There are many things Saffron Burrows does well. She can wrap her nude ex-fashion-model body in diaphanous sheets as The Guitar’s free-spirited Melody Wilder, seeming like a force of nature. As an actor, she can bear the brunt of life-changing news (inoperable throat cancer) with a sense of stoic restraint. The Brit can even do a decent American accent. But one thing Burrows can’t do is rock out with her cock out—it’s beyond her. So when lonely Melody rents an expensive West Village loft to see out her final weeks with the help of a squealing red Fender Stratocaster and three Marshall stacks, you wince at the silliness.
The script comes from onetime punk filmmaker Amos Poe. It might have played better in the hands of an actor a little rougher. Or maybe it’s director Amy Redford’s fault. Note that surname: As befitting a child of the Sundance Kid, Redford leans heavily on the New Agey moments strewn throughout the film like Melody’s loft candles. She accrues two beautiful bed partners: a cheerful package man (Jarmusch regular De Bankolé) and a tough pizza-delivery girl (De la Huerta).
A euphoric three-way happens. But the movie has more clichéd rebirths in mind, and you’ll resent where it goes.