Making Mr. Right (Susan Seidelman, 1987)

A film rife with enough quirky actresses to fill a mid-size sedan, fishnet stockings in every other frame, and uncircumcised android cock,* Making Mr. Right is a delightfully offbeat romantic comedy from director Susan Seidelman that repeatedly asks the question: Can love flourish naturally between a woman and a machine without it seeming perverted and sad? Now that may seem like a weird question for a film to being asking on a regular basis. But don't worry, the question is barely audible. Besides, this film's temperament so lighthearted and fancy-free, that you probably won't even realize that you've just watched an intelligent woman get swept off her yummy feet by a floppy-haired space mannequin with a detachable head for at least a couple of hours after it's over. Even by then, you'll still feel as if you've just witnessed something uniquely funny and stylistically exceptional. I know I sure did. The sight of John Malkovich playfully chewing on Ann Magnuson's contraceptive diaphragm sums up the former quite nicely, and the chic precision of Miss Magnuson's fantastic wardrobe does an adequate job describing the essence of the latter. Taking every (heterosexual) woman's innate desire to create the perfect man and advancing it to the next level, the film wanders purposefully through a month in the life of Miami, Florida resident Frankie Stone (Ann Magnuson), a public relations expert who finds herself put in charge of shaping the public image of Ulysses (John Malkovich), a state-of-the-art android (one that is intended for deep space travel) designed by Dr. Jeff Peters (John Malkovich). A sophisticated modern woman, Frankie, having just dumped her sleazy politician boyfriend (Ben Masters), finds working with the robotic Ulysses to be a refreshing change of pace. Plus, it keeps her away from the tumultuous situation that is taking place in her apartment.

Her roommate Trish (Glenne Headly) is going through a messy split with her soap star boyfriend (Hart Bochner), and, not to mention, liberates her from the stresses of sister's upcoming wedding (the sister is played by none other than Susan Bergen, Wren from Seidelman's debut feature Smithereens).

Anyway, the amount of time Frankie spends at Chem-Tech's subterranean laboratories causes Ulysses to become disinterested in space and starts to grow somewhat attached to her instead.

This attachment, as you would expect, alarms Jeff, the scientist; in that, the robot was designed to explore the far reaches of the universe, not have sex on the kitchen floor with Glenne Headly or shoot a wad of ketchup onto Laurie Metcalf's fabric-covered chest.

Nevertheless, in terms of advancing the film's comedic trajectory, this kooky turn of events served the proceedings quite well.

The bubbly synthesizer score by Chaz Jankel (I especially liked the music that played during Frankie's initial drive to Chem-Tech's headquarters), the costume design by Rudy Dillon and Adelle Lutz was superb (Miss Magnuson's outfits in particular), the sleek cinematography of Ed Lachman made late '80s South Florida look like a cyan and pink paradise, and the sight of a non-pompous, non-evil John Malkovich frolicking in a shopping mall setting as the wide-eyed Ulysses was an unexpected treat.

Deserving all the exaggerated praise I muster, it was absolute joy to see Ann Magnuson in a starring role for a change. Normally relegated to back up roles and cameos (she played a cigarette girl in Seidelman's Desperately Seeking Susan), you could totally tell that the gorgeous actress/singer/Club 57 DJ, sporting short red hair, was relishing the chance the play the lead.

Whether she was shaving her legs and armpits in traffic, doing a prat fall in a bridesmaid dress, or taking off her pumps mid run, Ann is physical perfection as Frankie, a stylish woman who doesn't let the impracticality of her wardrobe impede her ability to chase after a fugitive robot. It should go without saying, but Miss Magnuson is a leggy fiend in Making Mr. Right, and the fact she is obviously keenly aware of how great her legs look only manages to make her seem even sexier.

And as most sane people know: sexy stem cognizance is freaking hot.

Staying on the topic of actresses who mainly play second bananas, I was very impressed by the depth of the supporting players. A virtual who's who of underrated and quirky babes, Laurie Metcalf (also from Desperately Seeking Susan), Glenne Headly, Susan Bergen, and Polly Draper (thirtysomething) all showed up to lend Ann Magnuson a hand in her debut as a leading lady (at least, I think it was her debut). Sure, they probably showed up to support to Susan Seidelman–you know, since half of them have worked with her in the past. But it was cool nonetheless.

* Uncircumcised Android Cock (U.A.C. in New Brunswick and P.E.I.) was the pseudonym I used during my made-up days as an unsuccessful children's music producer in the late 1970s.

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Desperately Seeking Susan (Susan Seidelman, 1985)

The urbane charm of New York City lures yet another suburban dreamer into its concrete vagina in the cockamamie Desperately Seeking Susan, Susan Seidelman's tangled followup to the more straightforward Smithereens. Taking place during the apex of new wave culture, the fashion conscious film covers the same the territory as Miss Seidelman's debut effort did, in that, they both feature gals who want to escape their ho-hum lives in New Jersey and undergo a dramatic rebirth of sorts. However, whereas Smithereens' Wren was essentially a bratty bag lady who urgently wanted fame and fortune at any cost, Roberta (Rosanna Arquette) just wants a little excitement in her life beyond hosting parties for her hot tub selling husband and his yuppie scum friends (her journal paints an even more mundane picture). And if that means buying a chichi jacket, inadvertently pretending to being the amnesiac boyfriend of a constantly touring rock star, landing a job as a magician's assistant, and replacing Liquid Sky's Anne Carlisle as the girlfriend of a dreamy, cat-loving projectionist who lives above a Chinese restaurant, than so be it. I don't know about you, but it sure beats another night of not sucking the wrinkled cock of a sauna salesmen.

The manner in which Rosanna Arquette's Roberta longingly gazed across the river was quite revealing in it the way it revealed, you know, stuff. You see, the 1980s didn't come to New Jersey until March 1, 1994, and so what Roberta was doing was hankering for the opportunity live through the 1980s during the 1980s. Speaking as someone who was alive during the 1980s, but didn't technically "live" through them, I found plenty to sympathize with Roberta and her many spiritual quandaries.

Sure, I've never been bored housewife, or coveted a gold jacket with a giant pyramid on the back. But as a little girl growing up wherever the fuck it was that grew up, the desire to be swept off my feet by a guy who looked like Aidan Quinn, his extra large eyes drinking in the shapely contours of my sexy body, was just as strong as hers. Even more so, when you factor in that I'm considered clinically insane in most provinces and territories. (Provinces and territories? Hey, that means that I probably grew up somewhere in Canada. Weird.)

The cryptic messages left by a musician (Robert Joy) to his flaky lady friend Susan (Madonna) in the classifieds are what give Roberta the courage to breakout of her comfort zone and experience the rejuvenating splendour that is New York City circa 1984. Like I said, new wave was at its height during this period, and Susan Seidelman's unique directorial vision, Santo Loquasto's costume and production design, and the lush, synth-friendly music score by Thomas Newman (Welcome Home, Roxy Carmichael) really do the era justice. I mean, check out the authentic street flavour of the scenes that take place in Greenwich Village. There's a crackling vitality to these sequences.

The opposite is true when we venture into the vaudevillian haunt known simply as the Magic Club. Yet even these seemingly old fashioned scenes had a new wave sheen to them. It was probably because the stylish Ann Magnuson lurked in the background as a cigarette girl.

Or maybe it was the fact that when Anna Levine (Sue) takes off her frilly magicians' assistant clothes, the neon gaudiness of her green and pink ensemble is revealed for the world to see. (Seriously, those are some bright tights.)

The use of Material Girl's "Into the Groove" during the nightclub rendezvous between Gary Glass (Mark Blum), the hot tub guy, and Susan has always my favourite sequence in Desperately Seeking Susan from a purely aesthetic point of view. The way the multi-coloured lights cascade across the crowd of hardcore new wavers was a true thing of beauty. Particularly when it hit the gothy guy in the corner who seemed enamoured by the ruffled nature of his fabric-generous sleeves. Of course, there's something innately perverse about dancing so enthusiastically to your own music, but I think Madonna is one of the few people who can safely get away with such an egregious act of egocentricity.

Even though they don't really interact much in terms of screen time together, you really get the sense Rosanna Arquette and Madonna are each other's throat in this movie. The envy on Rosanna's face as she gazed at her co-star from afar was palpable, and the frustration Madonna displayed over the fact that her jacket was being worn by someone pretending to her literally oozed off her skin. Actually, that's a tad reaching. Madonna's character, and apparently the pop singer herself, is so aloof and self-involved, that something as serious as identity theft wouldn't even faze her.

At the any rate, the two get into a bit of a farcical cat and mouse over a pair of expensive earrings (the kind you might see in a Klymaxx video). Scandalous!

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Smithereens (Susan Seidelman, 1982)

I found it rather fitting that this film's protagonist would introduce herself by stealing a pair of sunglasses from a woman down in the subway, as it sums up her misguided temperament perfectly. Food, lodging, and other necessities are inconsequential in terms of importance, fashion, on the other hand, is paramount (looking fabulous trumps everything else). Taking place in New York City circa 1982, Susan Seidelman's Smithereens is an energetic and gritty tale about Wren, an ambitious gal from New Jersey who will stop at nothing in her quest to become famous. Capturing the creative spirit of a depressing, yet cultural significant period in the storied urban centre's history, the film's portrayal of a city that is teeming with a strange mix of artistic vigour and abject poverty is bleak and realistic. Once seen as the happening place to be, the characters that populate this not-so vibrant landscape can't wait to leave. I found this aspect of the film to be quite jarring. I mean, to see desperate New Yorkers yearning for the vacuousness of Los Angeles was a tad disheartening (some even have their hopes set on New Hampshire). But I guess a week or so of living in a van underneath an underpass will do that to a person. A shameless self-promoter (she plasters pictures of herself all over the city), Wren (Susan Berman) is a spongy mooch who leaches off everyone she comes in contact with. In other words, I thought she was freaking adorable. Adopting the new wave/punk look that was sort of popular at the time, the brazen-faced Wren hurdles through life with the singular goal of becoming a star.

The only problem is she doesn't seem to have any talent. Of course, she doesn't let a little thing like that stand in her way. Uh-uh. She sees herself more of a behind the scenes person than a musician and proceeds to harass and annoy every singer she can find; hoping they'll come to their senses and make her their manager. Falling somewhat under her infectious spell is a rocker named Eric (Richard Hell), who allows Wren to bask in his bohemian lifestyle, and be hit on by his bizarre roommate (Roger Jett). Whenever things become inharmonic with the aloof rock star, and they always do, Wren stays with Paul (Brad Rijn), a guy from Montana who lives in his van. And when things inevitably go awry with Paul, she looks up her friend Cecile (Nada Despotovich). Which ultimately doesn't work out and leads her to look up her... Well, you get the idea.

If you're wondering why Wren never seems to stay in the same place for long, that's easy. You see, she has a cute, effervescent charm about her that makes her strangely beguiling. Only problem is this charm doesn't seem to last very long and starts to rub those being charmed the wrong way. That, and being locked out her apartment because of overdue rent.

Seeing the person she's with as a mere rest station on the way to better things, Wren burns more bridges than any other movie character I have ever seen. You got to admire her pluck when comes to staying positive, but you also have to feel a little sorry for her, as she seems to go out of her way to make things worse for herself.

Daring you to love and hate her simultaneously, Susan Berman is a revaluation as the gumptious Wren. Giving the kind of in your face performance that makes my guts go gooey, Miss Berman has a definite street smart sexiness about her. Whether she's cutting in line at the Peppermint Lounge, commiserating with the absolutely stunning Kitty Summerall (even the manner in which she held her cigarette was divine), or crazy dancing to The Voidoids at a friend's apartment, Susan is a new wave siren, a punk rock girl for the ages, and an inspiration all wrapped up in a neat little package.

Helping Susan is a well-worn pair of fishnet pantyhose that seem to protect and guide the flaky new waver at every turn. A tight-fitting and clingy companion who permeates the proceedings like a pervasive poem no one wants to hear, the porous leg beautifiers pretty much become character unto itself in Smithereens, as they're literally attached to Wren from start to finish.

In fact, I thought they did such a great job of conveying Wren's frustration and failure (the many close up shots of the seams seemed to represent a kind of societal flat-line), that I'm surprised they weren't recognized in the film's credits. I mean, if Chris Noth can be credited as a prostitute, in what is essentially a blink and you'll miss it role, then Wren's fishnets should get a credit as well. I guess I'll have to take solace in the fact that the film's costume designer, Alison Lances, gets credit, and, of course, commend her for picking out such a compelling and resilient piece of hosiery.

Sticking with the credit theme, I want to make sure that I give some praise to Katherine Riley as "1st Hooker." She only appears in one scene (two if you count a brief shot of her near the end), but I loved the way she kept offering Brad Rijn's van guy her services despite his obviously disinterest (she even offered to show him her special scar for five bucks).

I'd also like to mention Cookie Mueller's brief turn as the actress being attacked by a parasitic monster in the black and white horror movie Wren and the van guy go to see on their date. I've always thought of Cookie as being the bee's knees (she has a couple of the funniest lines in Desperate Living). So to see her shrieking while covered in slime was a real treat.

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