Nine (2009)

Nine. Not only is it the title of the latest Rob Marshall-helmed film, it’s also the number of Golden Globe Awards earned to date by its seven top-billed performers (if you include Sophia Loren’s Lifetime Achievement Award). That’s enough gold to make a life-sized statue of a calf to worship, but not enough to save this mediocre movie-musical.

Set in Rome in 1965, Nine tells the story of Guido Contini (Daniel Day-Lewis), a famous Italian film director who was successful early in his career but whose last two films have been flops. Guido is suffering from a crippling case of writer’s block as he tries to pen his ninth film. Never mind that he’s due to start shooting in 10 days.

Perhaps it’s all the women in his life that are mucking up the creative works. Guido’s brain is entirely occupied by thoughts of his half-French wife, Luisa (Marion Cotillard); his half-crazy mistress, Carla (Penelope Cruz); and his half-plastic leading lady, Claudia (Nicole Kidman, looking permanently surprised). If those weren’t plenty, he’s got four more women adding to the din in his head: his larger-than-life Mamma (Sophia Loren); his costume designer/therapist Lilli (Judi Dench); Stephanie, an American reporter desperate to get into his Positano pants (Kate Hudson); and Saranghina, the prostitute that starred in his first peep-show as a young boy (Black Eyed Pea, Fergie).

Instead of a plot for Italia, his ambitiously titled film, he’s got these (usually lingerie clad) women singing poorly written songs of love and adoration that always include his name. No wonder the man is confused.

Not helping Guido’s confusion, or ours, is Nine’s source material. The screenplay, written by Michael Tolkin and the late Anthony Minghella, was adapted from a 1982 Broadway musical (revived with great success by Antonio Banderas in 2003) which was itself borrowed from Federico Fellini’s semi-autobiographical 1963 film, 8 1/2. In this, its fourth iteration, Nine looks worse for the wear.

Rather than benefitting from its cult status and long history, Nine manages to work the story over one too many times and wring all of its substance dry. For example, the film includes about half of the original score, just enough for one song from each of the ladies (two from Cotillard, actually), but not enough to really understand what’s keeping Guido from his work. Is it the women’s too-kind, undeserved doting? It must be difficult to be Italian.

Director Marshall fails to integrate the music into the overall plot of the film the way he did with Chicago. I love musicals, but even I have to ask why these people are singing? Considering that the chief complaint about musicals is that the song-and-dance seems to come out of nowhere, it doesn’t help when the song-and-dance actually comes out of nowhere – a half-dressed soundstage that exists only in Guido’s imagination.

But half-dressed is a running theme for this film. For the life of me, I can’t figure out why the costumes from a film set in 1960s Italy looked liked they were from a movie that would be more aptly titled “Miss Kitty’s Old West Saloon and Brothel.” Either that, or a Vegas show starring one of Hugh Hefner’s Girls Next Door.

It’s also baffling that actresses of this caliber (Kidman’s frozen face notwithstanding) weren’t given more to do than stand around and purr “Gweeeeeee-doh” seductively. Cotillard, Cruz, and Dench all try their best to imbue their characters with more spunk and interest than is written into their lines. Cruz is appealingly daft; Cotillard communicates volumes with her wounded face and misty eyes; and Dench unexpectedly sexes up her nurturing, motherly role just a little. But, in the end, the sub-par lyrics they’re stuck crooning are their undoing. (Sample lyric: “Cootchie, cootchie, cootchie coo. I’ve got a plan for what I’m gonna do to you.”)

Certainly, if there’s any man who is actor enough to convincingly feign being turned on by such nonsense, it’s Daniel Day-Lewis. But even he can’t hide the pained look on his face as this clunker of a movie goes along.

At one point, Hudson’s character gushes that she loves Guido’s films because “style is content.” If only that were true, then this shiny, star-studded picture would have actually been about something, and Nine would be worth its weight in gold.

To see what other people thought about Nine, check out the Amazon.com page. (If you order or pre-order a copy of Nine from there, then we’ll make a little coffee money, too.)