[NOTE: in lieu of a fresh post this week, i'm sharing the final entry from our short-lived original RRB, dated December 12th, 2022.]
Rob, thank you for the enthusiastic intro, but we're no longer called Sonic Death Monkey.
I haven't rewatched High Fidelity in some time because of my deep and correct conviction that the charms it held for me as a very pretentious teenager would only mortify me now. I'd be willing to write it off entirely, except that I can't forget its foremost redeeming quality: Jack Black is there, and he sings "Let's Get It On," and it fucking rules.
One thing about me, I love a diegetic musical performance. I'm not talking about movie musicals, or even musical biopics — I'm talking about Robin Williams on the piano in The Birdcage, Heath Ledger running around the stands in 10 Things I Hate About You. I'm talking about the part in You've Got Mail when they're all gathered around at Christmastime singing the instrument song. A big dance number is undeniably fun, Ferris Bueller on a parade float, etc, but there's something about those randomly intimate vocal performances, an actor just humbling themselves for the muses. Nowadays, of course, it's old news that Jack Black can sing. But watching High Fidelity for the first time, having that rug pulled out from under you when he opens his mouth, you feel just as blindsided as Rob. I love those cuts between Barry on stage and Rob and Laura in the audience; their surprise, their real delight; for all its faults, High Fidelity knew the world it was making fun of, knew how to replicate that almost religious feeling, swaying in the pit of a club, understanding that whatever you're seeing on stage will never be replicated. It's a miracle! It's a magic trick!
