As the film’s monotonous use of cut-happy concert footage demonstrates, even the brashest music can become flaccid when juxtaposed with a “proper” love scene. While rock’s ability to bridge booty and booze feels nearly as old as the aforementioned hobby, Winterbottom draws some cinematically unexplored parallel between the live rock experience and the claustrophobia and agoraphobia of a relationship… or, so one would think. The film’s most egregious annoyance is, oh yeah, its purported rockness. However, when viewed again, the structural flaws of 9 Songs become apparent and distracting. 9 Songs‘ intimate moments establish a distinguished and resonant sense of space the first time around. And, quite frankly, depending on your sexual experience and maturity, you may recognize Lisa and Matt’s situation. Through sex, specifically the surrender and exposition of self through this oldest human hobby, Michael Winterbottom communicates the beauty and pain of a relationship. Certainly, as a film, it is more “fantasy” than “attainable”, but it also makes Matt’s liaison with Lisa (Margo Stilley) believable by keeping their story simple: they explore each other through fucking. The trouble with 9 Songs is its focus on the transitory, as Jesse Hassenger notes in his review of the film for PopMatters. While bold and apparent in its profundity, like the waning passion depicted, it dissipates.
However, on DVD, repeated spins past the statement only highlight the hot mess that is 9 Songs.
While mildly pretentious, the statement is innocuous in the context of a film more notable for its graphic depiction of carnality. Like two people in bed.” The statement is one of the few snippets of scripted speech, not to mention a rare bit of off-screen narration. Drawing a parallel between Antarctic exploration and a previous relationship, Matt (Kieran O’Brien) says, “Claustrophobia and agoraphobia are in the same place.
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