There are a lot of in-jokes and the script is quite dense so for me really benefited a lot by a second viewing.This film is definitely "Marmite"> You will notice pretty well all of the prior reviews are either highly praising, or castigating. Personally I feel the film has flaws, but the more you see it the funnier and better it gets - not many films stand up so well to repeated viewings.Duncan Ward is one of the wittiest directors. He comes from the art world being both initially a video artist, art collector, whilst also honing his directorial skills in the lucrative world of commercials. He married Mollie Dent-Brocklehurst, the gallery professional / owner who had links to the world famous Gagosian Gallery, Abramovich and many other colourful characters and respected (and not by some) galleries and people. So there was no one with a better view of the art world to have made and written the Screenplay than Ward!

London's contemporary art world, everyone has a hustle. Art Spindle runs a high-end gallery and he hopes to flip a painting for millions. One of his assistants, Beth, is sleeping with Art's most acquisitive client, Bob Macclestone. Beth wants Bob to set her up in her own gallery, so she helps him go behind Art's back for the painting. Bob's wife, Jean, sets her eye on a young conceptual artist, Jo, who lusts after Art's newest assistant, Paige. Meanwhile, self-absorbed lesbian Filmmaker is chewing her way through friends and lovers looking to make it. If she dumps her agent, Beth may give her a show.....The cast are great, and the film looks amazing, even though it took me ten minutes to realise the film wasn't set in the seventies, but all in all, it's just too busy, and it gets lost up its own backside.The director must think that when you get such a beautiful cast, things like plot, narrative, and character study do not really matter, just throw in a couple of nude scenes and the public will be interested.It seems that this must of been a pet project for him, and I guess he's some kind of 'luvvie' in theatre, but the man cannot direct.It's full of people moaning about money and being good looking and wanting more and more, and then losing it all and shouting, and taking drugs and alcohol.If I want that, I can just go into the city on a Saturday night.Awful and pretentious, but Winstone is fantastic.

Gillian Anderson gives a luminous performance. The only time I laughed out loud in the movie is when she tries to pronounce "I want a divorce." Terrific.Apart from that the film, although it tries to give us the sarcastic delight of lecherous emphasis on lecherous subjects, does not succeed in juggling its elements, it rather passes form one stance to the other and does not wind up its end quite well.There are worthy passages, from listening to Cristopher Lee playing with accent, to Rampling's trivializing "I'm famished!" just to give two minute examples, but it seems the film draws its moral from the art it exemplifies. The moment poor Paige (Sayfried) discovers the black surprise of her heart transplanted in one of Hirst's formaldehyde cubes and bursts in tears, we do not so much nod our heads in agreement as recognize the grisly limitations of such artistic nihilism (by that I also mean the gross gesture of offering such a thing). That there is an ersatz classic cautionary tone in the film it makes it seem more of a construct, where it should benefit from a more carefree tone like in that scene of sweeping irony in "The Big Lebowski" where Marianne Moore - was casting Anderson inspired by this, by their somewhat similar looks? - attacks the canvas flying.And please restrict those jazzy soundtracks that signal pop englishness. They are as overused as Alan Cumming's mannerisms.All they can do is give the film a more dour look, and not an intimate look on dour matters.

With its many stars and connections eminently qualified to speak about the art scene, I was well-primed to enjoy Boogie Woogie to the utmost.It's based on a successful novel by author and screenwriter Danny Moynihan. The movie is a sexy black comedy set amid the hustle-bustle of fine art acquisition, dealers and galleries with concomitant affairs, in contemporary London. Characters slyly draw on real people. Critics and art experts have consequently been falling over themselves to show their knowledge of closely-linked actual persons and events. Whatever the disclaimer says.Boogie Woogie has gone to great lengths for authenticity. Real masterpieces are cleverly interwoven with fictions. Even the title work is so closely allied to the real thing that it makes you wonder. (Boogie Woogie is the name of a series of prized paintings by Mondrain, and the central artwork in the film is an accurately fictionalised piece, only destroyed afterwards at the request of Mondrain's Estate).Dealer and gallery owner, Art Spindle (Danny Huston), wants 'Boogie-Woogie.' A painting he covets above all else. Its current owner, Alfred Rhinegold (played by Christopher Lee), is desperately ill. Rhinegold's wife (Joanna Lumley) wants to up the ante by encouraging rival bidders. Especially Bob Maclestone, a collector incisively played by Stellan Skarsgard. The plot is further complicated by everyone jumping into bed with temptingly wrong people and for deliciously wrong reasons. The BBFC, after a spoiler alert, goes into not inconsiderable detail over the somewhat singular sexual content. So I won't. Fans of funky erotic subject matter have no fear: you shall find out for yourselves.Boogie Woogie brims over with great actors. Nobody needs to be ashamed of performances here, with or without clothes. They are cast in great roles and throw themselves into performances in a way that belies their love of art and desire for the picture to succeed. And so if its reach is slightly greater than its grasp, I nevertheless feel a bit uncomfortable explaining why it doesn't put woogie back into my boogie.Comedy, like abstract art, is to an extent subjective. But Boogie Woogie tilts at both windmills without embracing either. 'Ripping the lid off the art world,' is a great and noble concept. But the result here, for one reason or another, is uneven, woefully ill-judged, and a squandering of talent that borders on sacrilege. Gags aren't very funny, it doesn't arouse our passion for art, and most of the 'in' references are pointlessly unintelligible to anyone not already familiar with finer details of the respective power-brokers' sex lives.Danny Moynihan has relocated the story of his novel from New York to London: this is where some of the problems arise. Lines sound inauthentic, unconvincing, as if desperately trying to persuade us that this is Real Cockney Art-World. Subtler tones of any backstory also seem damaged. Mondrian's last painting, for instance, 'Broadway Boogie Woogie,' represents the restless motion of Manhattan. Its grid-like patterns suggest New York's ordered chaos. It has a prominent yellow which is the yellow of New York taxicabs. And a metaphor to jazz in the title echoes the movement and rhythm that are seen as analogous to Mondrian's painted marks. There are even deeper studies about the art referred to, which relate to the nature of perception, but the film seems to have lost these at the word go. Any eponymous substance has long been abandoned before such thoughts could kick in.We are, however, treated to a constant (and at times intrusive) jazz soundtrack. And much arty chat. All delivered at a speed guaranteed not to detract from the sight of Gemma Atkinson (or Gillian Anderson) treating us to glimpses of their more tangible assets. As both Moynihan and director Duncan Ward have been intimately involved with art, not to mention Damien Hirst being present as consultant, one might be forgiven for wanting a little more meat on this bone than provided by the purely, if you'll excuse me, pornographic aspects of such a pun.Joanna Lumley reprises some of the flavour from her hit TV series, Absolutely Fabulous. The familiar clash of taste and gobbiness is in full flow. But whereas Ab Fab scored with visual gags and highly developed comic characters, Boogie Woogie's attempt to lampoon style-over-substance seems injudicious and hollow. Whereas Mondrian's actual work bristles with luminous colour, the film tries too hard to be bright and ends up lacklustre. In a word, inadequate to the task. Leading parts are not charismatic enough to command or sustain appeal for the full hour and a half, even with such great actors. Timing of jokes seems rehearsed rather than spontaneous. The overall effect is ironically artificial.One of the best things about Boogie Woogie is that it might inspire you, as it inspired me, to read the original novel. The book is not everyone's cup of tea – but it is undoubtedly original, well-written, quite often shocking, and does everything the movie set out to do and doesn't.Strangely, for a film I have to admit I didn't like very much, I am strongly drawn to watching it again. I want to imagine it as it could have been. Should have been. A film that makes us care about art. Laugh about the shenanigans. Feel shocked or excited by sex and drugs and jazz. And I desperately, desperately, want to see a note at the end-credits that reassures me: "No actors were harmed in the making of this train wreck." Boogie Woogie is an oddity. Not quite bad enough to be good, and not good enough to wholeheartedly recommendable. But, like a painting where the oils contained the wrong amount of linseed, the effort that has gone into its ill-fated brushstrokes is nevertheless sadly commendable.