Even though this is only his first movie, rock star Prince is no more equipped to play a show-biz upstart than was Barbra Streisand in A Star Is Born. He shows no fear of the camera, but rather supreme confidence that it loves him (him, that is, and his Pepe Le Pew-style, eyelash-batting sexuality). He is not even afraid to let one of the characters call him a "long-haired faggot." And he always moves well on stage, with his masturbation pantomime being a highlight of some sort. But the dramatic context often takes much of the luster off. The curtain-closer, for example, must be awarded the dubious distinction of Best Vocal Performance the Day After One's Father Has Shot Himself in the Head (Especially When One Hasn't Told One's Band What One's Plans Are and One Hasn't Had the Chance to Rehearse). The movie is really little more than a series of music videos stitched together with dialogue that would hardly fill a postcard. This -- the liberation from normal verbal plot exposition -- might seem more interesting, might almost seem a reversion to the visual narrative technique of the silent cinema, if the individual images were not so numbingly clichéd: fog-shrouded stage numbers, candlelit lovemaking, motorcycle rides through the countryside (the boot on the kick-starter, the sunlight streaming through treetops, the autumn leaves whipped up on the pavement). The message that dimly comes through all this, to do with building a bridge across the generation gap, is surprisingly and commendably decent-minded. Written and directed by Albert Magnoli. (1094) — Duncan Shepherd
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