While as stylish, technically proficient and lovely looking as you might imagine, the alchemical ingredient equaling some kind of divine inspiration is largely missing in Rob Marshall’s almost-dramatically inert adaptation of the musical “Nine.”
The psychological reasoning for bursting into song doesn’t really play, and the thematic placement of the musical numbers feels shoe-horned in. And, almost to a criminal fault, practically none of these numbers add much character insight or move the plot forward – a Musical 101 no-no.
An echo that has lost its way a la a Chinese whisper, “Nine” is an adaptation of the musical “Nine” which is an adaptation of Fellini’s landmark art film, “8 1/2” about a struggling director that dives into memory and fantasy to evade his artistic blockage. It seems absolutely perfect for a musical adaptation and it seemed to work well for Arthur Kopit, Mario Fratti and Maury Yeston. But something is lost in translation here.
The always-brilliant Daniel Day-Lewis stars as Guido Conti, a proxy for Federico Fellini, this time suffering from a creative paralysis, due in part to the several female forces orbiting his universe. But if Day-Lewis chewed screen time like a ravenous vampire in his unholy turn in his last role — Paul Thomas Anderson’s “There Will Be Blood” — in “Nine” all he can do is nibble at a thin character who’s perennially in a state of personal torment and imaginative anguish. There’s a bit of regret and guilt for his Lothario-like ways, but it’s all the same note and emotion, really.
The skimpy narrative centers on Guido’s next picture, his ninth, an ironically script-less epic about the women of a nation called, “Italia.” But after two flops — his great “early pictures” are constantly referenced not unlike Woody Allen’s Fellini homage, “Stardust Memories” — all he truly has is a title and a star, Claudia Jenssen, played by a luminous Nicole Kidman (in a role that almost feels like a glorified cameo). There’s no story, there’s no story, there’s no story (ahem…).
Hounded by the press, his agents and producers, Conti tries to hide the fact he is creatively barren and collapsing under the weight of personal drama, but the one mood is crisis and agony, with the ventilating dream sequences as a fantasia-like escape.
With his marriage on the rocks, Conti entertains the idea of bringing his wife Luisia (a radiant Marion Cotillard who is really the film’s female dynam0, she can actually act and sing) to Rome as a means of inspiration, but after pulling a disappearing act from a Dylan-like rock star press conference, he instead escapes to a small town and calls upon his mistress (a capable and carnal Penelope Cruz) for sexual healing.
In his small-town hotel reprieve from decisions and responsibility, Conti finds momentary breathing room, but soon the production tracks down his scent and decamps upon the town of his getaway in hopes of forcing a story, script and direction out of the maestro filmmaker.
All the while songs are injected to introduce characters, but rather than drive narrative they act as tangential character showpieces that halt the picture in favor of razzle dazzle that’s not even particularly compelling. Essentially avoiding his responsibility to his film, anytime a character appears, a musical dream sequence sidetracks Guido (and the narrative), rather than dealing with reality. But there’s a major problem here. If the lead character can escape into fantasy so readily, why can’t he harness the same energy to make a bloody movie?
Much like the protagonist, the picture is lost at sea, seemingly most interested in bursts of song and style that do little for character revelation or story pulse. Fabulous actors are competent in their mini-music video vignettes, but save a few songs (by Cotillard, Kidman and to a lesser extent DDL) none are especially enchanting. Many of them serve very little purpose either, other than the pre-requisite song per character. What are we supposed to get out of Dame Judi Dench’s number? Absolutely nothing.
Kate Hudson does a respectable turn as a enchanting, flirtatious Vogue reporter (especially considering the chum she’s been in this decade), but she doesn’t have much to do either. Especially charming is the aforementioned Dame as Conti’s longtime costume designer and pearls-of-wisdom giving friend, but she too can only do so much (and you wish the picture would stop for more repartee between her and Daniel Day-Lewis).
The rest of the music sections, and tepid ones at that, feel like obligatory set pieces included to be faithful to the text (especially forgettable songs for Sophia Loren, the deceased mother, and the childhood whore played by makeup grotesque that is Fergie) rather than featured because they’re particularly engaging or illuminating in any way.
So much like Marcello Mastroianni in Fellini’s film, the bottom falls out creatively and this spiraling free fall leads to despair. But while Mastroianni makes the unraveling seem empathetic and replete with masculine vulnerability, the coy and cagey Guido is initially aloof and then scene after scene of self-loathing and despair, despair, despair. Yes, Daniel Day-Lewis wrings sweaty emotion from every minuscule scene he’s given, but it appears he really had to work at it to keep the picture somewhat afloat.
So “Nine” is one visual dream fantasy after another with a minimal plot engine that’s puttering around on a cul-de-sac to nowhere. When the eventual collapse happens and Guido retreats from film (and grows a beard and hides away in a small Italian town), the film becomes interesting, but we’re basically at the conclusion, and much like this song-free denouement with Judi Dench, we wish we could have re-watched the entire story sans the musical.
If there’s one truly absorbing element in the film, its the few scenes between Marion Cotillard and Day-Lewis, where she eviscerates his creative block sham not as a well drying up, but calls it out for what it is: a conflict of lies where too much fabrication and deception in his personal life has drained the imagination of a “natural born liar” (perhaps the best winky nod to Fellini, that’s the title of the 2002 documentary “Fellini: I’m A Born Liar,” about the maestro’s creative process based on extensive interviews with the director).
The grand irony of “Nine” — the deep risk one runs in tackling this self-reflexive and aware subject — is that it is a movie about a filmmaker in desperate search of inspiration, but whereas “8 1/2” transformed director’s block into a marvelous work of art, this lukewarm homage can find no such salvation (Again, Allen’s “Stardust Memories” is a much better example — not to mention much more enjoyable —of homage without imitation).
For all the marks you have to subtract off this one “5 1/2” might be a more apt (and generous) title.
The film does bare passing resemblance to the thematic leitmotif of say, “Broken Flowers,” but the rudderless picture can’t even compare to that wandering little indie. In short, too much Broadway spectacle and not enough Fellini. In fact, any resemblance to his work is passing and superficial at best. This all told, it seems like the picture will earn itself multiple Oscar nominations, including a Best Picture because it is a weak mainstream year, but we can’t see it sweeping up other than in technical categories. Marion Cotillard should safely earn herself a Best Actress nomination, but in this strange year anything goes. If you liked Rob Marshall’s previous musical, “Chicago,” you’ll be disappointed here. If you didn’t care for it at all, you should probably avoid “Nine”. Unfortunately, it’s largely unremarkable. [C]
