Review of High Fidelity (2000) by Fabio D — 03 Aug 2009

My stomach stirred. Another masterwork of urban literature - epitomising the coming-of-age angst and insecurities of the Smiths generation, Generation X if you will - had been subjected to the kind of crude, sacrilegious 'update' only Hollywood is capable of. I feared this Hornby classic, with which I had spiritually identified since the age of 12, would be reduced to another disposable, underendowed 'romcom'. How could a group of glossy American actors, without even passing awareness of Hornby's beloved 'Arsenal Hot Spur Soccer Team', sympathise with, let alone embody, the everyday sense of confusion, regret and, ultimately, abject disappointment of his characters?

But, as I discovered, you don't have to be a die-hard Gooner (guilty as charged) to suffer relationship problems or feel pain. And it's all down to one man: the smouldering John Cusack. He plays 'Rob', a record store owner recently dumped by his girlfriend. Rob spends the best part of his time pondering where all his former love affairs went wrong, and the remainder arguing with quirky co-workers, Dick (a serviceably hilarious Jack Black) and Barry (a human embryo), over which Clash single had the best b-side (incidentally it's 'Emerald Trousers' off 'Clash City Rockers'). You might expect such behaviour to be the preserve of unmitigated wank-jars for which no amount of steaming bile is unjustified. But not with Cusack. Oh Cusack! I must confess, in-spite of being an avowed heterosexual (calm down ladies), it is not irregular for me to dissolve before Cusack's deep, Belgian-chocolate eyes and dazzling array of cashmere sweaters. It's testament to his extraordinary scope that even with a character as deafeningly normal/intolerably cuntish as 'Rob', Cusack can inspire, switching from caustic humour to gentle poignancy at the flick of a vinyl needle. Cusack's 'Rob' touches the inveterate list-maker, compilation obsessive and lifelong MOJO-subscriber in ALL of us - without once grating on the nerves. He helped me abandon my shame at being visited by Curtis Stigers in daydreams and organizing my record collection teleologically. And that says something!

My colleagues at the Seattle and I were DEVASTATED when he suffered a dramatic psychological breakdown after sharing a bagel (cream cheese and salmon), with martial arts legend, Jackie Chan. Friends and family of the 'Say Anything' hearthrob were so concerned they put him on Suicide Watch: the latest brainchild of musical genius, Simon Cowell, in which he decides who lives and dies - "Sorry sweetheart, you don't exactly cut the mustard, get slashing!" Showing typically excellent judgement when it comes to talent, Cowell chose to preserve the Grifter.

Cusack nonetheless fell into a spiral of depression. He grew reliant on a perilous cocktail of cocaine, oxycons and the child-tranquiliser 'McDonald's Happy Meal', earning the epithet "pioneer of Happy Meal chic" on account of his shapeless figure and increasingly leprotic gonads (as captured in anatomical detail above). It didn't help that he was pregnant with Steve Coogan's child.

In despair the 'Con Air' star fled to London, where he embedded in the 'gawky squawk' set of uber-trendy Hounslow East. He was often caught stumbling out of exclusive Little Chef eatery - so exclusive only the working-class and sickeningly hip are allowed in - without any underwear, flanked by hell-raising crooner David Hasselhoff and a mystery blonde heron.

His reckless lifestyle - sometimes partying till three (AM!), sometimes not making it to bed at all, "clearly the behaviour of a man losing a grip on his sanity," roared David Cameron of 'Dashing, Debonair, Dynamic Dave Cameron' fame - was taking its tool. He appeared at the MTV Movie Awards in Dusseldorf looking gaunt and disheveled. He had been due to present the award of 'Most Believable Rape scene', but before handing the statuette to Monica Belucci, was overcome with confusion and, in an otherwise implausible case of life imitating art, started ----------------the 'Irreversible' star-----------------fire extinguisher----------------barbarous melon-----------------Brian Paddick ----------------Giant Salami. (This passage has been expurgated in the interests of public decency. It can, however, be seen on Channel 4 later in the week).

In a further sign of his growing displacement from reality he joined the chorus of 9/11 sceptics, led by ex-soldier Charlie Sheen, who claimed Princess Diana was responsible for the attacks. The theory was denounced as a "left-wing hokum" by a number of indignant journalists. "It is essential to separate fact from poisonous propaganda," barked Fox News anchor Bill O'Reilly, before attempting to shove "crazy liberal jerkoff" Cusack head-first into an incinerator.

Over the coming months, attempting to save his tarnished image, Cusack linked himself with a number of humanitarian causes: he appeared on the cover of Men's Vogue posing with a whip, a pack of 'salted spreadable butter' and a dying polar bear. Unfortunately sales of salted spreadable butter instantly plummeted. The majority of the earth is now under water.

But Cusack is preparing for a comeback! He is set to write and direct a film tentatively titled 'Feng Shui Massacre'. Early word suggests it's a psychological horror based on the true story of the aggressive cockney from the Ronsil commercial (Tommy Lee Jones is tipped for the role) who went on a killing spree in Leicester (updated to Boston), having hacked his wife, kids, and family dog, Chouder, to pieces. The title comes into play as, in defiance of the feng shui code, the audience will have to sit on their heads. Judging by Cusack's past credos, the movie looks set to do exactly what it says on the tin!

Esteban x.