Slums of Beverly Hills (Tamara Jenkins, 1998)

Recreating the freewheeling spirit of July, 1976 on a modest budget might sound like a lot work. But when you're dealing with a specific Los Angeles County zip code where nothing changes, the odds of making a quasi-realistic film about growing up middle class in the cities' most affluent community become a whole lot greater. Sporting no distinguishable characteristics whatsoever, this seemingly stagnant society, combined with the inherent blandness of the year in which it was filmed, is ready-made for the disco era. Proving that all you need is a couple of period specific vehicles (the bigger, the better), a couple of pairs of platform shoes, and some strategically placed Parliament jams on the soundtrack, Slums of Beverly Hills is a refreshing, appallingly precise coming-of-age tale about a nomadic family struggling to make ends meet in one of the world's most affluent neighbourhoods. Okay, it's not that "precise." I mean, the presence of Kevin Corrigan (Buffalo '66), for instance, does give the film a mild late '90s stench. But other than that, the film does paint a pretty accurate portrait of what it must been like to be a teenage girl with body issues during those heady days when kids could, without fear, openly watch H.R. PufnStuf while eating Trix in nothing but an expertly laundered pair of tighty whities.

For some strange reason, I've always dismissed this film as the one where Marisa Tomei does a lot of drugs while scantily clad. Why I once dismissed this film on those particular grounds, I'll never know. Seriously, what kind of jackass dismisses something because Marisa Tomei is constantly high and naked? It borders on being extremely stupid. I guess my chakras were not properly aligned back when I thought those thoughts.

Still, that doesn't justify the pure wrongheadedness of the above paragraph's opening sentence. In fact, that doesn't even sound like me. Who the fuck wrote that? It makes me come off as the type of person who doesn't like watching attractive women overdose in their underwear. And believe me, I'm not that type of person. Anyway, I think I'll wrap this section up by making one coherent point, and that is: Marisa Tomei gives a wonderfully unhinged performance as a flaky woman heading in no particular direction.

Blessed with the gangliest, juiciest, most jaunty legs ever to dangle from a pair of jean shorts, Natasha Lyonne (Freeway II: Confessions of a Trickbaby) is a beautifully awkward mess as Vivian Abromowitz, the lone female member of the wandering Abromowitz clan. Alarmed by the changes that are occurring to her body (she just got breasts), Natasha's trademark indifference and deadpan delivering are perfectly implemented in this deftly funny comedy about a somewhat dysfunctional family who moves from one dingy Beverly Hills apartment complex to another a semi-regular basis.

Whether staring blankly out the back window of a moving car or appearing bored while being felt up by a pot-dealing miscreant in a Charles Manson t-shirt (a piece of clothing he seems to wear everyday), the alluring Natasha will melt the hearts of those who have an appreciation for lopsided femininity.

The aforementioned molestation scene, the bedroom vibrator toss set to "Give Up the Funk (Tear the Roof off the Sucker)," and the usage of said vibrator were definitely highlights in terms of getting conventional Lyonne-based satisfaction. However, since I'm not about extolling the virtues of the obvious, I must say, the simple image of Natasha sitting on the floor watching television with her family is what sent my senses into overdrive.

Maybe it was the inadvertently seductive way the can of TAB she was holding perfectly matched her skin and ensemble, or the manner in which the elastic of her knee-high sport socks tightly gripped the smooth surface of her lithesome calf muscles. Either way, the simple act of lounging on shag carpeting solidified my positive feelings toward Natasha's character and the film in general.

The always welcome sight of David Krumholtz singing show tunes in his underwear and the unique voice of Alan Arkin make up the male contingent of Slums of the Beverly Hills. The former, playing the most well-balanced member of the Abromowitz family, isn't given much to do beyond the underwear scene and a couple of nicely placed comments of a snarky nature. The gifted Mr. Arkin, on the other hand, is given a lot to do as the aimless father determined to keep his kids in the Beverly Hills school district, in other words, away from Torrance.

The reason I keep mentioning undergarments is because they play an integral role in this film. Hell, even a menstrual belt is employed at one point in the film. At any rate, I think underwear is essential. Not only in regards to this film, but in an overall kind of way, especially when it comes to having clothes on under the clothes you're already wearing.

A wee Mena Suvari appears briefly as a girl with a recently corrected deviated septum. The nose bandage she wears threw me off at first, but I could tell it was her.

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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.

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Nowhere (Gregg Araki, 1997)

A film that helped me make the lopsided transition from pretending to like bland, competent films to repeatedly landing nose first in the bosomy cleavage of cinematic trash. In other words, the sex and violence filled wonderland that I have always been destined to wallow in. Nowhere is a film that I resisted at first (I dissented so hard, I felt ill afterward), but have since learned to appreciate its aimless narrative, nihilistic overtones, and scattershot view of adolescent humanity. Call it masochistic, call it an act of celluloid-based attrition, but I forced myself not only to like Gregg Araki's ode to the rudderless youth of the mid-to-late '90s, but to love the living secretion out of it. Each time I begrudgingly sat down to watch it, I'd come away more enriched than you could imagine. It's like I'm infected with a disease, except instead of abstaining from the causation, I would bathe my eyes in its abhorrent life force, get swept in the sheer ridiculousness of it all, and find myself quoting the swollen-headed characters' adroit put downs and their hyperbolic proclamations of love like a mindless fiend. Yeah, I guess some of the dialogue was overly clever at times, but I'd rather something be clever than be whatever the opposite of clever is.

Besides, I love it when women (and men) refer to each others genitalia using saucy, unorthodox language.

Now normally, this is where I'd pretend the story was too labyrinthian for my puny brain to handle. But in the case of Nowhere, there's hardly anything for me to grasp at in order to falsify a compelling yarn. And I think that was Araki's intention. The best way to represent teen angst gone awry is to strip away all pretense and present the characters in the most raw manner possible. Sure, the alien subplot flies in the face of this minimalist attitude, but the words "alien" and "alienation" don't just sound similar and share some of the same letters, they represent an all-embracing bumptiousness that shapes the idiosyncratic young people that populate this die now, live later culture.

In reality, the film is about a bunch of drug addicts, part-time high school students, musicians, and amateur filmmakers who plan on congregating at a party being thrown by a fella named Jujyfruit (Gibby Haynes). Until then, some pass the time by eavesdropping on a trio of valley chicks waiting for a bus (a totally awesome cameo by Traci Lords, Shannen Doherty, and Rose McGowan) and exchanging pleasantries with deceptively genial teen idols from Tasmania. While others engage in femdom activities that involve spanking, crotches slathered in chocolate, and rough coitus where the words "Mommy" and "Daddy" are not used as safe words.

The cast is so enormous in scope, that it takes the entirety of Slowdive's "Avalyn II" just to list the principle players. So, I'll just focus on a fistful of the many fleshy parts that are sprinkled throughout this film. The main pairing (most of the "plots" are told via pairs) are Dark and Mel (James Duvall and Rachel True). The two begin to drift apart when fellow young person, Montgomery (Nathan Bexton), starts to show up in Dark's spank bank, the budding Clive Barker usually has Mel and dominatrixes Kriss and Kozy (Chiara Mastroianni and Debi Mazar) deposited in there. Mel, on the other hand, is spending an awfully lot of time with Lucifer (Kathleen Robertson), a feisty lesbian who utters the films tastiest insults. Plus, her reaction to a skinheaded partygoer that asks if he can "jizz on her face" was pretty sweet.

This little nugget of plot may drive the film forward, but it is by no means the most interesting of the lot. For example, the one where Shad (Ryan Phillippe) and Lilith (Heather Graham), a couple of death-obsessed sex addicts, are seen constantly mock eating each others faces has its moments. As do the underage adventures of Zoe (Mena Suvari) and Joshua Gibran Mayweather's Zero, and the drug addiction bit with Cowboy (Guillermo Díaz) and Bart (Jeremy Jordan) caused me to feel somewhat sad.

However, it was the brief encounters between Christina Applegate's Dingbat and Scott Caan's Ducky that proved most interesting. I don't know, but there's something fascinating about the way Miss Applegate plays Dingbat. Maybe it's the braces and the funky kitty-cat t-shirt, or maybe it was the clueless expression she is constantly wearing on her face. Well, whatever it is, she made my spirit soar. A rare occurrence in a film that features a man killing another man with a can of tomato soup.

The Nowhere soundtrack is one the best and most eclectic of the decade. Writer-director Gregg Araki, no doubt mining the contents of his own personal record collection, fills the air with wide array of alternative music styles. Everything from industrial dance (Coil, My Life with the Thrill Kill Kult, Nitzer Ebb, Nine Inch Nails - a cover of Soft Cell's "Memorabillia") to old school shoegazer (Lush, Mojave 3, Seefeel) and Brit Pop (Suede, Elastica, Blur) is featured in this movie. Hell, even freaking Stacey Q manages to make her way into the mix.

Oh, and I like how even though the film is set in 1997, Araki somehow manages to make it seem like grunge rock never happened.

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The Rage: Carrie 2 (Katt Shea, 1999)

I think it's safe to say that The Rage: Carrie 2 is a completely unnecessary sequel that does nothing but taint the original. Brief flashes from the first film appear sporadically throughout "The Rage," and all they do is remind us of how much better Brian De Palma's movie was. The only connection the two film's have is that they both have 'Carrie' in the title and share the presence of Sue Snell (Amy Irving), one of the survivor's from the original. She's a guidance consular now, and is alarmed when she notices a student is starting to show Carrie-esque symptoms (she moves a coffee mug and destroys a snow globe with her mind). Since it's 1999, this new Carrie White (now some chick named Rachel Lang) is a black clothing enthusiast who lives a solitary existence at her school (the always compelling Mena Suvari plays her BFF, but she doesn't last long) and has Marilyn Manson posters on her bedroom wall. If I was in charge of production design, I would have put up tons of Sheena Easton posters and painted the walls of her room a dark orange instead. But that's neither here nor there. The luminescent gorgeousness of Emily Bergl saved The Rage: Carrie 2, directed by Katt Shea (Stripped Kill II: Live Girls), from being a complete disaster and then some. She's an actress who posses an otherworldly form of beauty. So much so, that I was literally transfixed by her creaseless skin and lithesome frame. And since she made the film tolerable, I would gladly stroke her creamy thighs to show my gratitude. Hard to believe she would go on to play Francie on Gilmore Girls after this (the clique-ish girl who gives Paris and Rory a hard time during their final year at Chilton).

Anyway, making Carrie...I mean, Rachel, all veiny during the rage sequence was a bold stylistic choice. I must have missed the explanation behind the sudden burst of veins, because I don't recall Sissy Spaček ever being covered with veins. But nevertheless, I liked what the newly acquired veins brought to the all-around fury of it all.

The so-called "rage sequence" was a surprisingly effective orgy of unchecked violence and wanton destruction. Sure, the excessive gore and mayhem felt tacked on, but I thought it helped alleviate the non-killy-ness of the film's first third. In a crazy coalesce of shattered glass and flying debris, the sylphlike outcast opens up a massive can of comeuppance on the jock hierarchy of her school.

Buckets of their asshole blood redecorate the walls of the obscenely-furnished house.

The fact they all deserve it, only made it sweeter. So what if their jock-based tomfoolery was a tad over-the-top throughout most of the film. Their slaughter was wholly justified. Even a simple swimming pool drowning is rendered toothsome. And dare I say, mildly erotic. Nevertheless, it's mediocre stuff.

video uploaded by Yo =]

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