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High Fidelity (2000)

A Comedy Of Lofty Notes

A review by Michael S. Goldberger.
Copyright © Michael S. Goldberger 2000
I have always enjoyed studying the passions of others, the humorously evoked theme at the core of High Fidelity. Aside from being a self-congratulating exercise in tolerance, the practice has proved an enlightening lantern into the recesses of my own zeal and enthusiasms, such as they are. In theory, by listening to the philatelist wax rhapsodic about his 1853 Bora Bora first day cover, the numismatist might better comprehend the fervour with which he delights in his 1909 S-VDB Lincoln penny. In turn, he could impart his speciality to the railroad buff, who perchance would teach something to the butterfly collector. And so on, and so on, in a glorious, globe-encircling daisy chain of ardour and forbearance.

Record storeowner Rob Gordon (John Cusack), lead character in High Fidelity and devotee to music inscribed in vinyl, also has a theory. He contends that we are our passions. Thus, it is entirely possible that, right here, in only the second paragraph of this review, we've put together the key to the human personality, as well as international harmony. Who knows what we'll surmise by column's end.

World peace? That's small potatoes. Director Stephen Frears' film adaptation of Nick Hornby's novel by the same title has bigger fish to fry, a far more elusive goal. Via John Cusack as the perplexed protagonist in obsessive search of romantic actualisation, Mr. Frears (The Grifters) dares embark on a comprehension of l'amour. And while he won't win a Nobel Prize for successfully isolating the DNA at the core of La Difference, his intrepid observations on the war between the sexes are nonetheless astute, funny and philosophically worthwhile.

Fond of lists (the 5 best this, the 10 best that), lovelorn Rob has sarcastically created his own hit parade. In a flourish of self-deprecating bravado on the eve of his break-up with latest love Laura (Iben Hjejle), he names the five that got away -- the biggest heartbreaks of his life. Making like a Toynbee of love, he hopes to learn from his history. And we are beseeched to come along, to corroborate his findings.

There's the first love, then the well-scrubbed preppy girl in high school, followed by the vain artist (Catherine Zeta-Jones), etc., etc. Narrating with smirky satisfaction in what amounts to a feature-length stage whisper, he takes solace in the convenience that Laura didn't make the top five. That's what he thinks.

Using music as an all-encompassing metaphor, analysing his life and loves through old songs and illumining flashbacks, Rob's retrospective is a kinder, gentler, Generation X version of Carnal Knowledge. And despite the acerbic young man's complete and steady contribution to the film's R-rating, this variation on the theme also imbues its lead with a smattering of Holden Caulfield-like naivete. Cusack makes his self-involved wag likeable enough, plaintively a victim of bad judgement and raging hormones.

Aiding and abetting the confused Casanova are two of the most enamouring sidekicks to grace a motion picture since As Good As It Gets. Fellow record mayvins, loyal employees and devoted pals behind the workplace banter, they are contentiously abrasive Barry (Jack Black), a would-be rock 'n' roller, and excessively passive Dick (Todd Louiso), resident shrinking violet extraordinaire. They get most of the laughs.

Recalling the Frank McHughs, S.Z. Sakalls and James Gleasons who epitomised the golden days of studio lot casting, Messrs. Black and Louiso are professionally stunning. The staunch pals are to the record store boss what the barkeeps were to Rick in Casablanca. They make the film. And speaking of The Boss, Bruce Springsteen drops by in a rare cameo to strum some advice and encouragement for Rob, the way Bogart did for Woody Allen's poor shlumpf in Play It Again Sam.

Fomenting an insane synergy, less brooding than Smoke but not quite as irreverent as Clerks, the troika uses the retail environment to act out their mutual interest in esoteric and obscure music. With obnoxious Barry perennially on the attack, the customers inevitably serve as the unwitting foils. Obsequious Dick then tries to make amends. And Rob relates everything to his shambles of a love life. Like Alfie, he wonders what it's all about.

As the current object of his affection, the Danish-born Miss Hjejle makes Laura a worthy adversary. Exuding charity and understanding, and doubtless a saint for putting up with Chicago's answer to Tom Jones until just recently, the attractive lawyer is nevertheless her own person; appropriately mysterious and difficult to read. And to further complicate matters, she's now keeping company with Ian, the upstairs neighbour (Tim Robbins). Would she come back to Rob if he cleaned up his act? That's the $64 question.

For all its cutting edge trappings and cynical dialogue, Mr. Frears's immersion into contemporary folkways and mores among young singles turns out to be a traditional tale of self-discovery and morality, delivered at quite an engaging angle. In tune with the times, High Fidelity strikes some very entertaining chords.

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