“Did I listen to pop music because I was miserable? Or was I miserable because I listened to pop music?”
It sounded like a duff idea on paper. Uprooting Nick Hornby’s decidedly Brit ‘n’ blokey world-view to the throb of Chicago was riddled with the potential for disaster in the transatlantic crossing, with all the subtleties and textures blanded out.
However, against the odds, British director Stephen Frears fashioned a funny, involving, smart meditation on the prattle of the sexes by retaining most of the novel’s incidents and attitude while adding a broader, more accessible feel.
Attempting to capture the freewheeling approach of the book (the infamous ‘Top Five’ lists and all), Frears’ heavy dependence on direct-to-camera addresses and voiceover jars initially – there are few actual meaty scenes to get your teeth into – denying emotional involvement.
But John Cusack’s eminent likeability acts as a conduit, and you eventually slide into the film’s rhythms and get drawn into Rob’s world.
Rob owns Championship Vinyl, a record store that is still a record store, and his two employees are less socialised, polar-opposite variations of himself – the pale, soft-spoken Dick (Todd Louiso in an understated, original performance) and the brash, overtly snobby Barry (the demon-eyed Jack Black, whose hamminess at first is a bit much but ultimately proves highly enjoyable).
These are the type of guys who love making lists and arguing over them – such as the five best opening songs on albums – and their mania for categorising spills over into other areas, too.
Barry is particularly intolerant of anyone with inferior musical tastes, ridiculing both customers requesting commercial schlock and music fetishists even geekier than himself.
Rob, meanwhile, has ranked his all-time worst breakups and takes solace that his long-term live-in girlfriend Laura (played by Danish newcomer Iben Hjejje) – who has recently dumped him and moved out – at least initially, hasn’t cracked the top five.
Little actually happens in the film – Rob has a fling with rootsy singer Marie De Salle (Lisa Bonet), seeks emotional rescue from The Boss himself, Bruce Springsteen – but the patchwork plotting builds an insightful collage of emotional dreads, doubts and joys that plays to the head rather than the heart.
If this is decidedly Cusack’s show, starting at hangdog desperation then expertly descending towards frenzy, the gallery of supporting characters still have enough room to make their mark – step forward a flamboyant Catherine Zeta-Jones and a needy Lili Taylor as Gordon’s exes.
Moreover, if slightly more ‘pantomime’ than the rest of the movie, Tim Robbins’ cameo role as a Zen-obsessed love rival to Cusack ranks as a real crowdpleaser.
Away from the love stuff, High Fidelity is probably the best film about the joys of retail since Clerkshit our screens in 1994; very good on the muso conversations born out of boredom – musically the film neatly finds the American equivalents of Hornby’s UK musical lexicon – the three-way dissing and compiling of tastes sparkles.
Rob
John Cusack Laura
Iben Hjejje Dick
Todd Louiso Barry
Jack Black Marie De Salle
Lisa Bonet Charlie
Catherine Zeta-Jones Liz
Joan Cusack Ian
Tim Robbins Vince
Chris Rehman Bruce Springsteen
Himself
Attempting to capture the freewheeling approach of the book (the infamous ‘Top Five’ lists and all), Frears’ heavy dependence on direct-to-camera addresses and voiceover jars initially – there are few actual meaty scenes to get your teeth into – denying emotional involvement.
These are the type of guys who love making lists and arguing over them – such as the five best opening songs on albums – and their mania for categorising spills over into other areas, too.
Moreover, if slightly more ‘pantomime’ than the rest of the movie, Tim Robbins’ cameo role as a Zen-obsessed love rival to Cusack ranks as a real crowdpleaser.
