Clueless (Amy Heckerling, 1995)

Reinventing the way words are uttered and clothes are worn for an entire generation of open-minded men and stylish women, Clueless remains the pinnacle of teen cinema. Bubbling over with every conceivable colour in the known universe and sporting life lessons of a synergetic nature, the film, written and directed by the super-cute Amy Heckerling, deftly mixes the moronic with the profound, as it follows the adolescent ups and downs of one the most engaging and complex characters to ever grace the screen that I watch stuff on. The exalted character I'm referring to is, of course, Cher Horowitz (Alicia Silverstone), the patron saint of unintentional magnificence. An angelic shopaholic in strappy heels, a stem exposing humanitarian, if you will, who aimlessly transverses the trendy quagmire that is Beverly Hills, California, Cher is an inspiration to all those who are willing to look fabulous on the outside, while oozing a social conscious on the inside. This agreeableness manages to shine through despite the fact she appears to be an overly shallow, uninformed brat, and that her father (the occasionally hilarious Dan Hedaya) makes money off the misery of others. You see, in most movies, Cher would be the villain, a vixenish hosebeast bent on destroying the integrity of some plucky brunette. But in this strange, rearwardly universe, the vacuous prevail.

It's not an opinion set in stone, but I'd say Cher is the closest cinematic representation to what I consider to be absolute perfection when it comes to teenage adolescence. Sure, she might have a couple of flaws here and there, but it's those little blemishes that make her so appealing as a character. So much so that my central nervous system melts whenever she puts the words "as" and "if" together. Displaying no talent whatsoever when it comes to operating a motor vehicle, yet exhibiting a world-weary gumption when it comes to deciding what kind of juicy cock she wants sporadically traveling through the rarely visited confines of her special area, Cher is not only a fashion icon, she also helps the less fortunate find romance.

This selfless desire to find other people dates is the nitty-gritty of Cher's plight, as she neglects her own dating needs to her detriment. The film's title actually refers to her incompetence when comes to her own romantic instincts, not her intelligence. Which is lacklustre from a scholastic point of view, but judging from an unconventional plain of existence, Cher is one smartest characters I've come across in years.

Anyway, while secretly motivating middle-aged teachers to fuck and giving makeovers to new students who dress like farmers, Cher discovers that her gaydar is nonexistent and that Josh (the absolutely dreamy Paul Rudd), her college age, non-blood-related stepbrother (their parents were married for a little while), who comes over every once and while, is starting to look pretty darn hunky.

Call me full of expired eyeliner, but I could have sworn that Alicia Silverstone was getting more cute as the film progressed. At any rate, the film's sharp writing definitely had a hand in molding Cher from archetypal teen bimbo into the eloquent voice for millions of disenfranchised daughters of overpaid litigators. But it was the sheer gusto of Alicia's performance that elevates the proceedings to the sphere of excellence. Spewing her lines with what seemed like a grating bluntness, the scrunchy-faced actress tackles the unique dialogue with a poetic flair.

Fashion froward to an almost extreme level, the clothes in Clueless dominate every scene with an aggressive temperament. The fashion riskiness is best represented by Amber, Cher's friend/rival. Made flesh by the gorgeous Elisa Donovan, the "whatever" character sports some of film's most "out there" outfits. Which include: irregular tights, faux fur, and subversive footwear. Alicia Silverstone and Stacey Dash, while just as tight-obsessed as Amber, their looks seemed to play up their inherent legginess, as skirts of a skimpy nature rule the day.

The adorable Brittany Murphy plays the pint-size Tai, an outsider who finds herself thrust into the spotlight when Cher makes the new student her pet project, and manages to make "Rollin' With My Homies" seem romantic. It's hard to believe this is the same actress who would go on star in movies where she's called upon to tell Mickey Rourke that he is a "fucking fuckface fucker" in Spun.

Stand-outs on the soundtrack include: The Muffs' version of "Kids in America," "Shake Some Action" by Cracker, Jill Sobule's sobulic "Supermodel," and "Need You Around" by a band called The Smoking Popes.

...

Spun (Jonas Åkerlund, 2002)

If you enjoy strip clubs, adult video shops, convenience stores, external pieces of Mena Suvari's well-earned excrement, and cooking speed in stuffy motel rooms, then have I got good news for you. An unclean sore on the over trafficked anus of modern society, this film is pure filth. If you don't once think about your own personal hygiene while watching Spun, the hyper-kinetic ode to methamphetamine and the humanitarians who abuse it, then you my friend are not an earth-born individual. Every character that populates this seedy world needs to desperately get themselves reacquainted with the squarish miracle that is soap. It was obvious to me early on that the director (a Swedish dude renowned for his music videos), has no idea how to make a conventional movie. And you know what? I couldn't be more happy. Filmmaker Jonas Åkerlund's incompetence as a storyteller actually elevated the proceedings and gave the film the disjointed, meandering quality it needed. I mean, the idea of watching a well-made, or worse, insightful, movie about drug addicts gives me the willies. No, what want to see is scenes involving wretched degradation and comical anguish all mixed together without any thought whatsoever put into things like, pacing and continuity. And Jonas delivers in that regard. Creating an atmosphere where every single action is heightened.

A sordid mishmash of lowlifes traversing the outskirts of some sunburnt refuse heap near Los Angeles, Spun is aimless film-making at its finest. One that basically focuses on a tweeker named Ross (a greasy-haired Jason Schwartzman) and his need to score meth on a regular basis. However, little things like, a battle with sleeplessness, running errands for a cowboy/chemist with a wrestling fixation, the big brown eyes of the cowboy/chemists' stripper girlfriend, keeping his own stripper girlfriend tied to his bed, and trying to reconnect with his non-stripper ex-girlfriend are obscuring his main goal; getting high.

The cast were all game when it came to looking absolutely awful. Whether it was excessive sweatiness, bad skin, or unwashed hair, each character brought their own unique brand of nastiness to the table.

A leathery Mickey Rourke commands the screen as The Cook, an aloof versifier who is tirelessly dedicated to his craft; a perennially shirtless John Leguizamo is flat-out disgusting as Spider Mike; Deborah Harry is a kindhearted yet firm lesbian phone-sex operator who helps the protagonist's current stripper girlfriend out of an unpleasant jam (a disturbing subplot that causes the audience to look at Schwartzman's character in a different light); Eric Roberts was outstanding as The Man (his feminine mannerisms and blonde Elvis wig were topnotch); and the gorgeous China Chow appears briefly an escort (I loved the way struggled to walk across the motel parking in those impractical hooker pumps).

I'd have to say that Mena Suvari looked the worst out of everyone in the cast as Cookie (which, I guess, is sort of a complement). Her baked bean teeth, contusion covered face, chapped lips, soiled pajama bottoms, and equally soiled sleep mask were nauseating. (It shouldn't be said, but I could watch her struggle make fecal matter for hours on end.)

When most of us think back to the heady days when we wore acid wash jeans, we think, "Wow, what was I thinking?" Nikki, on the other hand, wears them year in, year out without a hint of shame. Played brilliantly by the enchanting Brittany Murphy, Nikki is probably my favourite character because she is the most sympathetic. For one thing, she doesn't leave anyone tied to a bed for three days, nor does she shoot anyone in the testicles. However, when Nikki disagrees with you, prepare to have your ear area peppered with a creative mix of curse words and demasculinizing put downs.

Combining the sisterly sweetness of an overly caffeinated half-wit and the open-mindedness of a lesser known porno actress, Brittany Murphy is a skanky delight from start to finish. The hopeful nitty-gritty of this bleak head-trip of a movie, the tasty actress with the large eye sockets (her makeup looked like it had been applied by a paint-ball gun) made Spun mildly worthwhile in the end.

...

Freeway (Matthew Bright, 1996)

Unchecked lewdness, moments of excessive violence, scenes of abhorrent tastelessness, and most importantly of all, it's funny as hell...in a dark, "Oh, no, she didn't!" kinda way. The rambunctious Freeway is a film that not only celebrates the tawdrier aspects of society (underage prostitution, girl-on-girl roughhousing, bilingual solicitation), but also manages to be one of the funniest films I have seen in a long-ass time. Using the classic folktale Little Red Riding Hood as his foundation, writer-director Matthew Bright (Forbidden Zone) has taken the story of a hood-wearing picnic enthusiast with a Grandmother fixation and turned it into a modern day allegory about sexual abuse, serial killers and parental ineptitude. In this souped-up version of the old-timey children's fable we follow the messed up adventures of teenage hellion, Vanessa Lutz (Reese Witherspoon), an illiterate, shapely legged little terror, who enjoys locking whoremonger's in the trunks of cars and making shanks in her spare-time. The film starts off with Vanessa's streetwalker mom (a scrumptiously sleazy Amanda Plummer) and deviant stepfather (a twitchy Michael T. Weiss) being arrested on the same day. And, as you would expect, the foulmouthed scamp is quite despondent. So she ditches her parole officer and hatches a plan to stay with Grandma, who lives up in Stockton, California (the town where Fat City was filmed and the birthplace of Pavement). Only problem is, her lemon of a car breaks down on the freeway. Fortunately (and I use that word carefully), a kindly stranger named Bob Wolverton (Kiefer Sutherland) offers to give her a ride the rest of the way.

Sexy and full of spunk, Reese Witherspoon blew the hell out of me as Vanessa, the sassiest piece of jailbait this side of Flin Flon. The scrunchy-faced actress completely destroys my image of her in this movie.

Discharging a rapid fire barrage of hilariously filthy put-downs at anyone within earshot, Reese gives an impassioned and volatile performance that left me dumbfounded. In Vanessa Lutz, Miss Witherspoon has created a character so enchanting, so endearing, that I get all tingly just thinking about her. Whether she's gently pistol-whipping necrophiliacs in the back of the head or beating a fellow inmate with a pay-phone receiver, Vanessa trampled her way into the blackened recesses of my perverted heart.

Her interrogation scene with the always reliable Dan Heydaya and Wolfgang Bodison (I loved the way he seemed aroused by Lutz' descriptions of her past crimes) is the best example of Reese's acting mettle (wonderfully unselfconscious and feisty to the max). This particular scene is also a great example of the film's very un-PC dialogue. I also adored the fact her step dad taught her how to make a juvie-quality shank.

Oh, and the look Reese's face in that picture detectives show to Kiefer when he's in the hospital was the funniest thing I've seen in years.

A girl-loving Brittany Murphy is totally awesome as Rhonda (Reese's slightly unhinged bunk-mate while she's in prison). The way she said the lines, "I'm in here for huffin' paint" and "They found a gram of tar up my kooch" had me rolling near the floor.

The lover of tacky fashion in me thinks Brooke Shields' seafaring wardrobe and dangly jewelry deserves major kudos. On top of that, I thought Tara Subkoff's leg brace was a wonderfully odd character touch; the makeup used to create Kiefer's grotesque smile was well-crafted; and Alanna Ubach's strangling technique was absolutely splendid in its ghastliness. You know what they say, nothing beats getting strangled to death in a gas station restroom.

...