#46 | August 27 - September 10, 1998  

With life here still following the downward spiral of some as-yet unmade Scorsese film, you've gotta wonder which "lucky" bastard will be left standing in the much-less-interesting aftermath like some Russian bureaucratic fusion of Travis Bickle, Henry Hill, and Sam "Ace" Rothstein. Despite the similarities between those characters and the Young Reformer trio of Kiriyenko, Nemtsov, and Chubais, good old ChVS is now perfectly placed to keep Paul Cicero (and the other bosses) out of prison and firmly in control of the neighborhood until long after the audience has exited the theater. Such an ending might not follow the usual Scorsese formula, but as the analysts are always saying, "Russia is highly resistant to such neat formulations." And how will Vic and crew manage to survive a long-term financial crisis? I'd hate to make any concrete predictions, but I think Henry Hill probably has some insight to offer on the matter: "Whenever we needed more cash, we just stole it." The only difference is, this time they'll probably be looking to steal it from you.

Meanwhile, the imported product at Moscow's cinemas continues to pale in comparison to real life. This week it's the belated arrival of the last of this year's best-picture Oscar nominees, The Full Monty, as well as perhaps the least-called-for sequel of the past decade, Species II. Incidentally, rumors now indicate that the former picture is spawning an unlikely sequel of its own, although it's a mystery where such a self-contained film could possibly go next. I expect a lighthearted romp in the spirit of Porky's II: The Next Day, with the lovable bunch of unemployed laborers-turned-strippers involved in some wacky new scheme-perhaps taking on the National Front or Britain's troubling attitude toward male gay-ety. Who knows, this (along with Still More Weddings and Funerals) could even be the start of that British Film Renaissance the geniuses at The Face have been drooling about for years.

This film's success on the other side of the Atlantic could also signal some movement in the long-established Merchant-Ivory demographic of Anglophile America. After all, the stateside cinematic Brit-tooth usually only goes so far. Comedies of manners, full-dress period pieces, charming aristocrats in quaint misadventures-that's about all the average multiplex-er has ever wanted to see of Foggy Albion. The dentally challenged overweight types who'd rather have a go at a chocolate bar in the shed out back than make love to their hefty wives don't typically cut it out in the sticks.

To be fair, The Full Monty does have its share of entertaining bits. Some of the characters-when not fully clothed-can be engaging, even amusing. Robert Carlisle is particularly endearing as the dimwitted idea man of the group, forcefully demonstrating what a big difference a sleazy mustache (or rather the lack thereof) can make.

Ultimately, however, the comedic scenes never quite mesh with the heavy bits, and the well-known premise is stretched pretty much to its limit after about 60 minutes. More than anything, the resulting patchwork comes out like a quirky British version of Bewgie Nights-although not nearly as awful or overrated. Disappointing full-frontal-male-nudity climaxes, out-of-left-field homosexual encounters, and recycled disco soundtracks are just a few of the similarities. You'll have to excuse me if horrific memories keep me from pursuing this unpleasant thread any further.

That was all rather depressing, so it's fortuitous that we now turn to a movie that makes fuck all in the way of sense-Species II. Although conceived as a thinking-man's sci-fi/action blockbuster teaming middlebrow thespian Ben Kingsley with the monster creations of legendary avant-garde artist H.R. Geiger, the original Species ended up as a bizarre hybrid mixing heavy doses of cotton-candy gore with envelope-pushing soft-core porn worthy of late-night Skinemax. Fetching newcomer Natasha Henstridge (and her character's penchant for disrobing in the presence of any healthy male) earned the film a small but loyal following among pubescent boys, but the "thinking men" apparently had other business to attend. Other than earning Henstridge a recent guest spot on South Park, the performance did little for her career; she and the movie were soon forgotten by just about everyone. Nevertheless, MGM has decided that the time is right for a sequel-whether this is a late attempt to cash in on the hostile-Martian vogue or at the behest of some studio codger who didn't get enough of Nat's tits last time is anyone's guess.

Admirably, Species II thumbs its nose defiantly at past failures, adhering firmly to the golden rule of sequels: stick to your formula. In this case the formula calls for lofty aims gradually yielding to blissful vulgarity, and the creators have really outdone themselves in both respects. Here we have a script of genuine psychological complexity that is equal parts Manchurian Candidate (militant aliens being the most reliable post-Cold War threat to the American way of life) and Blade Runner (the philosophical scope is actually much closer to the Philip K. Dick novel than Ridley Scott's audience-friendly redux). Director Peter Medak even seems willing to go along with this gameplan for the first 15 minutes or so. The setup is carefully restrained and effective; soon enough, the alien DNA has infected its human hosts and is en route to Earth.

The first sign that Medak is defecting from the highbrow team comes when the astronauts are congratulated by the President...played by Richard Belzer. Immediately thereafter, the sexual taboo is broken with a bit of dialogue that puts the "crisp" in "potato chip":

NASA physician: "You're under quarantine, so no sexual activity for 10 days."
Female astronaut: "You've got to be kidding."
Physician: "No, I'm not kidding."

Before you can say "I think I left the dehumidifier running," head astronaut Justin Lazard is using his new American Hero status to nail every chick in the greater DC area. The twist here is twofold: First, a male as sexual predator means an endless variety of female forms instead of just Natasha monotony (although she still gets naked for the climactic fuck). Second, infected as he is with aggressive alien DNA, our Martian Candidate is a relentless instant-impregnation machine, his quick-acting fertilizer reducing his prey-whether nympho sisters, trashy whore, or coupon-clipping shopper-to a messy pile of lacerated flesh soon after the deed is done. After one very impressive fortnight, Justin has single-handedly fathered a sizable herd of little half-breeds who would just love to follow in dad's footsteps. In their defense, they seem to handle the premature deaths of their various mothers remarkably well. Moreover, unlike many single-parent children raised by violent fathers, they are extremely well-behaved-until adolescence, that is.

Up to this point my disbelief had certainly been strained, but basically I was still with the program. What finally broke me was Justin's "parenting." While he's out adding to the flock he locks them all up at his deceased mother's (a pertinent detail, I suppose) derelict country estate, and-here's the really odd part-they're naked except for gray institutional (as in prison/asylum) smocks that are identical in all but size. This raises a number of troubling questions. Like, where did the smocks come from? Did Justin raid an institutional outfitter prior to the start of mass insemination? Also, the children's accelerated rate of development would necessitate constant exchanges and a nearly endless supply of smocks. With such limited parental supervision, how do the boys keep this potentially chaotic situation under control? And is this any way for a parent-even one who is half-alien-to clothe his young?

From here on out, things just get more obscene and ludicrous. For starters, a very nice-looking young woman is nearly raped. Later a pathologist spends 30-odd seconds sawing around the circumference of some stiff's skull, but we never see the head being open. Despite being pursued at high speeds by government spooks in Chevy Suburbans and military helicopters, Natasha manages to slip off her panties without slowing down in her urban assault vehicle. Then, after she has gone to such trouble to get to Justin, he assumes alien form and fellates her to death. What a prick.

The topper is Mykelti Williamson, almost certainly the hardest-working chubby Uncle Tom in show-biz, who appears to be on hand merely to crack 70s-style "Look at me, I'm a Negro!" jokes-that is, until a few drops of his blood on the prongs of a pitchfork are used to turn an irate Justin into a gooey, vomit-hued puddle. You see, Mykelti's bloodstream carries a dormant strain of sickle-cell anemia, an affliction that is sufficient to defeat the seemingly unstoppable species that otherwise would have brought humankind to extinction. If you buy that, it'll cost you the post-devaluation ruble equivalent of $11.