Issue #09/64, May 6 - 20, 1999  

I know I said last time I would not be returning to the subject of Aleksandr Rogozhkin's Blokpost (Outpost), which I had previously watched all of 15 minutes of before unceremoniously falling asleep (incidentally, I also forgot to mention last time that I spilled half a Yarpivo on my couch in the process). Well now that I've watched the film in its entirety, it turns out that I still have a few things to get off the old chest.

For one thing, as I feared, this is a thoroughly respectable film in most respects. Appropriately disorienting to the wartime subject matter, the largely external narrator's viewpoint depicts scenes of significant (and frequently quite random) brutality without moralizing or choosing sides to any off-putting degree. Maybe the surprise-twist ending is necessarily abrupt and a little too convenient in that all-too-familiar ABC Afterschool Special way, but all in all the whole thing holds together pretty nicely.

Which makes the scene involving three eXpatella OSCE representatives who visit the outpost all the more frustrating. Pointlessly preening harpies with sensible backpacks and expensive photo equipment, these three wannabe groupies stand around like pissed-on fire hydrants asking the kinds of stupid questions that only over-employed hackettes seem capable of putting into words in that bizarrely stilted, stuck-in-wet-cement English accent that always seems to rear its head when expat North Americans with no acting ability manage to weasel their way into a Russian film (I'm thinking in particular of that one scene in Brat here). And I hate to ponder what horrific lengths these three went to get into a movie. Did I mention that one of them was Heidi Hollinger? At least I think it was--her name was there in the credits anyway, and the particularly slutty journalist "character" did seem to imply that she was Canadian. The fact is, I never had any idea what Ms. Hollinger actually looked like and have always read Mark Ames's occasional harangues in her general direction in much the state of mind of a Saturday morning child instinctively hating the cartoon villains, despite the fact that they're not fleshed out particularly well. Now I can't say that I'm terribly surprised to discover that Heidi has a uniquely unappealing speaking voice but still, based on all those stories about her banging David Byrne and other formerly hip celebrities of still lesser stature, I had always assumed that she was somewhat attractive in a sort of mallrat/trailer park skanky kind of way. But now it turns out that she's just another diminutive, somewhat fleshy imp-girl whose curly granola hair is of no determinate color. I guess it just goes to show that if someone who looks like that can apparently get laid in Moscow with some frequency, there's hope for expat women yet.

Anyway, for those who would like to avoid this little scene in order to better enjoy an otherwise entertaining film, it comes at about 75 minutes into the thing. Just avert your eyes when you see the white OSCE vans pulling up and you'll be fine.

If you want to get really technical here, I guess you could say that I haven't really seen any of the other new films that are out this week. However, I think I got close enough with at least two of them that most of you will probably give me the benefit of the doubt. Aw heck, do you have a choice? Cruel Intentions, by first-time director Roger Kumble, is sort of interesting if only because it has a cameo by Howard Stern cohort Fred Norris as a meter-maid. On the other, Goldie-Hawn alter ego Swoosie Kurtz is in there somewhere, too, so watch your back.

In the name of good research, I went so far as too examine the CD soundtrack for this film at the HMV superstore on Fifth Avenue earlier today (where I picked up a bargain-priced copy of Galaxie 500's live Copenhagen record that had been mislabeled at $6.99 by some McEmployee who has probably already moved on to a job with even less upward mobility). Apparently, it's got one of those Fatboy Slim hits (not the "Funk Soul Brother" thing, one of the other ones they play at places like Respublika) on it, so it should be popular with all those Arbat kids who are still doggedly wearing ultra-platform footwear long after it has gone out of style even in Moscow. I love those kids.

The nine-words-or-less rundown on this one is: teenage reworking of Dangerous Liaisons with made-for-TV actors like Ryan Phillippe and that Buffy the Vampire Slayer girl, the two cats who died in the first I Know Who You Did Last Summer, incidentally. I know that sounds like it could be exciting, but keep in mind that fancy lad-ettes like that Buffy chick, effectively ruined I guess by the PG mores of US television, never seem to get nude in these teensploitation flicks. Which means that the original DL featuring Keanu Reeves and a very young and naked Uma is still the only way to go.

The other film I have some quasi-firsthand knowledge of is Dangerous Beauty, which--like Cruel Intentions--also happens to have a two-word title. Coincidence? More than likely.

In this case, it was the European trailer that I saw, which was pretty mediocre as these things go. As skilled as the trailer-making folks have become in the post-Reagan era, they still haven't found a way to effectively turn these semipsychological period pieces with massive costume budgets into 90-second rollercoaster rides. If any of those guys are out there reading right now, I just wanna let 'em know that I'm sitting rootin' for 'em. Keep it up, fellas--you're bound to find that miracle cure sooner or later.

All right, enough genre-inappropriate cheerleading outta me. Perhaps we'd be more sensible to explore the various alternate titles in the short time we have left. Such as The Honest Courtesan, which served as the inspiration for the film's journeyman Russian translators. You've also gotta admire the Penny Marshall moxie of the alternate Down Under appellation, A Destiny of Her Own. Call me a nutburger, but this sort of Lifetime network, working mom feminism seems a touch delusional in the context of 16th century Venice (even if the story is as true as has been alleged by some historians of dubious repute). But I suppose if anyone's capable of managing this unlikely juggling job it's the fellow who brought us thirtysomething and My So-Called Life.

Ahh, fuck it, I assume you're hangin' around here waiting for the easy out, so I might as well spill the beans now that Fred Ward and Oliver Platt costar. What is it with that Platt guy and period flicks where you get to wear flitty pirate pants?

Now with the latest TV-series remake, My Favorite Martian, it really is anybody's guess. I've got no concrete thing to go on. I do know that the director is a rather suspect-sounding Donald Petrie, while the Martian and "my" roles are handled by Christopher Lloyd and Jeff Daniels, respectively. Say what you will about Bill Bixby's untimely passing and whether or not this film (and other TV remakes of its ilk) are inherently disrespectful and callow. I'm going to actually see it the first chance I get, as I'm harboring this hope that it will provide another opportunity to glimpse Liz Hurley in tight-fitting leather pants. For Ms. Hurley is indeed that rare bird of an exception that proves two rules (that leather pants ands British women are both inherently unattractive) simultaneously.

Well don't sit there looking at me like that, I'm on vacation here. Go make yourself a fucking sandwich or something.