-enamel 50’s stove, the 20-minute distance it would put them from work. How dare the couple who lived in this brownstone for 50 years not anticipate that the next buyers would demand a sunken tub. The current homeowner left out their dorky collection of swords? How terribly gauche. I shall now rip my eyes out and stomp on their stupid not-terrazzo tiles.

Similarly, “Away We Go” is a contemptibly precious two-hour exercise in finger-to-corner-of-mouth upper-class indecision, with lots of oh-so-meaningful acoustic guitar music by Alexi Murdoch (sort of like singer-songwriter Aimee Mann’s rock score for “Magnolia,” except that she has hot red blood pumping through her veins, where Murdoch has tepid, stomach-settling, ginger-green tea).

This was one of those movies I should have flung across the room at the first scene. Via shadow, Burt (played by John Krasinski, who does the underappreciated, yet good humored, pessimistic yet incredibly relatable Scranton office drone and father-to-be in the American version of “The Office”) is going down on Verona, played by Maya Rudolph (she played Donatella Versace on “Saturday Night Live,” back when people were still interested in Donatella Versace). The tomato-eating contest is interrupted by quirky dialog in which Burt intuits that Verona’s “fruity” taste equals preggo-ville.

Six months later, the 33- and 34-year-olds decide to leave Connecticut and travel to Arizona, Wisconsin, Canada and Florida to decide where to raise their child, based on how a night out drinking with friends and relatives in each location works out. They leave, by the way, in a pique because Burt’s parents have decided to move to Antwerp, Belgium, for two years. Apparently, a couple with $12,000 won’t be able to come up with the scratch to visit their granddaughter.

Arizona, Wisconsin, Canada and Florida end up being progressively repugnant displays of humanity and parenting, violence-less “Saw” sequels, each couple they visit more of a nightmare than the last. The least likable couple, though, is Burt and Verona. Burt repeatedly worries that Verona’s breasts will be destroyed by breastfeeding and that she will get so fat he won’t be able to find her lady-bits. Verona, listening to him make small talk on the phone (he’s a tele-commuting insurance-futures salesman) makes the kinds of contemptuous facial expressions that should be reserved for when a stranger pukes in your lap.

Upon discovering Burt’s parents will be leaving the country, Burt comments that, “It just really takes selfishness to a whole other level.” Talk about projecting. In Phoenix, Verona’s sister mentions the unexplainedly touchy subject of their beloved parents’ death (so beloved are they, in fact, that Verona tells Burt she will “never” marry him because she wanted her parents to be there — apparently, regarding their presence for a granddaughter, she doesn’t give much of a crap) and the beloved family home, which the sisters have apparently entrusted to saintly renters for the last dozen years. Can I get a tensionless feature film with a side of deux ex machina, please?

Despite the fact that such a country-wide search for “home” is, in real life, limited to retirees and kids with trust funds, the audience might be willing to go “away” with scruffy, indie, shoe-gazing Burt and plush-wardrobed, voluminized-curls, glowing-skinned, orphaned-at-22 Verona, were it not for the fact that they are wretched, ungrateful fools who have money for spur-of-the-moment plane tickets but not a cardboard-covered window in Connecticut.

Co-scriptwriter Dave Eggers’ breakout novel, 2000’s “A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius,” was what the title said. It was a raw memoir of his parents’ near-simultaneous deaths and Eggers’ guardianship of his young brother as he learned how to be an adult. Anyone who successfully navigates — in real life or fiction — the waters of abandonment and growing up, especially if they can turn darkly exquisite, self-hating prose out of it, deserves a good slather of praise. Expecting a standing ovation for accidentally getting a girl pregnant and deciding to live in a mortgageless, waterfront home? You can call that a heartbreaking work of staggering ego.

Ashley O’Dell reviews movies that aren’t in theaters anymore.