Nine

Can a film be blamed for a lack of emotions when it deliberately aims to be cold? Nine is precise, impeccably unobtrusive, and flawlessly superficial. It effortlessly glides over any subject, while all the subtle links click into place exactly where they should. It can be intensely absorbing and harshly off-putting, with absolute acting, perfect singing, and a literally hypnotic atmosphere. With a bit of removal and while listening to the soundtrack, there's even a fifth star twinkling, although its full brilliance is sometimes overshadowed by the excessive philosophical complexity, which, to be honest, is slightly unfamiliar to me in a musical. However, I cannot deny the feeling that Guido Contini and his fateful women have a spark of genius in them. But that doesn't mean I can't understand why Nine failed commercially and critically. Those who want a genre mix and intellectual depth are not going to go looking for a musical with Fergie and Kate Hudson. On the other hand, those who want to enjoy brilliant musical numbers will definitely not reach for the story of an Italian genius in a creative crisis and a simultaneously all-encompassing tribute. Anthony Minghella, Michael Tolkin, and Rob Marshall were simply destined to crash and burn long before the cameras even started rolling. And I'm glad I alone can admire this long polished diamond. (12/04/2010)

Nine is a case of careless thumbing through the life and work of Federico Fellini. Sometimes the pages are turned so rashly that you can’t keep up, while at other times (and more frequently) you have time to think over every sentence and realise how banal and literal it is. With the exception of a few theatrical-musical displays, the scenes are rather sloppy; Rob Marshall apparently has a better feel for directing for the stage than for the camera. There is simply nothing to see here, by which I of course do not mean the acting marvels of all generations, lasciviously circled by the camera from all angles, but the other objects in the mise-en-scéne. The whole film itself is just as empty, particularly when it comes to emotion. It’s not helped by the actresses, as each of them has to have a certain space, and the film shatters on a succession of bizarre musical numbers and it can’t be held together even by Daniel Day-Lewis, whose character is something between a hyperactive Italian and existential-minded Frenchman. His Italian accent and Sophia Loren are thus the only things that bring Nine anywhere close to the country that it constantly refers to, but which can’t be felt from the film. I’m going to close this kitschy colouring book (why the constant switching to black-and-white?) and treat myself to a bit of authentic Italy by perusing Fellini’s  readable autobiography. 50% (03/10/2012)