Die, Mommie, Die! is either camp, or satire, or a satire of camp, it's difficult to tell. And there lies the problem with the movie. It's a takeoff of the sort of Joan Crawford/Bette Davis movies from both their 1940's heyday and the hagbag pictures of the 60's. The range seems to cover the whole lifespan of their careers. It's about a washed-up singer/actress played by a man, Charles Busch, in female regalia, named Angela Arden (The character is aptly named. Busch, in drag, strongly resembles Eve Arden. If only he had her comic timing and delivery, the performance would have been a tour-de-force instead of just a good female impersonation), whose affair with a young gigolo (Jason Priestley) is interrupted by the arrival of her producer-husband (Philip Baker-Hall), from a Madrid vacation, who proceeds to take firm control of his home and marriage, driving Angela to contemplate murder.
From there, the plot twists into a series of murders, potential murders, sexual crises, and identity crises. It's funny in places, and has some truly unique comic turns (Angela trying to dispose of her husband with a poisoned suppository is gleefully tasteless, and a secret language spoken by Angela and her son that her husband and daughter can't tap into is a beauty - replete with subtitles, no less). But it tends to lose its place in its own chronology; eras are confused, and we can't make sense of things - the humor doesn't match the genre it's lampooning. The story is supposed to take place in the psychedelic 60's, but at the beginning, we can't place it. When Angela's son tells her he left school because a student demonstration shut the school down, it seems an anachronistic joke. There's nothing to indicate a 60's dressing-down by the kids - they just dress like spoiled Hollywood rich kids. Natasha Lyonne, as Angela's daughter, is clothed like the TV Patty Duke. And while Angela and her husband seem locked in 1940's wardrobe time warp (we suspect that's part of the joke; these people are washed-up in Hollywood because they can't get out of 1949), Angela's slick young gigolo is also dressed in 40's garb, a la Bing Crosby.
Busch is really the center of the movie, though. Oddly enough, he manages to be believable in character without being believable as a woman (he gives himself away when he speaks, his tones in the lower register are clearly that of a man, not a deep-chested woman). He gives Angela a flighty, tawdry charm; we sympathize with him/her when Baker-Hall lays down the law and ends all her fun. Angela is made promiscuous without being trashy; she has style, and one can understand how she must have been appealing in her halcyon days of performing. In the musical number performed by Angela, "Why Not Me?", Busch gives Angela her glory, she looks like a star, radiant and engagingly naughty, Busch suggests Bette Midler in the routine. The dubbed-in vocal doesn't quite work, though, it's too tepid; it should have been more ebullient, boisterous, rousing. Baker-Hall is great playing the synthesis of all the Sam Spiegels and Dore Scharies, he's a robust outcast, a wash-up who still has the imagined clout to throw his weight around at home. The only performance that feels wrong is Priestley's; he's too broad, his line readings too self-conscious. The others are playing camp, he's satirizing it, like an actor employed by Mad Magazine. He gave a more creditable performance as the teen heartthrob in Love and Death on Long Island, maybe that's all he'll ever be. He doesn't have the sophistication to play a gigolo, he lacks a richness and a physical imposition. He's too boy-next-door, even with bags under his eyes that are making him look like Fred Allen.
Die, Mommie, Die! does have some good laughs in it, and the performances, especially Busch's and Baker-Hall's, are really a kick. It doesn't quite capture the Crawford/Davis oeuvre too well, though. That province still belongs to the real stars.
From there, the plot twists into a series of murders, potential murders, sexual crises, and identity crises. It's funny in places, and has some truly unique comic turns (Angela trying to dispose of her husband with a poisoned suppository is gleefully tasteless, and a secret language spoken by Angela and her son that her husband and daughter can't tap into is a beauty - replete with subtitles, no less). But it tends to lose its place in its own chronology; eras are confused, and we can't make sense of things - the humor doesn't match the genre it's lampooning. The story is supposed to take place in the psychedelic 60's, but at the beginning, we can't place it. When Angela's son tells her he left school because a student demonstration shut the school down, it seems an anachronistic joke. There's nothing to indicate a 60's dressing-down by the kids - they just dress like spoiled Hollywood rich kids. Natasha Lyonne, as Angela's daughter, is clothed like the TV Patty Duke. And while Angela and her husband seem locked in 1940's wardrobe time warp (we suspect that's part of the joke; these people are washed-up in Hollywood because they can't get out of 1949), Angela's slick young gigolo is also dressed in 40's garb, a la Bing Crosby.
Busch is really the center of the movie, though. Oddly enough, he manages to be believable in character without being believable as a woman (he gives himself away when he speaks, his tones in the lower register are clearly that of a man, not a deep-chested woman). He gives Angela a flighty, tawdry charm; we sympathize with him/her when Baker-Hall lays down the law and ends all her fun. Angela is made promiscuous without being trashy; she has style, and one can understand how she must have been appealing in her halcyon days of performing. In the musical number performed by Angela, "Why Not Me?", Busch gives Angela her glory, she looks like a star, radiant and engagingly naughty, Busch suggests Bette Midler in the routine. The dubbed-in vocal doesn't quite work, though, it's too tepid; it should have been more ebullient, boisterous, rousing. Baker-Hall is great playing the synthesis of all the Sam Spiegels and Dore Scharies, he's a robust outcast, a wash-up who still has the imagined clout to throw his weight around at home. The only performance that feels wrong is Priestley's; he's too broad, his line readings too self-conscious. The others are playing camp, he's satirizing it, like an actor employed by Mad Magazine. He gave a more creditable performance as the teen heartthrob in Love and Death on Long Island, maybe that's all he'll ever be. He doesn't have the sophistication to play a gigolo, he lacks a richness and a physical imposition. He's too boy-next-door, even with bags under his eyes that are making him look like Fred Allen.
Die, Mommie, Die! does have some good laughs in it, and the performances, especially Busch's and Baker-Hall's, are really a kick. It doesn't quite capture the Crawford/Davis oeuvre too well, though. That province still belongs to the real stars.