NINE

Rating: 2

NINE, the film adaptation of the musical adaptation of Federico Fellini’s 8 1/2 is an interesting film for many reasons. The most striking is the one that sinks the venture, and that would be discovering that Daniel Day Lewis, an actor of considerable power, has his limits. Astounding with only his left foot to work with in the film of the similar name. Dashing while wooing a callow South Asian guy in MY BEAUTIFUL LAUNDRETTE. Soulful while longing for a forbidden love in THE AGE OF INNOCWENCE. Truly mesmerizing, if a bit self-involved, as the self-made oil magnate in THERE WILL BE BLOOD. Mr. Lewis has been brought low by the musical comedy. While those around him, for the most part, deliver powerhouse performances while singing, dancing, or both, Mr. Lewis is at a loss, finding neither the boyish charm in the massive ego, nor the sense of fun in having the attentions of remarkable women lavished on him in a manner that can only be described as slavish. That one of the major production numbers of the piece is the endless repetition of his character’s given name, Guido, doesn’t help.
The tale, set in 1965, is of Guido Contini, a brilliant Italian film director, based on Fellini himself, attempting to rebound from consecutive flops with his latest opus, in which he essays nothing less than the history of his beloved Rome itself. Alas, he doesn’t have a script. Actually, he doesn’t really have an scenario. What he does have is a poster, a leading lady (Nicole Kidman), and the attention of the world’s press 10 days before he is scheduled to begin filming. Guido bobs and weaves his way through the next several days, reliving his past, fretting about his future, and making his present dicey for himself while making it a living hell for those around him, all via the women who shape and shaped him.
Mr. Lewis is at his best, and actually finds the humor that otherwise eludes him, in an impromptu confession done during a spa soak with a cardinal. The piquance of a prince of the church officially disapproving of Guido’s sexually liberated films while asking, off the record, for an autographed photo of his current muse, is pure Fellini. Mr. Lewis is at his worst during an athletically choreographed sequence in which he vaults around a sound stage as his character whines about his life. Mr. Lewis approaches it with all the grimness of Hamlet’s most famous soliloquy, which might be appropriate for the Bard’s work, but not this one. The effect is of a giant thud reverberating amid a sea of sequins and sex, taking the sparkle off both.
And this is a shame because Penelope Cruz, as Guido’s short-suffering mistress, redefines the sex kitten with a bite and a snarl that is as seductive as it is dangerous. Marion Cotillard, as Guido’s long-suffering wife, builds depths of anguish, passion, and anger into a veritable volcano of emotion. Even Judy Dench, as Guido’s long-, long-suffering costume designer, shows that opening up to the demands of her character, rather than bending them to the performer’s will, can bring sophistication to a role that doesn’t call for it, but revels in its discovery. She also does a production number, tights, feather boa, and rhinestones with a saucy aplomb that is dazzling, giving Kate Hudson, as the reporter with a yen for Italian cinema and Guido, a run for her money in her own high-energy production number celebrating both.
The other ladies of the piece fare less well. Sophia Loren, as Guido’s mother, is iconic, which befits Loren, but not so much Guido’s mother. Fergie, as the prostitute who gave the child Guido his first experience of things carnal, is trapped in a production number in which she makes a mess by sifting sand through her fingers and urges him to be Italian in a song with all the energy of a metronome set to plod. Kidman has obviously confused the film with one of her perfume ads.
Rob Marshall, who did a fine job bringing CHICAGO to the screen a few years back, has recycled its tropes without good effect. The ladies fawn on Guido, yet Guido never seems to be having a good time, and he certainly isn’t learning anything from the trip down memory lane, unlike the ladies. Marshall’s approach, is to find the drama and let the fun take care of itself. It doesn’t.
NINE presents two performances for the ages, Cruz and Cotillard, in an otherwise stale film whose single greatest achievement is to renew afresh the grief at losing Marcello Mastraionni (original film) and Raul Julia (original staging), and to appreciate all the more the joy their performances brought.