Film Review: Tonight You're Mine“I’ve known her ten hours and I know her better than you,” the hero tells his romantic rival in this contrived bore, by which time you’ll also feel like ten hours have passed.
At Scotland’s massive “T in the Park” music fest, two bands collide when rock star Adam (Luke Treadway), a member of The Make, gets into a scuffle with unknown lead singer Morello (Natalia Tena) of The Dirty Pinks. An enigmatic black man suddenly appears and handcuffs them together before disappearing. As Adam and Morello fume over their chained-together state, bicker and eventually fall in love, their partners (Ruta Gedmintas and Alastair Mackenzie) show up to add to their dilemma.
In 1935, Alfred Hitchcock used this handcuff gambit on Robert Donat and Madeleine Carroll in his classic The 39 Steps, where it was infinitely more amusing and sexy. Both of Hitch’s leads had charm and glamour—something woefully lacking here—and the Master of Suspense also knew not to prolong the device for his entire movie’s duration. Here, the filmmakers cling to it like a life raft, and the end result is one long, stultifying and unfunny joke. The idea of setting an unlikely romance against the documentary background of an actual rock festival must have struck them as a genius idea, but their fictional concept is so artificial that the thing never meshes organically. We get a lot of random shots of the crowd getting smashed, rolling in the inevitable mud, dancing ecstatically and, of course, texting.
If any of the characters had been remotely appealing, this might have worked, but neither Treadway, in a distractingly low-cut top which would have better served the girl, or Tena, who’s abrasively one-note, are the stuff of cinematic romantic dreams. They come alive together only once, singing a cover of “Tainted Love.” The supporting cast, who often appear to be lamely improvising various eccentricities, doesn’t add much fun either. The only diversion comes from some of the music which often does truly rock (the Proclaimers, Newton Faulkner), but there’s not enough of it before that dreary non-story has to repeatedly take over.