#37 | April 23 - May 6, 1998  

When I was last in the US I spent an hour in front of the TV hoping to catch the latest music videos. Of course, thanks to the no-vid policy strictly adhered to by Music Television ever since the Bush years, I ended up seeing a dating game for overweight people in baseball caps, followed by the "MTV News Year in Review" featuring, among other things, prolonged interviews with 1997's hottest pop stars-Puff Daddy, Fiona Apple, Marilyn Manson, Jamiroquai-about what they think of the year's hottest pop stars. Fittingly, the discussion avoided the subject of music almost entirely.

Mr. Puffy, for example, was unable to comment at all on Manson because apparently the Reznor youth has been going around "disrespecting God." Mr. Manson, meanwhile, alternated between discussing himself and striking what he seemed to think was a pretty repulsive grimace. Ms. Apple managed to speak in vague, but not unfavorable terms about her colleagues. As for Mr. Quai, he seemed to have trouble even following the questions, let alone formulating a coherent response. (I'm not implying he was under the influence of narcotics; the pasty-faced Brit is obviously plagued by a stupidity that has been with him since birth.)

But that wasn't all. The nouveau-celebre panelists were also asked their opinion of five fellow flavors of the month who obviously had higher-paying advertisements in which to appear-the Spice Girls.

It's no small Alanis-proof irony that it took the champions of Girl Power, Pepsi Cola, and that deodorant with the ads on Russian TV to get the four Details-approved pop stars talking music. After all, the quintet's recorded output makes even the wildly uneven middle-period work of a seasoned marketing artist like Madonna sound like pure expression.

Nevertheless, the four pundits happily spent a few of their precious 15 minutes painstakingly exposing the shriveled, hollow core of the Spice phenomenon, for the benefit of a record-buying public too busy reading Dilbert and clipping coupons for fat-free cookies to recognize the cleverly orchestrated swindle that robs them of their dignity.

Plump...and Plumper!

The Puff Daddy-a man whose meteoric rise to fame is the indirect result of a friend's murder, which inspired a non-melodic parody of "Every Breath You Take" in which "pray for you" is boldly rhymed with "pray for you"-took the first crack at deconstructing the myth of the Spice Sound. Clearly though, the fact that there have been no known Girl Power activities directed against organized Christianity left Mr. Combs short on ammunition, so the program's editors wisely cut to Manson, who took a few moments' respite from his grotesque narcissism to decisively confute this beastly affront to corporate aesthetics and good taste. "Disgusting," he argued, then resumed his grimacing.

Britain's Jamiroquai, the pale Stevie Wonder-ling with the bad teeth and the limited vocal range, was so incensed by the false bearers of the Union Jack that he managed to complete two fiery sentences and was well on his way to a third when the editors Frank Sinatra'd his ass, cutting to the more restrained Ms. Apple, who is as well coached by A&R reps on the finer points of sound-bite rhetoric as any brutally honest female vocalist on the charts today. Fiona easily steered the polemic back to safe, amusical territory, praising the Girls' relentless "pursuit of fun" and ability to spread non-toxic joy via thick-soled shoes and suburbia-friendly feminism.

The truly remarkable thing about this brief journey into the American entertainment mind was not that three half-wit mediocrities stated, before an audience of millions, something that people residing on the outskirts of trailer parks can grasp intuitively, but rather that a slightly less-mediocre imbecile barely past her teens not only avoided this trap, but even displayed near-intelligence in what was obviously a no-win situation. Hell, in a country where folks are adorning their lives with ever more layers of hideous minutiae as perception and discernment die out, you take those first cautious signs of economic growth where you can get 'em.

I hope it's clear from the above why there is no need to discuss a movie like Spice World: the Movie. I'll merely mention that anyone who expects something more than a mindless exercise in product-milking and all-star cameo overkill ought to think about spending less time at the dog track. This movie's target audience is pre-pubescent girls, most of whom will enjoy or even love it (which I find a good deal less worrying than the idea of the world's youngsters lining up to see Titanic for the fifth or sixth time). Attentive adults will note the near total absence of humor and wit, especially in comparison to This Is Spinal Tap, but at least it's a lot less tedious than U2: Rattle and Hum.

For the record, I have a soft spot for the two plump Spices-Baby first, then Ginger a distant second (owing to what I feel are some rather severe facial problems). And frankly, I think that creepy Posh chick is the scary one.

If you crave something really scary, consider In & Out, Frank Oz's would-be satirical comedy about a homosexual high school teacher in Indiana who is in his mid-30s and nearly weds before he even realizes he has been in the closet all those decades. Kevin Kline is the unfortunate cupboard dweller, proving yet again that you don't have to be a bad actor to end up in a shite film. Matt Dillon is also on board playing one of his trademark Well-Meaning Dullards, but even he can't score a laugh in what just might be the most uniformly feeble comedy since Arthur.

Homosexuals (and, hopefully, sentient heteros) have long been aware that all "gay" Hollywood films are intended for straight audiences. In & Out pushes the envelope one degree further by becoming perhaps the first-ever gay movie for dead audiences. That may sound like facetious exaggeration, but I'm totally serious. The lifeless script and clumsy direction are so devoid of imagination that only someone on life-support could possibly remain still throughout without becoming violent, insulted, or at least severely cranky.

The movie kicks off with a shockingly unfunny parody of the movie business (the Academy Awards in particular) that actually ends up further venerating the sacred cows it is pretending to mock (Robin Williams, Oliver Stone, Whoopi Goldberg, Tom Cruise, et al). The shamelessly calculations work as follows: idiotic Tom Hanks fans see a scene that is a near-identical re-creation of the scene being "parodied." If they notice this striking similarity, the idiots say to themselves, "This is just like that Forrest Gump I liked so much. I must like this movie, too." The idiots then get to congratulate themselves for understanding a joke that is not even a joke.

Considering that humor almost always derives from the unexpected, it is no wonder that a movie as frighteningly mainstream as In & Out fashion its "comedy" out of comfortable, repeated experiences. Whereas a genuine joke might have jarred at least a few folks into realizing that Tom Hanks's subtlety and range are are largely nonexistent, this non-joke could easily pump still more air into a true mental giant's already bloated opinion of a decent comic actor for whom no-smirk drama is simply not a viable option. Moreover, the non-joke is so harmless and barb-free that even the most thin-skinned LA thespian can prove what a big guy he is by indulging in a little chuckle at his own expense. So now we have everybody laughing... at absolutely nothing.

Even the hack filmmakers don't have much patience for this bullshit: after about 15 minutes they abruptly change gears. In strict accordance with the standard M.O. in such films, the contrived gay issue is kept free of any remotely sexual content so as not to nauseate those hetero viewers who are inevitably experiencing some serious doubts about this whole Gays On Film thing. (Deprived of a the natural vehicle of romantic desire through which to establish Kline's orientation, the writer falls back on the old Hollywood standbys-neatness, bow ties, a thing for dancing and Barbra Streisand. This last one is particularly dubious given that most of the men in the town are too familiar with her career to be above suspicion themselves, and a person would be hard pressed to go anywhere in the US without seeing a distressingly large number of people who describe the woman as a genius.) Anyway, with Kline's homosexuality devoid of any potentially icky physical aspects the film can moves on to the real subject: the hidden dark side of a middle American town.

Gay maybe...Gay definitely!

Now the really biting satire ostensibly kicks in, manifesting itself as indecisive wavering between ersatz social commentary and goofy Airplane-type gags that, like the Oscar "parody," are 100% humor-free. Essentially, it ends up being the kind of movie David Lynch would probably do after undergoing the Clockwork Orange treatment. As such, Lynch's trademark theme-the hidden dark side lurking menacingly beneath everything-is reduced to a bunch of elderly Hoosiers rediscovering the long-concealed quirks that are no doubt like the essence of their humanity or some such shit.

It's not long before this business goes way too far, with a wrinkled granny announcing that her husband has three testicles. Frank Oz may expect us simply to give a quick chuckle at this revelation and then forget about it, but this far exceeds the bounds of things the general public has any need to know. If I had an extra nut and my wife of 40-odd years carelessly blurted out the secret one day without asking my permission, you can rest assured that I'd be quite a bit less than pleased.

The endless supply of hideous Americans lurking about in depressing floral-print dresses as they expose their feet maintains the sanitized Lynchian mode, with the major difference that Lynch's hideous people are usually at least compellingly so.

Tom Selleck, Wilford Brimley, and Bob Newhart are also hanging about not doing a hell of a lot of good. Jeez, folks-the weather's finally starting to turn, so there's absolutely no reason for you to see this movie.