Oh reader, I have failed you. Strip me of my credentials. I cannot lie. As a reviewer of things, it is my duty to remain fair and objective, but Pirate Radio leaves me at war with myself, wondering if I must walk off the plank of credibility.

I cannot tell you how good of a movie Pirate Radio is. It is not all that surprising, sometimes it’s cheap, sometimes it’s cliched, sometimes it seems to cheat. But…I cannot tell you not to see it. I cannot tell you it’s a bad movie. It’s sweet potato pie. It’s soul food.

As I’m writing this review, someone just asked me what I thought of the movie. A list of metaphors spewed from my mouth. This movie is like watching a mix-tape. It’s like candy — you know it’s bad for you, but it’s too sweet to resist. It’s like a girlfriend that you blindly love. Are there prettier girls? Sure. One that would treat you better? Sure. But do you love this one? Yes. Yes you do.

Or yes. I think you would. I did. And I apologize, because on the marks that qualify if a film is worthwhile or not, Pirate Radio may miss on more than a few. But this movie is also a DH. You pay for when it hits the big one, and when it does, it really does.

Okay, enough metaphors and similes, although that’s essentially what Pirate Radio operates as. We’ve seen a bevy of films adapted from books — “Radio” means to adapt, to symbolize the spirit of rock n’ roll. At the end of the day, this isn’t so much a movie for movie people but a movie for music people. We’ve seen other films that might fall in this category — say High Fidelity or, even closer to Pirate’s attitude, Almost Famous — but those movies were also about something, and Radio ain’t really about anything but rock n’ roll, and I don’t know if I’ve seen another movie quite like it.

Speaking of Almost Famous, our film’s true main character is transplanted American DJ “The Count” as played by Philip Seymour Hoffman, essentially extending his character from Famous — that of a seasoned, passionate aficionado, although The Count is much more adventurous than his Famous counterpart. Here, too, he takes under his wing a young, unblemished introvert who expands his horizons, literally sailing on them. Here, this character is Carl, played by Brit Tom Sturridge. Most of the cast are Brits, and this is actually a British film that’s been playing for months overseas as The Boat That Rocked.

I just realized I haven’t told you anything about that boat. See, back in the ’60s those stuffy Brits wouldn’t let rock n’ roll go on their airwaves, so a brave motley crew of gentlemen (and one lesbian so as to not violate the “no girls aboard” rule) set to the pirating seas to air The Stones, Kinks, Temptations and more to a wanting population outside of the Queen’s reach. We all do know, by the way, who wins in rock vs. Great Britian (answer: we all do), but the story of the war is pretty good stuff. This is all loosely based on the true story of Radio Caroline (give it a Google), which is cool but loosely is used to its full extent here.

That makes certain points of the film less forgivable. If you’re watching one of these true story movies and something unbelievable happens, you have to sometimes accept it because it was true, whether it’s the teacher getting a big league pitching contract in his 40s, or some unlikely story of sacrifice. But when the unbelievable in the true is actually a stretch, an interpretation, it borders on schmaltz or audience manipulation.

As Carl comes of age on the boat that rocked with this crazy group of DJs — some coarse, some sweet, some slow, some suave — he, of course, learns about himself, about love, about rebellion and youth, but some of these moments come on the cheap or are telegraphed from knots away.

And this, viewer/reader, is why I must apologize. I made a bold statement when I said I hadn’t seen a movie like Radio before. I mean that in two ways: 1) one that so embodies rock n’ roll and youthful revelry; 2) one that, for all its obvious flaws, for as much as I may have disliked it or should have disliked it, it still won me over — and not because it gained more points than it lost, nor was it “so bad it was good,” just because the spirit of the thing wouldn’t die. I guess I liked it in spite of itself. I should attribute this to number 1.

I should have known. Writer/Director Richard Curtis is responsible for scripting several rom-com and just com-com favorites. Notting Hill and Four Weddings and a Funeral and Bean fall in his jurisdiction. But Love, Actually, the Lord of the Rings of chick flicks (see: epic), is also his creation. I actually love that movie…to death. It also expertly incorporates music, and I remember Curtis saying he wrote the script while listening to the songs that would be on the soundtrack, letting the music inspire the scenes. It is no surprise, then, that his ode to the muse is so evocative, so mood-boosting, so inspiring. It makes you want to break things — your own bones or heart, if you’ve gotta, just to live. That’s the rock rocking. Yes, it was another movie that reminded me why I’m in Hollywood sleeping on a hardwood floor and pinching pennies. I called a friend immediately after it ended and he actually thought I was drunk. Only on the movies. Actually I take all that back. This is a one-sentence review.

I know it’s only rock n’ roll, but I like it.