Since Prince first appeared on stage caressing the long neck of his guitar and sucking at its quivering head, he has been a man to watch. And if at first it was just to check that he did not creep up from behind, it burgeoned into something else...respect, earned by his raunchy, inventive brand of funk and the sense that here was someone who could be truly great. The considerable appeal of the film depends upon his presence, and luckily the man sweats charisma, for the plot is at best predictable, at worst incomprehensible. Partly autobiographical, part fiction, it tells of The Kid (Prince), product of a broken home and an impregnable ego, struggling to the top of the rock heap. His girlfriend Apollonia loves him but is attracted by his arch-enemy, lead singer with rival band The Time (it gets very reductionist). But this is all no more than fancy padding around the film's heart, which only starts to really pump when Prince is up on stage: a teasing, hot amalgam of Marc Bolan, Nijinsky and the Scarlet Pimpernel, as electric as his guitar.