The disconnect between (overactive) creativity and effect is painfully evident in this Kevin Spacey vanity project. One part Fosse, one part Pirandello, two parts Brecht, with some color-coordinated Vincente Minnelli stylings and then fitted out with its own contrarian commentary, Kevin Spacey’s ode to all things Bobby Darin is exhausting rather than exhilarating. Playing Bobby Darin in his 20s & 30s with a puffy/pasty face that’s pushing fifty, Spacey tries to trump the age issue by acknowledging the discrepancy; he even winks at Darin’s presumed cultural irrelevancy (that "Ring-A-Ding-Ding" sensibility). It just makes the fancy stylistics play as camouflage for his uneven cast and what turns out to be the oldest career story arc in the book. By film’s end, there’s nothing to hang an emotional response onto.
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