Movies.
Sunday October 28, 2001
Well, of course I saw Mulholland Dr. Which is the first Lynch I’ve seen since a couple of episodes of Twin Peaks, and, naturally enough, Blue Velvet.
My own response?
Eh.
Do you tend to stay awake when you watch movies? Do you not have much trouble with sudden flashbacks and non-linear (but still sequential) narrative tracks? Do you have the patience to trust that, okay, this little bit may well be explained later, I’ll file it away and see what’s made of it? Can you appreciate an artist indulging themselves in their own little stylistic quirks for quirkiness’s sake without rolling your eyes too terribly much?
Then you won’t have any trouble following the movie. Trust me. You won’t need to see it twice.
Of course, I should point out that the plot, such as it is, ends up being depressingly mundane, even sordid (and not, I should note, in a good way); that, while there are some gorgeous, achingly beautiful moments (everything that happens in Club Silencio, without which I would have felt cheated—that, and the audition scene, which you’ve doubtless heard described by now, and which isn’t achingly gorgeous, but is a bravura display of acting technique, which I always like to see), the movie as a whole is a little strained, and the colors do not pop like a whore’s lip-gloss, thank you; that if there are any “extended sequences of lesbian sex,” I sure missed ’em (the one comes rather out of the blue, despite some little subtext; some nice kissing, a little tentative breast play—ooh, that’s a nipple; another, an implied attempt to finger someone who doesn’t want to be; the most radical thing that’s done sexually is an extended shot of a woman—depressed, unhappy, unhinged, self-loathing—masturbating); and that it’s fun to chew over, worth seeing on the big screen to see what gets done with, you know, the big screen, but. Don’t expect too much.
And if you go hunting for what other people have to say about it, you’ll end up terribly depressed at either a) their own level of intelligence, or b) their assessment of other people’s intelligences. —Hard to say what’s at play, precisely, in that piece.
Ginger Snaps, on the other hand, which is out on videotape (talk about instant gratification), was a hoot and a half. The Spouse, who likes dogs rather more than I do, was put off from the start, and, though the initial review I’d read mentioned it was a “suggestive” horror flick, it isn’t, and she gets squicked by that sort of thing. (Though the opening credits do a wonderfully cheeky job of playing with staged gore, simultaneously sensitizing and desensitizing you to what’s to come, it’s one of the bloodiest movies I’ve seen in quite some time. Of course, I’m not much of a gorehound. —The level of violence isn’t beyond what one might see in a typical, say, Buffy episode; but the results of that violence are displayed rather more—realistically?—viscerally.)
As far as its being a feminist horror film goes—on the one hand, I’d like to think that we’re past the time when it’s something special to see a film that treats mythology—pop and otherwise—from the perspective of women (or girls) (we aren’t, but I’d like to think that); and anyway, it’s a horror film, which means it’s inherently conservative, even reactionary—people who transgress get punished. Of course, it’s hardly that simplistic; it’s got a morally complex, complicated, conflicted response—as with all decent horror films, it subverts itself, daring us to empathize, even identify, with the monster; as with all good horror films, we can’t help but do so.
And it’s still hard to find flicks that pass Alison Bechdel’s test. Easier than it used to be, but. So that’s nice.