Behind the swathes of purple, there was a dead serious story about damaged domesticity and teenage rage at the heart of Purple Rain. So for the feature follow-up, it's understandable that the electro-rock-RnB maestro should aim for a lighter tone. If anything, this romantic comedy encapsulates the Prince persona - sexy, funny, sweet and sentimental - more accurately than its Oscar-winning predecessor. Gone is the concert film structure and in comes the screwball slapstick, set against an ostentatious and anachronistic Riviera backdrop, which isn't the '30s, and even farther from the '80s.
You can decry the acting and the script, neither of which rises above functional, and the echoing vacuity of it all, but to condemn the film for being a vanity project is empty in itself. It's like complaining when a Peckinpah movie goes slow-mo, or lamenting that the Farrelly Brothers' latest work isn't Bergmanesque enough. You get predictable treasures with a Prince movie: barrels of fun, colourful characters (even in black and white), great music, and an ego the size of Montmartre - and Under the Cherry Moon is the richest trove of the lot.
You can decry the acting and the script, neither of which rises above functional, and the echoing vacuity of it all, but to condemn the film for being a vanity project is empty in itself. It's like complaining when a Peckinpah movie goes slow-mo, or lamenting that the Farrelly Brothers' latest work isn't Bergmanesque enough. You get predictable treasures with a Prince movie: barrels of fun, colourful characters (even in black and white), great music, and an ego the size of Montmartre - and Under the Cherry Moon is the richest trove of the lot.