Change Your Image
katstar1982
Reviews
Sex and the City (2008)
Racist and Boring
I used to complain about Sex and the City during its original incarnation on HBO because it bored me to watch people spend unfathomable sums of money on shoes and unremittingly prattle about love-d*ck-and-shopping (and nothing else, ever). I irritated its disciples when I asked them how Samantha, though admittedly the most interesting character on the show, wasn't crawling with STDs. Or why all the women had to be filthy rich and emaciated. They'd always say the same thing: "It's not supposed to be realistic. It's a fantasy."
Oh, okay, I get it. Sex and the City depicts the kind of fantasy world where no one has anything to worry about except for satisfying every possible selfish impulse because there are no poor (or even middle-class) people, virtually no brown people, and no 'uppity' gays who want more out of life than to be accessories on par with a pair of flamboyant Manolo Blahniks to straight girls.
Still, despite my contempt for this bigoted fantasy, I was frequently, begrudgingly, seduced into watching and following most of its central story lines back in its HBO heyday. Truly, the show was that charming.
The movie on the other hand, was like an episode on steroids, sans the charm. For example, its implicit racism, which was once marked by the flagrant whitewashing of New York City, was upgraded to the more overt variety. Here, Jennifer Hudson is Carrie's servant (i.e. personal assistant), a character that exists to do Carrie's every bidding, no matter how menial. Hmmm, did anyone among the cast or crew ever stop to think that this contrived relationship wreaked of a racist tradition in Hollywood, which relentlessly limited African American actors to images of servitude?
Of course Carrie's 'happy slave girl' from St. Louis (they had to go all the way to St. Louis to find a Black girl by the way, because there aren't any in Carrie Bradshaw's New York) comprises only the tip of the Klan-hood shaped iceberg. There is also the scene where Miranda is apartment hunting in what is apparently too ethnic a neighborhood, so she opts to "follow the white guy with the baby" in order to find a suitable residence. And there was the bit about Charlotte accidentally drinking the water in 'savage' Mexico, which culminated in a brazenly unfunny crap-and-fart joke.
All 76 racist moments aside, the movie just wasn't entertaining. It was extraordinarily predictable excluding the part when the poster-child for anorexia nervosa that is Carrie asks a healthy looking Samantha how she let herself get so fat. I'll admit that surprised me. But only because Kim Cattrall looks exactly the same as she ever did. Meanwhile, Sarah Jessica Parker starves to death, becoming more gaunt and skeletal by the minute.
Other points of contention include but are not limited to: Carrie's post-jilt depression, which was tired, creepy and ego-maniacal. Samantha's out-of-character abstinence in face of the opportunity to hook up with her sexy manslut neighbor. The incredible amount of screen time that was wasted on advertising famous designers, including an awkwardly placed and paced fashion show. Etc.
I suspect that the droves of women who liked this film (and thus, make me ashamed to call myself a woman) had decided they would like it before even seeing it. Because empirically, this film sucked.
Grease (1978)
The word? Grease. Always and forever.
There are a precious few American females born after 1966 and before 1996 that have not experienced a pure passion for Grease at some point during their early adolescent lives. My sister and I used to rent and renew this film just about every weekend for two years when we were kids. It would have been much more practical to invest in our own personal copy. But then again, there is nothing practical, sensible, or particularly constructive about a young girl's feelings for Grease. Hundreds of dollars spent at our local video store just to wear out their copy should serve as testament enough to that fact. But Grease is more than mere fodder for hysterical, girl-culture consumption. It is the king, actually, of such articles. Here is a fun-hearted, very benignly naughty musical about "good girl," Sandy Olsen who falls in love with "bad boy," Danny Zuko, the leader of a drag-racing, greasy-hair-combing, leather jacket wearing, foul-mouthed (well, they're not really foul-mouthed, but they try) gang of aspiring delinquents. The trouble? She's a square who completely lacks a healthy sense of unruliness while he works hard to maintain his bad reputation. In order to stay together, one of them has to change.
The ensuing plot is precisely why Grease is the kingshit of girl-culture staples. I have heard (chuckle) parents complain about its message. Some don't like that the social powers that be (the Pink Ladies and their T-birds) put so much pressure on one another to fit in with the clique. These are the very folks who are responsible for the watering-down of the stage version of Grease, which I was horrified to find, has been censored so much it is only barely recognizable. Apparently, the film version of Sandy's physical transformation from the poster child for teenage abstinence and all-around wholesomeness to something more resembling a streetwalker with ratted hair, painted on spandex, and an affinity for cigarettes "sends kids a darn sleazy message." Anyone who feels this way has forgotten how immune children are to politically correct bullshittery. No 12-year-old girl wants to watch something that condescends, that moralizes, that jumps through hoops and loops to send the "right" message. Grease doesn't do that. Instead, it reflects authentic sensibilities. I should also point out though, that there is a moral to be found beneath all the jokes about Annette Funicello's "jugs," Sandy's virginity, stolen car parts, and 5-year-old broken condoms. After all, Rizzo demonstrates one of the many possible consequences of unprotected sex in a subplot that is unique to a pre-AIDS movie going era. And in the end, Danny proves willing to clean up his social identity for Sandy. She just beats him to the punch. And really, she's the same old squeaky-clean dufus who isn't sure what to do with a cigarette. She's just wearing hot pants. So if you really want to get technical, the "darn sleazy message" is not that one must put out to be accepted. One must only LOOK like one puts out. There, now. That's not so bad, is it?
Besides, and this is its main point of differentiation from the hideous sequel, it is a damn good movie. In fact, watching Grease 2 before watching Grease makes this completely clear. It is as a musical should be. Unlike the meaningless tripe passed off for songs in Grease 2, the songs in Grease advance the narrative and provide ample, necessary information about its characters. As a period piece, the 1950s setting is also made useful as a symbol of innocence, simultaneously false and genuine, about to be lost. It represents the mindset of the teenage characters and their place in American history. Whereas, Grease 2 evokes the 1950s about as much as Rock-N-Roll McDonald's. No. Rock-N-Roll McDonald's is more competent in its depiction. The characters in Grease are complex. They are stock archetypes with inner conflicts that don't always jive with their personas. The characters in Grease 2 are flat, vacant nothings that are only vaguely reminiscent of the archetypes that ought to make up the gang.
Still, one needn't compare the original to its sequel to see that Grease is charming, fun, a bit corny, harmlessly bawdy and, in general, the perfect slumber party, girl movie.
The Exorcist (1973)
The only truly scary film ever made
I do not scare easily. In fact, I have seen everything from The Shining to The Ring to the Freddies, the Michaels the Jasons and The Texas Chainsaws to The Omen to The Saw films and back. I like horror films. Well, the Saw franchise notwithstanding. My point is, horror films do not get under my skin. Not in a bad way, anyhow. I should also note that I do not think of demonic possession as being within the realm of possibility. Moreover, having been born some years after The Exorcist came out, I am too young to be impressed by images and special effects that were considered especially explicit back in 1973. But for some reason, The Exorcist has me absolutely, permanently traumatized. It isn't scary to me in a fun, roller coaster ride way. It's scary in a shortness-of- breath, cold sweat, unremitting insomnia, shaking hands, nauseated way.
As I understand it, when the film debuted it was so terrifying that members of its original audience were carted out of theaters on stretchers for having heart attacks and the like. It was banned in cities throughout the world so "Exorcist bus trips" were organized to take brave moviegoers into neighboring towns where it could be shown. I heard that Billy Graham even proclaimed the existence of an actual devil dwelling in the film's master print (or something like that). Okay. That's all understandable since the most terrifying film to reach audiences up until that time was probably Rosemary's Baby. And there is a big, big leap in the evolution of the horror film between Rosemary and the Exorcist. But today, audiences are much more desensitized. For instance, I went to see The Exorcist when it was re-released as "The Version You've Never Seen." Its audience was comprised mostly of people close to my age, born long after the hype surrounding this film faded into pop-culture obscurity. The audience cheered, laughed and applauded. No one had a heart attack or screamed or even broke for a cigarette break to relieve the scares. Some people even left at the end, complaining that it was no big deal, that they wished they hadn't wasted their money on some hokey, has-been of an old movie.
Meanwhile, I am flinching at every little tap on the shoulder, seeing demonic activity in every shadow, and trying very desperately to erase from my memory the moments from this movie that disturbed me the most. And it wasn't the famous head spinning (admittedly, the head- spinning is kind of stupid) or projectile vomit that really bothered me. It was the subtler moments. Like the homeless "old alter boy" or the scene when doctors observe Regan moving around the examining room slowly, sort of hunched over, almost dancing. The clocks stopping and the fighting dogs. Noises in the attic. Defaced religious iconography. The cinematography in this film was very effective. There are a great deal of slow dolly shots, where viewers are led through the filmspace at an almost excruciatingly deliberate pace so as to invoke the dread of moving towards something horrible. It is so visually detailed that after I watch it, my most mundane surroundings (my living room, the city street I live on, subway platforms etc.) seem chock full of potential to terrorize. And the sound design was equally effective. I know the filmmakers used animal thrashings, pigs being led to slaughter and such, layering and distorting the sounds to pack the best punch. My hat is off to them. They certainly succeeded in creating a visceral experience that will probably be forever burned into whatever part of my brain makes me feel fear.
I give this film ten out of ten stars, although I wouldn't say I like it. It deserves the highest rating because it elevates the genre of horror as well as the cinema altogether to some of their most extreme possibilities. For the genre, The Exorcist demonstrates that it doesn't have to be second rate. It doesn't have to be cheap looking. It doesn't necessitate B or niche actors. It can be a cinematic masterpiece and be a horror film all at once. For the cinema, it demonstrates how emotionally affecting the medium can be.
To paraphrase the critic, Andrew Sarris, those who live the movies they see will have a great deal of difficulty with this one. Given what I know about this film combined with what I experienced during its most recent theatrical re-release, I suspect young audiences do not tend to "live their films" as much previous generations did. As far as I am concerned though, it isn't "the scariest movie ever made." It's the only scary movie every made.
Georgia Rule (2007)
Oh come on, it wasn't that bad.
The only decent professional critical review of Georgia Rule I could find appeared in The New York Times (written by A.O. Scott, I believe). All of the others I read seemed to treat the film like a punching bag upon which to vent unrelated psychological baggage. In other words, I found its reception to be quite unfair. I think this movie was an easy target for lazy critics because it was so odd. It couldn't decide whether it wanted to be a lighthearted comedy or melodrama or a sleeper-character-driven-indie-style flick or B-trash or what. So its rhythm is a bit awkward. Given its tonal whimsy, this film should have sucked to the point of being unwatchable. But it didn't. Lindsay Lohan's performance was stellar. Her character was fully drawn and she worked it flawlessly. Jane Fonda was also compelling but her character could have been better developed. And Felicity Huffman was competent enough.
I know that the film's subject was taken as offensive by some. Since it was so wrongly advertised, I didn't know going in what the movie was going to be about. I was surprised to learn that its theme revolved around the surrounding character's perceptions of Rachel's (Lohan) cynicism, rebelliousness and hypersexuality. Its trailers promised a story of an unruly teenager sent to her strict, god-fearing grandmother's house to gain some much needed discipline. As advertised, the comedy was supposed to rely on the conflict between the two characters, which would ultimately be resolved when young Rachel learned some respect. Instead, Grandma discovers the fullness of Rachel's character and sympathizes with her. No serious discipline ever really takes place. Unless you count the scene when Georgia (Fonda) beats up a car with a baseball bat. But even then, the much-deserved discipline is directed toward a relatively minor character (Cary Elwes) that is revealed to be ultimately responsible for Rachel's turbulent behavior.
Yeah, Georgia Rule has its problems. In addition to its indecisive awkwardness of pace and tone, the male characters are pretty flat and they occupy time that could have been better spent developing the Huffman and Fonda characters. Cary Elwes was especially poor as Rachel's stepfather. He played the role clownishly, as if he was mocking his character. He seemed almost uncomfortable. His performance kept assuring viewers that he was only acting, that he would never, in reality, be such a bad person. Good for him. But his unwillingness to play the role straight and believably hurt the film. Fortunately his screen time is limited. So overall, the movie was worth the two hours and ten bucks or so.
Superman II (1980)
Superwhipped
As far as sequels go, Superman II is very good. Some people say it is even better than the original. I don't know if I would go so far as to say that, but it is definitely slaphappier. It features the three Kryptonian villains who had been convicted of evildoing in the beginning of the first installment and imprisoned in the Phantom Zone, which is interpreted in this translation as a mirror-like trapezoid that indefinitely hurls itself through space. Apparently though, there were some design flaws. For one thing, prisoners do not age while doing time in the Phantom Zone. And the engineers obviously did not anticipate that after floating around for thirty-five years or so the portal would pass by the Earth. And they further did not anticipate that Superman would hurl an elevator rigged with a hydrogen bomb into space at precisely the right moment, shattering the portal. The ensuing storyline reflects a perfect combination of Reagan era and Freudian sensibilities. It's all about the deleterious effects of domineering women on traditional masculinity.
For instance, the evil Ursa has no respect for established, successful, virile men. She destroys soldiers, cops, and astronauts and then rips off their badges and medals (a metaphor for penis envyshe steals their status symbols which stand in for their respective manhoods).
Also, Lois and Superman hook up. But it renders him completely useless because he is forced to forfeit all his powers in order to put up with her unyielding gender-rebellion. Lois is a successful professional with no intention of settling into feminine domesticity. And she's not the softest looking woman ever to grace the silver screen either. Superman can't embody the traditional male role without a traditional wife. So by being in love with her, he is emasculated. Literally. I especially enjoy the scene when he gets beat up by a redneck in a roadside diner and Lois joins the brawl in a humiliating attempt to rescue him. And in addition to its gender politics, it is hilarious when remembering all that grief his Kryptonian mother expressed in the original Superman about sending her son off to a strange world where he would always feel like an alien outsider. If they could rob him of his socially ostracizing super powers, why didn't they do it to begin with? Why take them away from him in adulthood after his identity is fully formed and he is fully dependent on them? Silly Kryptonians.
Anyway, the movie is quite a lot of fun. It straddles a fine line between being a graceful interpretation of an unprecedented comic icon like the first Superman film, and being a Theater of the Absurd-like interpretation as captured by Superman III. Not to be confused with the Theater of the Inane interpretation, which is so masterfully executed in Superman IV.
Yankee Doodle Dandy (1942)
scary little feet
I heard that Cagney and Warner Brothers made this patriotic film in order to disprove their reputation for being Anti-American. I guess this was a successful endeavor, if patriotism is synonymous with shameless flag-waving and racism. I cringe every time I see black-face, especially in such beloved films. No, this one has not aged well. I do, however, get sucked into watching it at length every time it appears on the classics channel.
Yankee Doodle Dandy is downright obnoxious. And offensive. But then there's Cagney. I'd hate it with a passion if it weren't for Cagney. It is a musical, and much to my amusement, he can't keep his signature Cagney-speak from interfering with the melodies. It is as if he acquired his accent from spending the first ten years of his life in Boston, another five in Brooklyn, and the next fifteen in a Dali painting. I find him nightmarish, especially when I see him dance, as if some demon took possession of his legs but left his upper body alone to fall forward and bobble about. And then, as if that isn't a disturbing enough image, take note of his teeny, tiny, pointy feet rapidly tapping sometimes all over, sometimes just a little bit. Though I very much want to at times, it is impossible to look away.
Tea and Sympathy (1956)
An Artifact of American Bigotry
There should be a genre for films like Tea and Sympathy, Suddenly Last Summer, and Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. It could be called "Back When It Was a Disease" or "Homosexuality According to the 1950s." This is a film about a sensitive schoolboy (Tom) who just can't jive with the manly jocks he is expected to befriend. In fact, he prefers to discuss poetry with a middle aged, Technicolor-coordinated, Deborah Kerr (Laura). Based on a play, the film is watered down considerably to avoid addressing the issue of his homosexuality outright. For instance, a scene in which the boy is caught skinny-dipping with a flamboyant professor is totally removed. It is very mildly laughable (or maybe half-heartedly chuckle- able) to see Tom learning to walk like a man, so angst-ridden about his status as a "sissy," especially when even he thinks he just needs someone to quell the confusion.
The film is about hate and discrimination and, I think, we are meant to sympathize with Tom, but only because he is branded a "queer" by his peers without the sympathy that the Kerr character is able to dish out, and thus "cure" him. In the 1950s, homosexuality was considered a disease by the psychiatric powers-that-be. And as many diseases can be cured, so could this one in the perverse imagination of the Hollywood censors. The Kerr character martyrs herself, sacrificing her virtue to shag the boy (who really is a boy of only 17), which effectively rids him of his "illness." Yes, his confusion vanishes instantly as Laura unbuttons her cardigan with a disturbingly sober expression that was obviously meant to say "I am not doing this out of lust, but out of my older, wiser, nurturing feminine duty to rescue you from this unholy perversion." And then he grows up into a self-assured, suit-wearing, happily married, home-owning go-getter. Thank God, for martyrs like Laura.
What's most jacked up about Tea and Sympathy is that it seems to want to function as a shout-out to all the idiosyncratic so called sissies that are so unfortunately stigmatized for being different. Which would be fine, except that the film is telling its audience that it is okay to be different because, hooray, there's a cure. In other words, it's not okay to be different. The cruel peers who ostracize "sissies" like Tom are not okay either. But only because Tom could still grow up to epitomize het-masculine normalcy. Tea and Sympathy reprimands its homophobes for punishing innocent soon-to-be ex-gays as if to say, "please do be careful when punishing the gays because they might not always be that way. And when they're good and cured, boy, will there be some red faces all around."
But my biggest problem is this: for a movie that's so sooo soooooo backwards, it is not nearly funny enough. Cat on a Hot Tin Roof was funny. Suddenly Last Summer was even funnier yet. Okay, Kerr's seduction scene, though nightmarish, was funny. I'll give it 5/10 stars just for that, but otherwise, and I know it has its fans, Tea and Sympathy just kind of sits there for me. Sure, it's interesting to talk about from a historical perspective. But standing alone, it's like an antiquated high school textbook.
Mommie Dearest (1981)
Unapologetic Praise
Mommie Dearest is such a fantastic anomaly that it almost feels blasphemous to critique it. Many people are confident in saying that it is a "bad" movie, or even that it's one of the "worst" ever made. I prefer to think of it as divine. It cannot be fully understood, only subjectively experienced. I do, however, agree with its critics that, no, it doesn't prioritize a coherent narrative structure. And no, it doesn't proffer class in its dialog, performances, or even its cinematography. I would like to label it as camp, but I can't. Mommie Dearest transcends camp. Faye Dunaway's priceless performance is truly mesmerizing. Somehow she conveys a character that is a perfect amalgamation of insanity, heroism, tragedy, tackiness, audacity, comedy, and utter strangeness.
When I first saw this film I screamed when Dunaway's Crawford seduced her lover in the shower. Nothing has ever been so creepy and wrong. I shuddered when she eerily ascended her dramatic Hollywood staircase carrying her newly adopted baby. I cheered when she refused to be marginalized out of her rightful engagement as CEO of Pepsi Cola. And when she chopped up her garden in the middle of the night, wearing an evening gown. And when she mercilessly out-swam her six year old daughter in the pool race. I cheered a lot during this movie actually. And I have found, upon repeat viewings, that Mommie Dearest never fails to provoke such a clamorous succession of reactions. It may be low art. But it is brilliant just the same.
I guess my review can be summed up as follows: there are people who get it and people who don't. Those who don't tend to say it's unsophisticated, trashy, and wasteful of money, talent, and time. Sadly, those who do get it must frequently disclaim their enthusiasm by saying things like, "I know it's a really bad movie, but
" Even Faye Dunaway, so I've heard, takes little pride in the critically panned, allegedly career ruinous, Razzie-winning work. Which is too bad since there really is so much to appreciate about it. Like the fact that it was based on Christina Crawford's slanderous tell-all, but ends up making Joan look kind of sympathetic and "Tina" look like a petulant jerk (ha). And after all, there are too few movies that have provided so much fun to so many people.
Dirty Dancing (1987)
frosted, fried, and leathern
Apparently, you are dirty dancing when you are sweating excessively in your tightest pair of matador pants and vehemently, jaggedly, irregularly slamming your 35-year old package against gawky underage girls who seem to enjoy your hideous "white man's overbite." Moments like this make Dirty Dancing an extremely, albeit unintentionally, hilarious movie. It is especially funny when watching it immediately after reading the comments posted on this site, many of which describe the movie as a powerful, amazing, sensual, touching, romantic experience. I, for one, could not help but keep such comments in mind while I was LAID OUT laughing at Johnny's "free styling" with Penny and company in the scene when Baby "carried a watermelon" to their secret dirty dancing party. I'm sorry, I know you all think Patrick Swayze is pure sex incarnate, but he looks ridiculous. I'm not saying he can't lead a woman around a ballroom because he can. I mean, obviously, the man is a trained dancer. It's when he starts snapping off though, trying to appear spontaneous to the beat of tacky oldies like "Do You Love Me," that he exposes himself to be the rhythmless spaz he is. And for the record, the ensemble of extras scattered about in this scene are not really dancing so much as they are having a whole bunch of dry sex.
Anyway, the thing that makes Dirty Dancing so priceless is that it takes itself dead seriously. Johnny isn't screwing around, for instance, when he explains that the vast number of rich, lonely housewives he's slept with under the guise of giving them dance lessons, were actually exploiting him:
Baby - "You were just using them, that's all." Johnny - "No, no that's not it, that's the thing, you see baby it wasn't like that. They were using me."
Then, instead of bursting into convulsive laughter like I do every time I hear the line, she falls for it and kisses him with all the passionate sympathy she can muster, trying very earnestly not to exploit him like the rich, lonely housewives did. Ha. Fool.
So the movie should be no good at all, unless you are able to find the humor in Patrick Swayze's pained-looking danceface or his thrusting, perky butt or his weird "street" accent. Or in the frosted, fried, and leathern results of Cynthia Rhodes' time spent in the tanning bed with a bottle of peroxide. Or in Jennifer Grey's many shaky voiced monologues about blossoming into a woman and learning the ways of the world. In short, those who hate on Dirty Dancing because they cannot find the humor in these things are probably kind of stale. And those who adore Dirty Dancing because they cannot find the humor in these things are probably kind of daft.
Grease 2 (1982)
Dirty and Disturbing
When I was 11, Grease 2 was like crack. It was a classless, shameful, euphoric, and powerfully addictive experience. My sister and I would watch it, rewind it, and watch it over again and again and again until we passed out or became too confused and hostile to stand one another. So, if you are an 11-year old girl, and you reviewed this film as "brilliant" or "fun" or "better than the original Grease," you have your fledgling adolescent hormones to blame and you can rest assured that this unyielding fixation with utter rubbish will pass.
If, however, you are not a little girl, you have absolutely no excuse to suggest that Grease 2 was anything but an inane, artless, slipshod embarrassment for all who participated in its production, distribution, and/or consumption.
For the sake of criticism, I will dignify the film now by explaining why it blows
1. In a well-executed musical, the songs should advance the narrative or develop the characters. In Grease 2, with a few debatable exceptions, to the music is obscenely pointless. Most of the songs appear to relate gimped innuendo about sex in an excessive and general way ("Score Tonight," "Reproduction," "Do It For Our Country," and "Prowlin'") without making one concrete statement about any of the film's characters or themes. Plus, all of the music is uncomfortably stupid and no one in the cast demonstrates even the crudest semblance of an ability to sing or dance.
2. The T-birds should be badass, and if not at least somewhat likable, but instead each of them is an annoying wussy-dufus-loser. In the end, when Johnny Nogerelli offers Michael the sacred T-bird jacket and initiates him into the gang, Michael should kick it to the ground, spit on it, and duck away to fervently scrub any part of his body that was touched by it. But of course, he accepts it as if it is gold because despite the fact that they are a bunch of bumbling meatheads, there is no greater honor than to be one with the T-birds.
3. Since Michael is beautiful, smart, kind, resourceful, and above average in everyway (his musical impotence notwithstanding), it is feasible that Stephanie would ultimately embrace him when he reveals himself to be the man behind the mask. Stephanie, on the other hand, is a slovenly, slack-jawed, bubble gum smacking, dirty sweatshirt wearing, gracelessly rude and trashy dingbat. So aside from being pretty (I guess), she harbors no likable characteristics, thus, audiences are given no justification whatsoever for the depth of Michael's attraction to her.
I could go on and on, but I didn't want to mention the gross inferiority to its predecessor since there are apparently so many cranks out there who seem to feel that such a comparison is unfair. I will say this though, to those of you who think you want to revisit this mess for old time's sake: Grease 2 is an experience akin to re-living your first kiss. Only you are 32 now and kissing a snot-nosed 13-year old kid with acne and slobby braces. The magic is gone and you are left feeling dirty and disturbed. Trust me.