"Nine" Review, in brief

“Nine” has all the sex appeal money can buy. Penelope Cruz, clad in lacy lingerie, stretches her long legs over her head; Fergie howls and growls while she rolls around on the beach wearing little more than a shawl; even Dame Judi Dench squeezes into a corset.

But “Nine” loses the depth of the Maury Yeston, Arthur Kopit musical on which the movie is based by using famous faces – and bodies – instead of capable voices.

While Daniel Day-Lewis gives a passionate performance as Guido Contini, a filmmaker and philanderer with a bad case of writer’s block, he speak-sings through the score’s difficult moments, whispering the anguished high notes in “I Can’t Make This Movie” and shortening held notes, an interruption to Yeston’s melody lines. As Guido’s mistress Carla, Cruz delivers “A Call from the Vatican” using similar disappointing techniques, though her recording includes a dazzling high C, which only the sound mixers know the authenticity of.

Still, at least their songs are integral to the story of a man fighting for his craft and his women. Kate Hudson, playing a Vogue writer and Contini fan, sings the bossa nova-style “Cinema Italiano,” a song created just for the movie. In addition to sounding like a karaoke performance, the song has no bearing on the plot. Another new song, the burlesque number “Take It All” performed by Guido’s wife Louisa, played by Marion Cotillard, feels weak. It replaces the stage show’s “Be on Your Own,” a powerful declaration that Louisa is finally leaving Guido. “Be on Your Own” frees Louisa from marriage; “Take It All” frees her from clothing.

Only Fergie’s gritty version of “Be Italian,” her voice full and lusty, burns with the passion of which she sings – and her over-the-shoulder glances during the song’s tambourine dance are smoldering. She combines the name-recognition, talent and sex appeal producers obviously felt they needed to sell the movie. But, if all the material had the strength of “Be Italian,” she and Day-Lewis could have done that without Cruz, Cotillard or – especially – Hudson.

Tim Burton at MoMA

From Edward Scissorhands to Jack Skellington, the characters in many of Tim Burton’s films reflect the alienation he felt as a child in suburban Burbank, California. The Burton exhibit on display at the Museum of Modern Art echoes this sense of isolation through its content – one set of drawings is titled “Little Dead Riding Hood”– and in its placement in the same building as Monet.

Red-and-white-striped monsters created by a film director that does not consider himself an artist by trade may seem out of place in MoMA. But Burton’s skill in several media – an oil painting of a wolf howling at the moon recalls the swirls of “Starry Night” and detail-oriented pencil drawings of the Martian brain look more like finished pieces than sketches – should convince visitors otherwise.

Unfortunately, curators Ron Magliozzi, Jenny He and Rajendra Roy undermine the respect a MoMA exhibit demonstrates with poor organization of the artwork. Burton’s work seems, at first, to be divided chronologically, though there is little direction for visitors looking for progression in his work. Placards with years and descriptors about the mostly untitled works, correspond only haphazardly to where the pieces actually hung on the wall, and the full walls overwhelm instead of welcome.

After several walls of morbidly funny drawings with hand-written captions like “Whipping a cow for whipped cream,” another room changes the exhibit’s focus from Burton, the artist to Burton, Hollywood phenomenon. A platform displaying movie props, like the white sweater from “Ed Wood,” is essential for Burton’s cult following, as are the sketches of characters from “Batman,” “Sweeney Todd” and others that hang on the surrounding walls. However, the awe they inspire diminishes the disclosure of Burton’s never-before-seen art – and the creations of the lonely boy from Burbank continue being ignored.