Film

It is said that Bill Murray likes to sneak up behind strangers in New York, whisper, “Guess who?” and, when they turn around, tell them: “I’m Bill Murray. No one will ever believe you.” This would not be funny in a club, in Sainsbury’s or on campus, nor is it a good way to meet strangers.

Picture the scene: It’s 10.30pm on a Saturday night and I am surrounded by glitter, false eyelashes and the distinct smell of hairspray; as a marvelously glamorous sequin-clad drag queen takes to the stage, welcomed by the rejoicing roar of an eclectic crowd of bourgeoisie zombies and blood-splattered doctors. One might be excused for assuming that what I am describing is a nightmarish Halloween night on Canal Street, that, however, is not the case.

Cheesier than cheddar, the old ballet-meets-hip hop story is given a new edge on the sparkling London backdrop. Granted, it’s not quite as glamorous as the Step-Up franchise, but a subtle British influence, (from Union Jack t-shirts to the music featured), adds a certain charm.

Taking its inspiration from Marks’ 1996 autobiography of the same name, Mr Nice is unsurprisingly reverential and seems reluctant to ask any real questions of its protagonist. Most crucially, by presenting Marks as ‘Mr Nice’, the film fails to explore the moral dilemma inherent to his profession. Instead, Rose’s script opts for a rather shallow pro-legalisation, pro-Marks stance which ultimately suggests, to quote one glib piece of dialogue, that ‘it’s the law that’s wrong’.