Director: Richard Curtis
Starring: Philip Seymour Hoffman, Rhys Ifans, Chris O'Dowd
2/5
In their heyday, Ealing Studios produced a slew of comedies about the little man against the state; rebels trying to paint rainbows in a black and white world.
In timely fashion, writer-director Richard Curtis has borrowed and updated the theme - although he returns to the 1960s to allow him to explore his first love - the golden age of rock and roll.
This is his hymn to the pirate radio days, when the BBC stuck its fingers in its ears and went la, la, la, to drown out the explosion of British rock and pop.
In response, 25million people retuned the dials on their Roberts to the pirate ships and their free-form DJs who played music just beyond the reach of the law.
The Boat That Rocked recreates the battle lines of the age.
Miserly ministers
A bunch of overgrown schoolboys lock themselves in a rusty crate to write the first chapter on sex and drugs and rock and roll, egged on by a generation of nurses, dockers, mechanics and schoolgirls eager to be shocked and enlightened.
Meanwhile, miserly government ministers (embodied by a gloriously Cromwellian Kenneth Branagh) plot to bring the renegades into line with all the puritan fury of a disappointed dad waiting in the drizzle outside a disco.
Curtis puts together a formidable array of TV, film and comedic talents to recreate the boys-will-be-boys stew of innuendo and indulgence.
TV's Nick Frost and Chris O'Dowd join Curtis alumni Bill Nighy and Rhys Ifans along with newcomer Rhys (Flight Of The Conchords) Darby.
Philip Seymour Hoffman adds weight and character as The Count while a flutter of girls (including Gemma Arterton) parade in and out as mini-skirted objects of lust and conquest.
The star, though, is the music, thudding throughout. In a claustrophic cacophony of rib-digging and rivalry, the music alone is accorded space and respect. Despite the familiarity of the songs, Curtis still manages to capture the shock and awe contained in those well-thumbed 45s.
Unfortunately, the film, like the rusty hulk that houses Radio Rock, is structurally unsound.
Striking images
Curtis has no clue what to do with his ensemble cast once he has them in place so he links together feeble sitcom sequences that have no particular grounding or purpose and lead to nothing original.
With no story particularly to occupy them, the characters drift into caricature, the dialogue descends into cliché and the conflict tends towards the artificial.
The overblown third act comes from another work entirely (but does manage to showcase Curtis's developing eye for striking images) while the film repeats the directorial weaknesses of Love Actually - bagginess and lack of narrative drive.
But, Curtis always makes the best of a bad job. He just about holds the thing together by dint of his generosity of spirit and charm, helped by a dollop of nostalgia and his habit of grating sentimentality over the mix.
You smile, even though you can feel the tweak of the strings. Then your teeth fall out.
One day we'll see through Richard Curtis and have no more of him, but that day is not this day.
First published at wharf.co.uk on April 11, 2009
