Originally posted by The Realist
It was with baited breath that I prepared to watch Nine Songs last night. That makes sense - I am a gig-going indie kid in London who loves music almost as much as I love sex. The film is also about sex and relationships in London and is filthy. Surely, this film is for me, aimed at me, about me. No? Well, No.
It is unremitting pile of ape-wank from start to end.
Any pretensions of ‘art’ fail, the gig scenes are unrealistic and dull and the 'love scenes' are truly, truly terrible – inducing an intensity of cringing I last felt when hippos ‘got it on’ during Sunday teatime nature documentaries watched with my family.
‘Close your eyes and imagine you're on a beach in Thailand’ kick-started one particularly cringe-worthy segment.
The ending was an, ahem, anti-climax, leaving me stunned – my face looked like a dog who'd been shown a card trick.
You would all be vastly better off getting a couple of decent music dvds (Mozza’s ‘Who put the M in Manchester’ is rather good - sorry Bridget) and then, for your adult needs, heading off to a Soho videostore for a copy of ‘Help! My Ass is Haunted!’