九

On paper, Rob Marshall’s NINE is a paragon of Oscar prestige, a high-profile, star-studded musical adaptation of the eponymous Broadway musical, which itself is transposed from Federico Fellini’s seminal 8½ (1963). After crashed and burned on the box office front, albeit still manages to nab four Oscar nominations, it has become a standing joke of an epigone’s vanity project.

The truth is, any cinematic attempt to reimagine Fellini’s inimitable chef d’oeuvre is smack a mug’s game, Marshall is excessively emboldened by the sheer luck bestowed to him in his first directorial spectacle CHICAGO (2002), to which NINE acts as a reality check, an exorbitant one.

The story (scribed by Michael Tolkin and the late Anthony Minghella) is more or less the same as 8½, in short, it revolves around the director’s block of an estimated Italian filmmaker Guido Contini (Day-Lewis), after two flops, he is stuck in a midlife crisis, while announcing his upcoming new project “Italia” in Rome, the fact is that he doesn’t even have a script yet. Encountering or reminiscing multifarious female characters in his life (wife, mistress, mother, confidant, muse, flirt, etc.), Guido desperately looks for the inspiration that keeps eluding him, concurrently, his personal life also heads to a downward spiral.

Wearing his heart on the sleeve, Marshal unabashedly unveils the female stars of the first water right out of the box, an ostentatious opening gambit to stun his star-struck audience, but also a self-defeating move rendered superfluous considering every and each of them is allowed for a curtain call near the coda, any surprise is dashed by this foreknowledge, which also betrays that Marshal’s confidence is precariously built upon his cast other than his faculty.

“Mr. Day-Lewis in a musical”, the simple tagline alone amounts to an irresistible allure for cinephiles, but hampered by an achingly prosaic script (any residue of Fellini’s sublime poetry is stripped off and gives way to phallocratic egotism and exceeding self-pity) and slapdash, chaotic camerawork, the film is only salvaged to be bearably watchable partially owing to Mr. Day-Lewis’ usual dedication and contrived but still riveting outpourings of the banality-ridden material, albeit his comparably limited vocal register.

Mostly reduced to a minimal narrative presence and one big singing number to strut their stuffs, the stellar female ensemble is beyond approach for the film’s ingrown delusions of grandeur and individually makes a splash of a sort: a girdled Dench is unexpectedly game with her cabaret number; Fergie does what she does best, sonorously and voluptuously piping up BE ITALIAN like nobody’s business; Hudson is a competent tease of superficial shallowness, and has the catchy CINEMA ITALIANO to dazzle; Kidman, simply posturing to be ineffably glamorous, somehow, her tested singing aptitude is subdued in the melodious UNUSUAL WAY; Cruz is typecast as an exotic and erotic temptation without much redeeming factor and Loren’s GUARDA LA LUNA is the weakest number, but her appearance per se is a benediction to behold.

Cotillard as Guido’s neglected and chronically suffering wife Luisa, who has the privilege with two songs to perform, and kills it in TAKE IT ALL (Oscar nominated for songwriter Maury Yeston), is the only character that dares to taunt and confront Guido’s depravity, sympathetic and unyieldingly compelling, she should be the MVP among the whole cast in a perfect world, yet in reality, wrongly campaigned in the leading category to secure Cruz a supporting actress nomination, her high-wire act issacrificed by the shameless campaign subterfuge operated by the now notorious Weinstein company, another reason that a decade after its release, any attempt of reassessment is nipped in the bud, and NINE's financial loss has only been matched by Tom Hopper’s CATS (2019), in hindsight, Dame Judi Dench, we all love her, might be advised to steer away from Hollywood glossy musicals, that would be a blessing to all of us.

referential entries: Marshall’s CHICAGO (2002, 8.4/10); Federico Fellini’s 8½ (1963, 9.0/10); Tom Hopper’s CATS (2019, 5.2/10).