The last instance of piracy (the swash-buckling, eye-patch-wearing rather than the suing 12-year old Napster-users kind) in the UK was back in the 70s. A crew of wannabe Blackbeards were possessed by the spirit of Davey Jones (no doubt cribbed from too many Captain Blood re-runs films) and mutinied, throwing their captain out to sea and set sail for the high (North) seas. Continuing the traditional pirate flaw of poor future-planning skills, lemon rations ran short after a few weeks and a deflated, scurvified and slightly embarrassed troupe of buccaneers returned to be shipped off to land-lubbers prison. Real-life pirating, then, isnt a lot of fun and these days is more about uzis and drug barons than rum and parrots. Fortunately, the fantastical creations of our Hollywood privateers mean we dont have to bother about real-life too much and the latest glamourisation of the rummy picaroons life and his noble Code comes in the form of Dead Mans Chest, unavoidable sequel to Pirates of the Caribbean: Curse of the Black Pearl. But whats a dubloon-spinner like this doing in the hallowed indie pages of your favourite online magazine? Well, for one thing it allows me to fill my 8p-a-word contribution with tired pirate-themed metaphors as well as plug my fictional band The Scrutineers (a motley crew of guitar-swinging, grog-swigging punks on a voyage to finely articulated art-rock). But more importantly, the film hints at (if never fully embodying) the fiercely independent spirit shared by pirate and indie musician alike. I could, of course, make the evident but somewhat facile links between Depps Jack Sparrow and walking pharmacy Keith Richards. In truth, though, this is a Galleon-sized oversimplification of another well-crafted Depp persona. Here lies the shared soul of the pirate and the indie-rocker. Theres the obvious similarities: a barely comprehensible dialect; spend most of time in rum-scented squalor; a penchant for hoop earrings and white satin trims; always short of a few sovereigns but never of a sure-fire map of how to get them (whether it be of the Tortugan seas or the London toilet circuit); short life-expectancy. More importantly though, the two share a deep loathing for absolute authority (many pirate clans operated as limited democracies) and even the all-pervading mentality of the Hollywood machine cant totally divest this from the legend the film plunders.

Any black spots to beware? To the films detriment, Depps performance is allowed to run unrestrained, pillaging much of possibility for character development at the expense of high-camp hamming. The second fault lies in a plot with a greater identity crisis than Guybrush Threepwood. As is the current vogue with American script-writing teams (see Lost, 24, et al), it is believed that, rather than build a single storyline and develop character, itll make a much better rouse if plot-twists occur roughly every eight spins of a rusty compass and characters have more skeletons in their closets than Blackbeards island shack (okay, thats the last metaphor, I swear). Having said all this, the film has the rebel pirate spirit coursing through its veins and manages a feat almost unique in the modern blockbuster: a frequently amusing, slightly subversive feature with some of the most inventive and exciting set-pieces this side of the King Kong remake earlier this year. Even the po-faced, emotionally-sodden performance of Orloomdo Bland doesnt rot the barrel entirely. In the age of the sequel, the makers seem to have hit on a narrative and set of characters with genuine longevity, which bodes well considering a 3^rd was shot at the same time (hey, it worked for Radiohead).

Musically, the film leaves a lot to be desired. A pretty long list of pirate-obsessed rockers could provide adequate backing for Dead Mans Chests skewed White-man-triumphs-over-brown-primitives moralising (are we not beyond this kind of racism yet, Messrs Elliott/Rosso?): folk-punk bands like Flogging Molly and the Corsairs commandeer the pirates disestablishmentarianism and motley dress; Brittish bands like The Coral, infuse scally-pop with rousing sea-shanties. From Keith Moons admiration for the work of Robert Newman to the Sex Pistols Friggin in the Riggin (sadly, neither of whom feature in the official licensed soundtrack to the film) keep Long John Silvers ghost alive in Rock. Pirate-Rock omissions aside, though, Dead Mans Chest is, perhaps, the only film to be squeezed out of the Hollywood meat-grinder this year (or most others) with a genuine sense of individuality and rebellion which we indie-elitists appreciate only too well.

Rating: 5/10