Archive for Showgirls

The American Problem

Posted in FILM with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on September 14, 2019 by dcairns

The following contains spoilers for Joe Eszterhas’s Number One Plot.

I remember thinking THE MUSIC BOX was OK, but now I’ve watched it again and it’s kind of not.

I think Costa-Gavras thought he could make intelligent political films in the US (post-producing them in France to maintain some distance) but maybe he was wrong. The most pernicious form of censorship, suggested Alexander Mackendrick, is self-censorship.

The screenwriter is Joe Eszterhas but I vividly remember that at the time most of us were not on to him. He had written FLASHDANCE (which I’ve never seen — the Wikipedia plot synopsis, however, is HILARIOUS, just a bunch of random incidents separated by dithering — I’ve been working on editing together old movie serial recaps, and this seems like one of those) and JAGGED EDGE and Costa-Gavras’ BETRAYED.

The big obvious joke with J.E. is that he always writes the same movie. Well, JAGGED EDGE (his signature work, it even shares his initials) is the exact same story as BETRAYED, THE MUSIC BOX and BASIC INSTINCT and I assume JADE. Someone is involved with someone else who may be a monster spoiler alert they totally are.

Though it was fashionable to say that JAGGED E. “kept you guessing to the very end,” I did notice, aged eighteen, that I was not guessing at all at the end. It was obvious to me that if Jeff Bridges wasn’t the killer, they would have to do a lot of tiresome explanation, SUSPICION-style, and also it wouldn’t be as dramatic. Still, let’s give J.E. (the man and the film) credit for doing a version of SUSPICION with the right, and less obviously commercial, ending.

Then he just does it again and again. In MUSIC BOX, for the first time the villain is a father, not a lover, and the crimes are historic. I recall the friend I saw it with back in 1989 saying, “The moment I saw that guy I knew he was guilty, but I was still sucked in.” Which is true. You do need to know how it’s going to turn out.

Flatly, is the answer. The very strong premise of a daughter defending her father on war crimes charges, complicated by the fact that the communist government of Hungary might be framing him because he’s a vocal anti-commie, seems like a good set-up, and it is, but they have no ending up their sleeve other than “Surprise! He’s guilty!” And since we’re not surprised, that’s not very gripping. They know they can’t trump up some kind of fight over a hunting knife and kill the guy. So they’ve got nothing.

I do like how Armin M-S’s credit appears over an animatronic likeness of him.

This being a J.E. script, all the men are inappropriately sweary or sexual, something that is more obvious to us post-SHOWGIRLS (written on the FLASHDANCE random-shit-and-dithering model) but was always a feature of Dirty Joe’s writing (JAGGED EDGE, Peter Coyote: “The guy’s got a rap sheet as long as my dick!”)

Costa-Gavras’ direction is smooth, there are some good-ish shots, but nothing breaks out of the Oscar-bait conventions of the script. When Jessica Lange walks by the Danube in search of inspiration, there are some shots of rippling water, but no cinematic poetry to lift us out of the merely photographic and suggest the emotional process the screenwriter has failed to write.

Freeze-frame ending. Ugh.

Fiona’s main observations: “This script is LEADEN,” and “That’s a really ugly dressing gown.”

Lange refuses the case because she’s too emotionally involved (mythic structure #101) then changes her mind after examining her knees in a mirror. She seems about to go full Sharon Stone. I have no idea what’s going on in this scene.

I like C-G, normally, because he weaves political considerations into rivetting stories, seamlessly, and because he is one of the best storytellers with the camera we have — he doesn’t get enough credit for his dynamic visual language. But it just feels like he has nothing to work with here. It’s like trying to sculpt soup.

And yes, Armin Mueller-Stahl is good, if a bit one-note (everyone is one-note, it’s an Eszterhas script).

Armin Mueller-Stahl’s Oscar campaign.

The best thing Joe Eszterhas wrote, a horrifying, craven piece of unintentional black comedy, is his letter to Mel Gibson. You will scream.

MUSIC BOX stars Dwan; Thronfolger; Hammett; Lyndon B. Johnson; Samuel; and Henry Portrait.

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Trash Bumpers

Posted in FILM with tags , , , , , , , , , , on January 3, 2011 by dcairns

First up — a Christmas limerick on the subject of James Whale’s FRANKENSTEIN, over at Limerwrecks.

Second up — a very late entry in the Late Films Blogathon, on the subject of Jean Renoir’s swan song, from Brandon over at Brandon’s Movie Memory.

Third up — guest Shadowplayer David Wingrove, writing as David Melville (long story), went to see BURLESQUE with Fiona, as part of a tradition which sees them seek out movies of particularly embarrassing awfulness — and he brings this report —

“I Am SO Gonna Regret This!”

Given that Cher is the last of the Great Camp Musical Divas – and has, nominally, been a movie star for three decades – it is supremely odd that no film has ever cast her in a musical role. I mean, think of Bette Midler without The Rose (1979) or Liza Minnelli without Cabaret (1972), Barbra Streisand without Funny Girl (1968) or Judy Garland without A Star Is Born (1954). Those are grim prospects, indeed. To film buffs of a certain persuasion, Burlesque might look like a chance to correct this ridiculous oversight.

All-singing, all-dancing and all-camp, Burlesque gives Cher the role of an ageing patronne in a seedy bump-and-grind club on Hollywood’s Sunset Strip. She doesn’t have to do much, exactly. Sing a couple of numbers, strut around a little and model a series of ever more outlandish wigs. It might all just about pass – if only Cher, at the cosmetically remodelled age of 65, could still manage to look like Cher. Alas, she now looks like a wizened, elderly drag queen impersonating Cher. Badly. A fatal flaw from which Burlesque never recovers.

But wait! Hope is at hand in the perky peroxide form of Christina Aguilera. An ambitious small-town cutie bent on stardom, this insufferably chipper little scamp wanders about the mean streets of LA while practising her dance moves – something that would surely get her mugged, arrested or sectioned in any sane universe. She has the ability to make drive-by shootings seem like a good idea. But this being a film made by (and for) hardened masochists, she becomes the main attraction at the club. If only because she’s the one person who belts out a song louder than Cher?

There are a few ‘real’ actors in Burlesque. Indeed, there’s fun to be had in working out why they agreed to appear – or if they even told their agent what they were up to. Cast as Cher’s drunken no-good ex-husband, Peter Gallagher has that unmistakably furtive air that says: “I’ll pop out and do my bit now, while they’re all busy buying more popcorn!” Stanley Tucci does the same Wise Old Fairy Godfather routine we got sick of watching in The Devil Wears Prada (2006). Alan Cumming (looking miffed at not being the campiest person on screen) exempts himself from criticism by having nothing to do. The sight of him knowingly peeling a banana gives Burlesque its one truly sexy moment.

An ordeal akin to being whacked over the head repeatedly with a glitter-ball, Burlesque should still be required viewing – if only as proof that Paul Verhoeven’s infamous Showgirls (1995) really wasn’t such a bad movie after all. Early on, the ghastly Aguilera bullies Cher into hiring her. “I just know I’m gonna regret this!” Cher honks out to her adoring public. Sorry, love, but we’ve already got a head start.

David Melville

Pin-Up of the Day: Gene Tierney

Posted in FILM with tags , , , , , , , , , , on October 16, 2008 by dcairns

“Without any question the most beautiful woman in the history of the silver screen,” said Darryl Zanuck, or words to that effect, and he ought to know, having slept with most of them. (He HAD to sleep with several at a time, honestly, otherwise he could never have racked up such a total. It’s not troilism, it’s just efficiency.)

Gene Tierney moved from early incompetence as an actor, through decent performances, and into really good work, aided by a truly amazing face that made her a pleasure to watch even when she sucked. Those distinctive features could suggest madness and evil in LEAVE HER TO HEAVEN, innocence and decency in HEAVEN CAN WAIT, wisdom and goodness in THE GHOST AND MRS MUIR.

I now list the features, and excuse me if I get overcome and have to go lie down:

The eyes: large, long, and very wide apart. I have a vision of walking up to Gene and putting my hand over the centre of her face, and of her looking back at me from around either side of my palm. THOSE EYES IS WIDE APART.

The big pale moonlike forehead. I am a man who likes a forehead. (Paulette Goddard, what a forehead that is! An eighthead, in fact.)

The nose, apparently hand-shaped from some soft, wonderful material — butter, perhaps — by tiny master craftsmen.

The cheekbones, beautifully defined, as if constructed especially to receive Von Sternberg’s light.

The mouth, completely redesigned by ambitious lipstick in these images, but in reality a wide, full and elaborately flared labial sculpture, balancing the eyes, and containing slightly erratic teeth which add charm to what could otherwise be chilly perfection.

In THE SHANGHAI GESTURE Tierney has moments of strange, erratic, embarrassing emoting that rival Elizabeth Berkeley’s mad flailing in SHOWGIRLS, but who’s to say what’s appropriate in a Sternberg menagerie such as this? Her perfect nose tilting under the lights, which seem to be dissolving into a dew the all-butter mannequin that is Victor Mature, she shows no trace of the control and grace that focus her best performances, but she certainly throws herself into the spirit of the thing. A gutsy, dynamic, original and deeply dreadful performance that’s never less than eye-catching. More decorous work was to come, but with the high frontal key-light shading her cheekbones, and the very hot backlight on the top of her head, Tierney showed she could be lit like Dietrich and come out just as well.