Much of the time, guys can be really, really stupid, even when they're being fairly clever. Things that seem fairly obvious to women just whiz right past us poor guys, and then we have no clue why people are mad at us.

For a special breed of us, however, music is the beginning and the end of everything. There's a type of music for every mood, and sometimes we let music speak for us when we can't quite figure out the words. Many an awkward moment could be fixed up if only we could find the right song to explain exactly what was on our minds. Instead of telling someone what was really on our mind, romantically speaking, we make up a mixed tape filled with songs that would have been really heartfelt had WE written them, and not some guy we don't know, thousands of miles away and tens of years in the past. We labour under some strange illusion that handing over this carefully-selected mixed tape that we will somehow cause someone to fall madly in love with us. Of course, it never really works that way.

This is precisely the kind of person that Nick Hornby's book High Fidelity spoke to: the kind of guy who would rather play the Ramones "I Wanna Be Your Boyfriend" for their paramour than actually come out and *gasp, horror of horrors* actually SAY it. It's not that these guys are particularly bad fellows, it's just that they haven't exactly grown up emotionally yet. These are grown men that would sit around and exchange obtuse and obscure musical trivia, and mentally beat each other up for perceived violations of good taste or factual inaccuracy. You know, blokes.

Although the book was set in London, it spoke to anyone who's ever been there. Both the record store experience and falling in and out of lover are remarkably similar no matter where you are, be it Toronto, Austin, Madrid, Brandon, Philly, etc. We recognize ourselves in the main character, both the unabashed love of music of all kinds as well as the reluctance to deal with our emotional insecurities. And we celebrate at the same time we hang our heads in shame.

It was with a certain amount of wariness that many of us approached the idea of a High Fidelity movie. How could Hollywood possibly do justice to a book that seemed to be so specialized and revealed so many of our deepest secrets? This wariness only increased when it was revealed that the setting of the book was changed from London to Chicago. Please please please, we pleaded to ourselves and to anyone else who knew, please don't let this movie suck.

It turns out we needn't have worried too much. Just as a prairie boy like myself could relate to record store guys from London, the record store guys of Chicago were the same. Although some of the mannerisms are different, it translates so well it's scary. It doesn't matter whether Championship Vinyl is in Chicago, Dubuque or the London of the book: it's all the same, really. Guys fall in and out of love, agonize about it, then go back to collecting rare bootlegs.

The way the rest of the movie was handled, however, was more the issue. Would it be dumbed down for a wider audience? Would enough of it translate over? How could they possibly capture the essence of the book within conventional narrative? The answers, thankfully, were: no, yes, and they didn't even try to do it conventionally. Thank Bob.

As in the book, the movie takes a first-person perspective. Rob Gordon (nee Fleming, from the novel) often breaks the sacred "fourth wall" of cinema, addressing the camera directly as if it was you, the viewer. You would think this would be a terribly annoying thing, but it's done sparsely enough that when Rob (played here by John Cusack, who I don't hate despite the previous piece in the writing section) looks into the camera, it's like he's taking us into his confidence. Most of the time when he's talking to us, he's trying to figure out what's gone wrong with his latest relationship, and trying to spot the patterns from his previous relationships.

Oblivious to what's going on in Rob's life, record store co-workers Barry and Dick steal the show. Dick (played by Todd Louiso) is the timid record store clerk who is just waiting for his musical soul-mate to come along. Barry (Jack Black), on the other hand, is loud, obnoxious, and opinionated. When I used to work at a record store, I worked with both of these guys, and though the movie makes it seem like fun, sometimes it wasn't. In retrospect, the long stretches of mind-numbing tedium don't really count when compared to some of the characters we had, such as the guy who sat around making up long lists of absurd questions like "Have you ever combed your hair with a pork chop?", or the girl who complained endlessly about what a huge pervert her boyfriend was but would never actually tell us what, precisely, he was doing to earn this distinction.

The movie, thankfully, doesn't try to soft-sell this part of the book for more mainstream palatability. Despite that, the audience seems to enjoy the movie; both times I've gone to see the movie so far, the reaction has been incredibly favourable...and I know there aren't that many record geeks out there.

I've found out that both the book and the movie appeal to women just as much as to the men to whom the book is supposed to speak. Is it because of some sense of voyeurism, where the women sit in to try to figure out what makes men tick? I think it's actually something else: even though High Fidelity is theoretically about guys and for guys, it speaks to people in general. Both men and women can see their own dumbest moments brought to life and realize,"Hey, I'm not alone."

I'm probably going back to see it again.