Michael Winterbottom

A couple of weeks ago I took the Russkaya to a cinephile movietheatre in calle Princesa to see "Nine Songs" by Michael Winterbottom. During its first screening at the Cannes film festival it was described as the most sexually explicit British film presented there. I had read some reviews and comments from the Director beforehand so I had adapted my viewing mode accordingly. I armed myself with the kind of cold, intelectualised, high-culture glasses one uses to see relevant contemporary art. Most of the times it won't be either a aesthetically satisfactory experience or a necessarily pleasant emotional experience but, then again, if you can see the point the artist is trying to make and if that point seems in resonance with one's curiosity and awareness of the world around, that will be good enough. From that somewhat minimalist viewpoint, "Nine Songs" did the trick. I can see Michael Winterbottom's point. . In "Nine Songs" the couple fails to touch us, there is no love there (not even a good physical chemistry), and the "writing" in film terms is not that impressive. It resembles more a documentary, which in fact it kind is . We end up leaving the screening room with the frustrating sense that an opportunity was lost. Like a piece of rather cold contemporary art, it challenges you, it makes you engage in argument with your friends, it might make you wish to post a blog about it. But we want to enjoy good cinema, and not merely to relate to it. Enjoyment is not there.

(Only six of us in the cinema room, and a member of the staff, with the help of a small stool, felt free to change a light bulb in the aisle, while the screening was taking place..)