I know I know, we’re supposed to only cover movies with explosions/Jason Statham causing explosions/William Shatner blowing up giant spiders. And you’re right…you’re right. Unfortunately some of us know real live members of the opposite sex, who make us wash on a semi-regular basis, and eat green things (Skittles don’t count apparently). And they also inflict this on us – lucky for you we’re a bastion of balanced, representative journalism eh? Best treat it as a public service – if you ever do manage to set up an internet date that doesn’t have a beard and get out of your parent’s basement to go on it -this’ll give you something to talk about won’t it?
Anyhoo, Rob Marshall has once more decided to inflict his ability to get major Hollywood stars to dance sort-of in time, in a line on us again and it’s..well, it’s crap isn’t it? Chicago is one of the most sucessful musicals of all time – proving that popularity isnt really the best barometer for quality – but it does at least have a rip-roaring storyline and some classic showtunes backing up a variety of leggy show-offs. When it doesn’t involve Richard Geere, it’s borderline tolerable (high praise indeed). Nine, unfortunately, is unlikely ever to see Jennifer Ellison parading about and bellowing it’s high notes off kilter. Despite surfeits of gloss it never quite connects with the audience’s tin-ear, it’s musical review smorgasbord of tunes bringing up uncomfortable memories of the terror that is summer stock, while the choreography is curiously lacklustre, Marshall seemingly substituting swing-chairs for real moves.
But let’s concentrate on the good bits shall we? Daniel Day-Lewis won’t be recreating his There Will Be blood success with lightweight fluff like this, but he’s entertaining enough to save proceedings from floating away under it’s own wind power.
Plot wise we get to follow Federico Fellini as he shags his way across town and suffers from the mother of all glitzy, all-singing, all-dancing guilt trips because of it. Of course, fellini was actually happily married, but hey-this is musical theatre, and facts shouldn’t get in the way of tap and jazz-hands. Backing him up twin Oscar winners Marion Cotillard and Penelope Cruz are sexy and fun in unrewarding roles, with Cruz in particular smoking nominal lead Nicole Kidman off the screen whenever she appears. Oh-and Dame Judi Dench and Sophia Loren also pop up to embarrass themselves at various intervals, quacking about and mainly serving to get in the way of Cruz’ magnificent rack – but it’s testament to the bizarre star wattage of Marshall that they agreed to appear at all.
Weirdly, the real standout is Kate Hudson – seemingly the worst fit for a musical – who really shines here. Her rendition of Cinema Italiano is (almost) note perfect, and once she dissapears the film suddenly seems a lot less fun.
All in, this is spectacular fluff, and as such is beyond any regular form of criticism – flashy costumes and dodgy tunes wrapped up in some half-assed performances still manage to be more than the sum of their parts, but it’s just not enough to satisfy. In a perfect world it would do badly enough to prevent Marshall foisting any more of this crap on us, but hey-there’s a recession on, a bit of jiggling is just what you great unwashed masses need. Here’s to the economic revival.
