1234

 

If you, like indie-popper Stevie (a gawky Ian Bonar), remember the first time you heard Tigermilk; harbour ambitions of touring the land; or just find yourself regularly falling in love with kooky artistic types, 1234 may feel tailor-made. Like High Fidelity’s earlier encapsulation of the music fan’s malaise, it’s a rom-com in which the object of the protagonist’s affections is as frequently a record as it is the opposite sex. Its blend of band politics, indie-scene eulogising and tentative relationship drama resembles a fey, more personal take on The Young Person’s Guide to Becoming a Rock Star, and its misfit characters prove appealing even as you check off the stereotypes. 1234’s slightness is both a recommendation and a caveat, its amiable charm refreshingly unembellished but lacking in dramatic possibility. But between awkwardly-accurate scenes of hellish call centre training exercises and glamourless gig misadventures, it finds a relaxed, wry tone sure to strike a chord with satchel-wearing enthusiasts and sensitive romantics everywhere.