Nine

It wasn’t at all what I expected it to be. It was a strange film, not quirky like Moulin Rouge, director Rob Marshall’s previous big hit, but genuinely odd. Based on a musical, it tells the story of filmmaker Frederico Fellini…sorry, Guido Contini as he tries to make a new film past his prime, with no script, no concept and two flops behind him. Perhaps that’s an unkind way of putting this, actually – this is an open homage to 8½ rather than a rip-off. The renowned auteur has no film, but what he does have is plenty of women in his life: the wife, the mistress, the filmstar muse, the feisty fashion critic and the matriarchal mentor and the memories of his mother and the prostitute who shaped his childhood conception of what it was to be Italian. Essentially, the plot is that Guido has a breakdown and seeks advice and solace from all of these women (or the memory of them), each of whom then sings a song.

It is a film made up of its flaws. Daniel Day Lewis is superb and an extremely convincing as an Italian, but his character is very difficult to like, a spoilt, selfish, philandering liar who is never vulnerable and miserable enough for that to counterbalance his cruelty, smugness or ungrateful attitude. The songs by and large are subpar and even boring, mostly forgettable and lacking in hooks. Judi Dench’s is good, a gleeful pastiche unfortunately delivered in a rather strange French accent, which I wouldn’t expect from such a fine actress (was she going for the sound of an English person attempting a French accent on purpose?). The wife’s one sounded good, but kept breaking off, interrupted by dialogue. The only great song was the one in the trailer, belted out wonderfully by vaguely repulsive Fergie, with an amazing sand-and-chairs-and-tambourines dance routine, and yet she was the least significant of all the characters. On the other hand, maybe it’s me being more stereotypically gay than usual, but I thought Sophia Loren looked fabulous for 75, and only slightly scary.

For its sins, though, Nine is quite enjoyable, profound and ambitious. A film about filmmaking has a harder time than any setting up a fourth wall, but here it doesn’t matter: neo-realisme be damned, this was a love-song to different filmmaking styles happy to use pastiche and willing to let the audience remember they are watching a film, to consider how it is put together, and to remember Marshall is behind it all. That distances the audience, but allows them to appreciate more of the artistry, the beautiful craftsmanship. However, this throws off the balance of the whole; with too much of the head and not enough of the heart, the film ultimately feels hollow, and that’s a shame.