Moulin Rouge

Undeniably one of the most visually dazzling cinematic creations in recent memory, this insanely extravagant modern-day opera/musical is at once both a remarkable artistic achievement and a ridiculously overblown heap of pretentious, self-indulgent frippery. I must acknowledge from the start that perhaps I am not quite the prototypical member of Moulin Rouge’s target audience. However, and if you are the kind of individual who lives for musicals, Baz Luhrmann’s latest blast of kitsch madness is almost certainly the most mouth-watering feast served up for your consumption since Madonna’s Evita.

Glaringly garish, strikingly colourful and camper than anything you’ve clapped eyes on since Velvet Goldmine, the entire experience makes the Eurovision seem downright dignified. Packing in enough cheesy ’80s pop tunes to drive you to slice your own ears off in self-defence, Moulin Rouge‘s chaotic, surreal atmosphere isn’t at all dissimilar to that generated by mind-bending hallucinogenic drugs. It’s sprawling beyond description and seems almost improvised in narrative, but it’s clearly choreographed and scripted with a precision that borders on the military.

In terms of plot, it’s a conventional enough love story between Ewan McGregor’s impoverished writer and Nicole Kidman’s high-class whore, but all this is merely an excuse for a Technicolor overkill of glittering, all-singing, all-dancing, extravagently-costumed poncery. Barely have the credits rolled than we find ourselves exposed to Nicole Kidman cavorting across the screen in corset and fishnets crooning amelodic versions of those definitive feminist anthems ‘Material Girl’ and ‘Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend’, while a barrel-load of assorted whores and absinthe-soaked noblemen crank up equally noisy versions of (respectively) ‘Lady Marmalade’ and ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’. From this point, the film proceeds to become more and more outlandish at a rate of knots.

Terminal connoiseurs of camp will probably sport huge shit-eating grins all the way through, what with Elton John and Communards tunes going off in all directions: Luhrmann (Strictly Ballroom, Romeo & Juliet) clearly prides himself on flamboyance above all else, and there’s absolutely no arguing with Moulin Rouge’s visual flair. Needless to say, it’s all style over substance: when you strip away the ultra-gaudy surface, it’s an extremely strightforward romance set in 19th-century Paris at its most decadent, pitching McGregor’s vaguely idiotic idealist in pursuit of Kidman’s prize ‘courtesan’, who is promised to the stinking-rich Duke of Worcester (Richard Roxburgh). Her initial interest in him quickly recedes when she susses that he hasn’t the proverbial pot to piss in, but he grins so goofily and quotes U2 lyrics with such straight-faced sincerity that she eventually falls for his charms. The comically evil Duke, however, issues a diktat that McGregor will be killed if Kidman refuses to sleep with him (the Duke, that is), thus forcing the film into more serious territory. Yeah, right: for all its epic romantic pretensions, Moulin Rouge is ultimately an emotionally empty and very carefully calculated slice of work, devoid of real heart or anything original to say beyond endless trite variations on the theme of ‘all you need is love’.

A feast for the eyes – and an absolute eternity in tortureland for the ears – this is quite the weirdest entity to bestride our screens in some time.