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Classified as a romantic comedy, High Fidelity is really a valentine to every underpaid twerp who has ever held court behind the counter in an independent record store. I can attest to the film’s authenticity, because I was once a member of that elite corps of self-styled demigods. From the details of how the definitive Zombies boxed set was assembled, to the name, age and background of the new bagpipe player in the Tannahill Weavers, we knew everything — and were more than happy to share our wealth of knowledge.
Oh, how superior we were.
We snickered at the buffoons at a nearby chain store who filed CDs from the legendary band Pere Ubu in the International section (they thought Pere Ubu was a South American country!), shook our heads sadly when customers looked for Monty Python albums in the “P’s” and taught new reggae fans about the brightness of ska and the dreamy wonders of dub. And, yes, when you bought the latest from Phil Collins, we made fun of you after you left the store.
John Cusack plays Rob Gordon, owner of Championship Vinyl, a funky little record store in Chicago (the Nick Hornby novel that inspired the film is set in London, but the transatlantic move doesn’t hurt). While the story revolves around Rob’s godawful love life, the best parts take place in the store, where he talks minutia with his two employees: Dick (Todd Louiso), a pale passive-aggressive type, and Barry (Jack Black), an overtly aggressive elitist.
Together, the boys pass the hours making compilation tapes, dissecting new music, quarreling like puppies in a cardboard box and makings lists. Lists of the all-time top five death songs, the all-time top five breakup songs and so on. In fact, the film is built around Rob’s compilation of his all-time top five most memorable split-ups.
That Rob has been a loser in love is no surprise. While he can be charming on occasion, the perpetual adolescent is generally a real jerk. Aimless, self-absorbed and lacking in the social graces, Rob is the kind of guy who shouts, “Charley, you fucking bitch, let’s work it out!” at a departing girlfriend and actually expects her to turn around and come back.
Rob shares his pain by talking to the camera, an overdone gimmick that drives me crazy, but John Cusack pulls it off better than most. Through his narration and numerous flashbacks, we meet some of the women who dumped him, including Catherine Zeta-Jones and Lili Taylor (both of whom make the most of their limited roles). But the prime target of Rob’s ramblings is Laura (Iben Hjejle), the woman dumping him right now.
Rob’s misery grows when Laura takes up with Ian (Tim Robbins), a smarmy, ponytailed fellow whose condescending tone and mannered calm drives Rob right up the wall. Robbins drove me up the wall as well. His is the one performance in the film that doesn’t fit. He overplays the role just enough that it feels like the actor is actually more smug than his character.
Thank goodness for the extraordinary Jack Black, whom you might remember as the gung-ho Marine brother in Mars Attacks! Black is a terrific actor bound for greatness, a razor-sharp bulldog sliding from lovable to naughty to ferocious in a single line. He projects the intelligence and bite of vintage John Belushi, but without the aura of self-destruction. John Cusack may be the name above the title, but Jack Black is the real star of this show.
A number of other talented performers pop up for supporting roles and cameo appearances. Lisa Bonet contributes a nice turn as a slurry musician and Natasha Gregson Wagner is fine as an extremely inquisitive journalist. Sara Gilbert, so wonderful as Darlene on Roseanne, appears all too briefly, as does John’s sister, the delightful Joan Cusack. And, in a very short daydream sequence, Bruce Springsteen makes his debut as an actor, offering advice to Rob.
Director Stephen Frears (The Grifters) juggles the flashbacks and fantasies so adroitly that it takes awhile to notice the flimsiness of the story. Luckily, High Fidelity is more about atmosphere, attitude and snappy conversations than plot and, with a few exceptions, Frears gets it right. The notion of returning to my record store days is horrifying, but how nice it was to visit the boys for 113 minutes. Come to think of it, if Jack Black was my co-worker, I might sign up for a shift or two on weekends.
ejohnsonott@nuvo.net
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