I don’t know what persuaded Julia Ormond to get on board the Hot Mess Express and play Lindsay Lohan’s mother in the thriller/slasher/torture porn/masterpiece that is I Know Who Killed, but I do know I’m forever happy she did. Without her commitment to the craft, the line “This is Mr. Jervis” would be a line about a teddy bear like any other; instead, Julia Ormond makes it one of the most dazzling, mind-bogglingly bizarre things I’ve ever seen committed to film. I mean, what in the world is she doing with her voice? And what’s going on with her face? No, seriously:
Pure FACE poetry is what’s going on with her face, y’all.
Sure, it’s all too easy to take a line delivered to the girl you believe is your only daughter–the daughter who’s been abducted by a serial killer, lost portions of her arm and leg through a brutal amputation process that involves dry ice and blue glass surgical utensils (don’t ask), and somehow managed to escape–like a she’s just gone through a serious trauma (so, you know, like a normal person), but it takes a special caliber of actor to play that line like you’re in the midst of an exorcism, and that caliber is BRILLIANT. Lindsay Lohan’s reaction shot pretty much sums it up:
Showgirls: The Return may purport to be the sequel to the greatest movie of all time (because it adds “The Return” to the end of the title), but if the extended trailer’s any indication, that doesn’t mean I have to treat this half-cooked sauerbraten like its canon:
What have you done, Marc Vorlander? Sure, I haven’t seen this many boobs-per-minute since the last time I watched Showgirls (January 16, 2010, but who’s counting?), which I guess counts as a step in the right direction, but everything else about this trailer is a turgid art-house hot mess. A Showgirls sequel shouldn’t look boring, but this looks BORING. Even worse, I don’t see any Rena Riffel, and we were promised Rena Riffel! Seriously, universe, is there no Penny/hope for a Showgirls follow-up that lives up to the original?
Sure, we’ve been over this again and again and again, but even broken records are worth repeating every once and a while:
Honestly, it’s perfect in every way, and the only problem I’ve ever had in regarding Showgirls as the crown jewel of camp cinematic masterpieces is that it’s never achieved a Rocky-Horror-Picture-Show level of midnight movie cult status. Rocky Horror Picture Show, with its sing-a-longs and toilet-paper-throwing and audience shout-outs, embraces full-on audience participation; on the other hand, despite being 131 minutes of bare breasts and bitchery, the Showgirls audience has always struck me as relatively demure.
Yes, seeing Showgirls on the big screen is comparable to a religious experience, so a certain amount of reverential silence is to be expected. That, and I WILL shove a bitch down a flight of stairs if they start talking over any of that sublime Joe Eszterhas dialogue:
But Showgirls is also the sort of cinemagic that deserves more than just the knowing laughter of camp appreciation. No no, seeing Showgirls on the big screen should be like watching Stardust Hotel’s Goddess while tripping balls on crazy pills. So, in honor of the IFC Center screening Showgirls as this weekend’s midnight movie, here are a few suggestions on how to make your next midnight movie screening of Showgirls something extraordinary:
Anyone who knows me or has spent any time with this blog is well aware of how I feel about a certain cinematic masterstroke:
Sure, I imagine that every time I fall into some tangent extolling the virtues of this classic of classics, my mother rolls her eyes and wonders how I could ever love such garbage. Garbage like this:
Based on the above clip, however, I believe the more important question is “How could you not love such garbage?” Seriously, Showgirls, you had me at “DIFFERENT PLACES!”
It’s no lie that I tend to find the fickle nature of YouTube clips and their battles with copyright law to be terribly annoying. I can’t stand that any music video that falls under ownership of the Universal Music Group cannot be embedded, and the same goes for the trailers and clips of anything owned by Disney. This explains the disappearance of Shmathan’s favorite clip on parenticide, which was surreptitiously removed from YouTube on account of copyright infringement, but that doesn’t make it any less annoying. Or confusing, for that matter. I personally would rather not want to claim any credit for such an embarrassingly ridiculous clip, but that’s just me.
Anyways, it’s with a heavy heart that I must today announce that the Powder Blue clips have been taken down from YouTube. Yes, the glistening gems that inspired much camp glee have been taken from us. I’d like to think all my ridiculous ranting and raving in some way preserved some of the train-wreckery that graced this blog, but I can’t help but feel like there’s now a Powder-Blue-shaped hole in my heart. Of course, these clips cannot compare to the glorious Godawfulness that is watching Powder Blue in its entirety, but that doesn’t mean I’m not going to put my cranky pants on over this situation. Sure, I cannot claim to understand the finer nuances of the legal matters behind this indecency, but I can Photoshop up some indignation with the best of them:
I’m not even joking, y’all. If you haven’t already seen the instant camp/cult classic that is Orphan yet, you know what you have to do:
Seriously, this completely insane movie still should be reason enough for you to suddenly feign illness and catch the earliest possible showing. This is a movie that uses a black-lit aquarium as a plot device! And when you see what said black-lit aquarium reveals, the absolute batshit insanity of it all will make your head explode. Twice. And that’s just tip of the crazy iceberg.
It has been ages and ages since we’ve seen anything so unrepentant in its ridiculousness. Orphan has a go-for-broke, let-us-shock-the-shit-out-of-you zeal that is truly inspired. It’s so ridiculous that it needs to come with protective glasses that keep your eyeballs from rolling out of your skull. It’s incredibly well made, genuinely creepy, and–to be completely frank–in the worst possible taste imaginable. And it’s so over-the-top in its bad taste that you can’t really fault it for arguably being total garbage. I’d like to be more articulate, but I’m honestly still trying to digest it. Having your head explode 37 separate times during a movie tends to do that to you. That, and you really can’t discuss Orphan‘s sublime pleasures without spoiling the living hell out of it.
Still, allow me to tantalize you with the following decontextualized phrases:
For many of my generation (myself included), Saved by the Bell stands as a pop culture touchstone. Like Scott Baio in Charles in Charge, the constant excuses to strip Zack and Slater of there shirts was really just an excuse to teach young girls and gay boys the joys of objectifying the male form, and of course there’s also those unforgettable episodes. Who doesn’t remember the day they found oil under the Bayside High football field, or when Jessie was so excited yet so scared, or the way Screech forever pined after Lisa Turtle, or that time the lesbian replaced Kelly and Jessie:
Remember her? Such a lesbian. But an iconic lezzie, to be sure. My point is that everybody (of a certain generation) loves Saved by the Bell.
Particularly Jimmy Fallon.
He’s been trying to organize a Saved by the Bell reunion in a desperate bid for late-night relevancy an effort to listen to the hopes and dreams of a generation. It’s been gradually gaining steam, particularly with Mark Paul Gosselar’s recent in-character appearance as Zack Morris. Seriously, the interwebswentcrazy for that clip, but of course the real story got buried beneath all the hoopla over the nostalgia for giant early-90s cell phones and frosted tips: Elizabeth Berkley’s confirmed that she too shall take part in the Saved by the Bell reunion! That’s exciting, but I think we know what we all really need:
Don’t even bother Netflixing this mess, y’all. We may be in a recession so blah blah blah fiscal responsibility blah blah blah, but that doesn’t mean you can’t afford the small pittance it’ll cost on Amazon. Seriously, $12.99 (plus shipping and handling, ‘cos I know you want this mess overnighted) is a bonafide bargain if it’s supporting the beginning of Jessica Biel’s inevitable career as a camp icon. This is her Showgirls, y’all, and she’s Powder Blue‘s Elizabeth Berkley. And don’t even bother feigning your best surprise face: I’ve already got my copy next to me.
So I hope you prepare yourself, people. I’m about to bring the Powder Blue love out like it’s my blog job, and that’s a blog promise. I hope you like batshit crazy, because that’s all I’ll be serving for quite a while.
And, lastly, if you came here looking for Jessica Biel’s boobs and are disappointed to instead find a distinct lack of said boobs, allow me to redirect you here. There you go. Biel boobs to warm your heart and nourish your inner aspect. You’re welcome.
It’s no secret that I’ve a penchant for movies that movies that are curious and over the top. I’m an ardent obsessive of camp, and I revel in movies that flaunt their mad visions and embrace their craziest whims. I love the movies that have never said “no” to a bad idea or considered that they might be crossing a line. Hell, I’ve practically made it my quest to mine the coal of film’s expansive history in order to find the most glittering diamonds of batshit insanity. Well, ladies and gentleman, I’ve already found what may the Hope Diamond of this journey. I give you The Day of the Locust, a movie somehow far stranger than this surreal, French poster for the film:
Oh, and it’s infinitely more garish than the America poster would imply:
Still unconvinced? Let me just give you a taste of the craze. Let’s go watch aspiring starlet Faye Greener (Karen Black) get in a fight with her sickly father (Burgess Meredith):
I don’t know whether to laugh at the garish campiness of the performances or have nightmares for the rest of my life, but it’s captivatingly bizarre no matter your reaction, and believe me when I say that this scene is merely the tip of iceberge that is John Schlessinger’s epic, gonzo vision of Hollywood as the festering epicenter of failed dreams and a society in rapid decline. There’s also (for example, yet impressively enough not limited to) the sublimely grotesque yet perversely compelling pleasures of Burgess Meredith’s heart attack at Donald Sutherland’s house, the church scene, Karen Black doing tequila shots (itself one of the profoundly ridiculous moments in cinema), and the cock fighting scene. Seriously, I don’t know why you’d even bother finishing this reviews before putting it at the top of your Netflix queue. Trust me.
