Moulin Rouge

There was a boy. A very strange and enchanted boy," croons an ethereal little voice swooping over a Paris-slum roofscape circa 1899. It's talking about Ewan McGregor, of course, who is strange, but only on account of the industrialstrength grinning he does for all the bits of the flick that he doesn't spend crying. This is a film of emotional extremes, oh yes.

McGregor plays Christian, a young English writer journeying to Paris in search of the bohemian lifestyle to suit his creative genius. He is waylaid immediately by the most beautiful courtesan on the block (Nicole Kidman), whose name is Satine (if porn names now are your first pet plus your street name, back then it was just the material of your favourite client-pants). So far, so Cabaret, but that's as far as this film goes in its likeness to the greatest musical of all time. Where Liza Minnelli had quite a bit going for her - a big mutha of a voice and a nice healthy constitution - Kidman has a weedy little instrument and tuberculosis, which facts might or might not be related (and a cure for TB had not, as yet, been invented - neither had Madonna, for that matter, which doesn't stop a charming rendition of Material Girl. But that's the point of anachronism; it's only funny if it's inconsistent).

Kidman falls in love with McGregor straight back, and they hasten to snog all the time like teens, smothering lipstick all over one another, which activity is very charming, as well as offering up formerly undreamt-of avenues for continuity error. The relationship, however, is not to be - in a double-whammy of doom, Satine is both terminally ill and under contract to do the nasty with some toff, for the sake of her theatre and her career.

What McGregor does is not what you'd traditionally call singing, but he throws himself at the role of ingenue with real vim, and delights, with his powerfully felt feelings and large grin. Kidman capers around like a siren on a very fast spin cycle, which is also a pleasure to watch, if tinged with pathos. She is, after all, dying - and her trademark pale, sinewy look makes her uncomfortably convincing in this respect. As a couple, though, they're a bus ride away from credibility. There's something vital missing - I think it's called "the hots".

But never mind - this may be about life's four grand themes (truth, beauty, love and another one that escapes me), but the real point is the vast set pieces where girls in big skirts leap around with men in big hats, and the comprehensive superiority of our species is proved once and for all by our stunning ability to dance at the same time as one another. When choreographer John O'Connell is properly let loose, his is work of genius. Roxanne, the Eighties classic given a Latino orchestration, well - how do I put this without hyperbole? - it will put a smile on your face; likewise Kylie Minogue, morphing without much effort into a tiny sparkling fairy and wiggling her tiny sparkling fairy arse.

Like a Virgin, sung choral-style by a load of dancing waiters, with Jim Broadbent quasi-rapping over the top, is about the funniest thing you ever saw. There is original music here, the soundtrack flags it up proudly, but most of the songs are bad late-Eighties-early-Nineties rock, frankly - in some cases, medley-fied together so they sound even more absurd than they did at the time. And yet the big moments are magnificent. They shall go down in history, if anyone ever does write a history of Most Amusing Uses of Nirvana (which someone surely should).

Visually this is a very un-cinematic film - bar some cool-looking fast editing to emphasise the fairy-tale element, or simply to make Broadbent move a bit swiftly (it would be nice to see a new Oscar for greatest weight gain in the name of art - it could be called the Zellweger award. Broadbent would win it for each of his last five films). Otherwise, it's all as theatrical as a tantrum, and easily as compelling. The sets are a cross between words like " sumptuous", and a heartless onslaught of crazed activity and kitsch golden knick-knacks (those are the artefacts, not the crisps).

The dialogue largely sucks, although Broadbent makes it sing, just by being as good as he always is. Richard Roxburgh, employing the ancient actorly skills of yesteryear, manages to make the baddie toff absolutely revolting without any noticeably revolting physical attributes. That was impressive. More impressive still, though, would have been if director Baz Lurhmann had recognised the show stoppers for what they were and given us a few more of them.

But I carp! There is plenty here to keep musical-lovers in a transport of joy. Whether it will convert those who don't like the genre to start with, well, I doubt it. But they are flinty churls, they don't deserve entertainment.

Moulin Rouge
Cert: 12A