Wicked Fun

There's a lot to like about Prey for Rock and Roll and a lot to set your teeth on edge. I guess I could never completely pan a film featuring out-and-proud dykes in an all-woman punk band called Clamdandy.That's one of the reasons why I feel conflicted reviewing queer-themed films. When I start to shift into critical mode, another part of me says, "Remember how it used to be? Remember when movies like this were unimaginable? When film lesbians were cartoony and used for a cheap laugh? Remember Open City and Notorious?"

I'm thrilled that a movie like Prey for Rock and Roll comes along with a reasonably intelligent (though overly glib) script and positive role models. It never hints that Jacki or the other band members need men to fix or complete them, quite the reverse in fact. It doesn't shrink from exposing our heroines at less than flattering moments. Yet there seems to be some ambivalence, a discrepancy between the film's ideology and its plot. For all its enlightenment it still panders to breeder preconceptions, tries to put a sympathetic spin on queer attraction so they can "relate."

Prey for Rock and Roll is narrated by Jacki (Gina Gershon), lead singer and manager of Clamdandy. Ever since she was 12 years old and saw Tina Turner at the Hollywood Bowl, she's dreamed of being a rock and roll star. Jacki seems loosely based on Patti Smith; she certainly sings like her and does so with panache. The songs are energetic but the lyrics feel generic. They lack a lot of the invention and intense imagery that make for great rock and roll.

We watch as the four rehearse, chill, bitch, piss, vomit, and suffer the ordeals that men throw their way. We learn that Sally (Shelly Cole) and Jacki have both been the victims of male sex-abuse. Animal (Marc Blucas), Sally's older brother, is a sweet, caring, non-confrontational guy. Jacki keeps him at a safe distance because clearly, males are bad news. It's easy to understand why they take exception to men. They've been repeatedly subjected to degrading treatment by troglodytes.

Many guys think that testicles entitle them to be domineering, aggressive, toxic pricks. Now, of course, you don't have to be raped to understand this. You don't even have to be female. What bothers me is this very old and still prevalent presumption that queer folks must be damaged goods, that our sexuality must be an expression of rage, despair, or trauma.

None of the women in Prey for Rock and Roll could have possibly been born gay. No. They must have been fondled or groped or attacked. Their orientation must be an act of anarchy against the male power structure. The women of Clamdandy play to appropriate male power. They are not alienated because they are dykes; they are dykes because they're alienated. They call each other "dude," "man," and "guys," consistently dealing in masculine pronouns. "Faith is a bass playing god by night." Their comportment is intentionally male and they express no worries about their femininity. When Jacki's girlfriend chides her for negligence, Jacki waits until she leaves before ironically commenting, "Chicks."

In a scene designed to telegraph catastrophe, Nick suggestively twirls a bowling pin at Tracy, chanting that it is "all about the one-eyed snake" or some such observation. Clearly, in this movie it is not all about the penis (and you can make a damn good case for that) but if sex doesn't need to be ***-centered and if women don't need male intervention to thrive and excel, then what are Jacki and her girlfriend doing with a penis-shaped vibrator? And after Sally's attack, why does Jacki seek Animal's help? Why not get Tracy and Faith (Lori Petty) or go to a bar and enlist confederates?

Animal was imprisoned for killing his stepfather when he found him molesting Sally. She is not ungrateful for this, exactly, though she disapproves of his hyper-masculine zeal. Never mind that there are plenty of women, too, who would have grabbed a baseball bat. It is this contradiction in the women's attitude that I find so troubling. In some ways, Prey for Rock and Roll lacks the courage of its convictions.

If machismo is so repugnant, why do the women cleave to it so fiercely? And if they don't need men to sustain masculine energy, why do they still resort to male physicality? To phallic superiority? This may be an intrinsic flaw with stories shaped to didactic imperative. They can feel over-simplified or disingenuous. Prey for Rock and Roll will probably remind you how far the cinema has come in its depiction of queer women - or just maybe how far it still has to go.

Todd is an orderly at a retirement home. At the outset of Assisted Living, he seems irresponsible, running late for work, goofing in the wheelchairs, sneaking outside to smoke some dope. It's easy to dismiss him; he rides a lot on charm. When his boss lectures him on his precarious future with the institution we recognize the mindset. Another distracted low-level employee who puts in just enough effort to be useful, but coasts as much as he can.

In time we come to understand his lack of involvement as a defense against the depressing circumstances of the seniors, and it's not because of meager resources or patient abuse. The small community where he works is relatively upscale and the fact that its residents are there to pass the time till they die is not especially obvious, though undeniable. And like George, The Assertiveness Monkey, Todd is there to offer comfort by way of mischief, though even he may not be aware of it.

At first his prank of phoning residents and pretending to be departed relatives calling from heaven seems a bit cruel, but there is solace and reassurance in his shtick. Even though he is winging it, explaining heaven is imminent if not already in effect, he is clearly motivated by innocuous, generous playfulness. His advantage over the more professional caregivers cuts in both directions. He is often unreliable, but willing to cross boundaries for the sake of mending the broken spirit.

Writer/Director Elliot Greenebaum has fashioned Assisted Living as a low-budget faux-documentary, using the individual interviews to supplement our knowledge of the supporting players. By conversing with the characters in an informal setting, we can grasp what might have been lost to dialogue in the midst of professional decorum. This wasn't necessarily the only strategy but it works. Greenebaum's visual style and composition are so off-the-cuff that you get the impression the film is free of device, and though this is, of course, patently untrue, it's always better that way. It's amazing how many low-key, apparently plot driven movies (even trashy ones) can barrage you with reams of subtext in addition to thematic clustering.

Whether the director is using this now relatively common no-frills, style of the everyday or amplified flash of heightened perception, the idea is to give the audience some kind of recognizable, adherent reality. Assisted Living registers somewhere between a whisper and a whistle, subtle enough to draw our attention without beating a drum. Greenebaum finds a resonant balance between apathy and pathos, and his tuning fork is Todd, who cares just enough to respect the residents, without crossing the line into pity. Michael Bonsignore is perfect, a sort of every guy who's coasting but bears no ill will; is savvy enough to not take it all too seriously.

In the second half of the film, Todd's protective layer of detachment starts to crumble when he discovers Mrs. Pearlman's feelings of despair. For a while he barely acknowledges her presence, annoyed with requests for help and companionship. He pretends to be Mrs. Pearlmen's son, speaking from Australia, but the ruse backfires and suddenly he is made privy to her deep sadness and hurt. What comes after is surprising, what his lack of respect for authority and protocol enable him to do.

The bond that has been gradually forming between them, their intuitive grasp of each other's situation stirs and flourishes. We see tenderness without passion or romance. Maggie Riley as Mrs. Pearlman is dignified in the best sense of that word, moving without playing on our heartstrings. We feel sorrow for her predicament, but Riley never milks it, toning down the material and engaging us in the process.

In a sense, Assisted Living is almost a documentary hybrid, as much of the talent was taken from the actual locale (the staff and residents of The Masonic Homes of Kentucky) with few "trained actors" participating. Clearly the non-actor participants here have lives of their own, rather than being motivated by a burning urge for fame or dominance in a constructed series of ordeals. This seems to contribute to the authentic feel of each scene, whether comedic, sad, or somber.

The wonderful, deadpan exchange where two of the women are instructed in the delicate art of refusal with the help of a monkey puppet, the Bingo game where Mrs. Pearlman is overcome by urgency and isolation, the church services and exercise classes and meals and brawls over Scrabble. The non-actors are so natural in front of the camera that it brings just the right touch, and the actors adjust like musicians in an orchestra.

Sighhhhhh. What to make of Spike Lee's film, She Hate Me ? I confess I rolled my eyes before I even left for the theatre because when a straight man purports to teach me (or anyone else) something about the lives and attitudes of lesbians, I have to wonder what he knows, or thinks he knows. Lee approached Tristan Taormino, a lesbian author and sex columnist for the Village Voice, to be a "technical consultant." Ms. Taormino tutored him in an accelerated "Lesbian Boot Camp" where Lee was required to read books, visit bars and participate in panel discussions. By the time you finish watching the film, though, you may wonder if Ms. Taormino was used as an unwitting shill.

There are many things I admire about Lee. You only have to hear the lush musical cues that hark back to pre-60s to understand that the man is all heart, and though you could take exception to many of the ideas bouncing and careening off the screen in such bombastic films as: She's Gotta Have It, Do the Right Thing, Bamboozled and School Daze, the effect is intriguing, disturbing, intense and cogent. Mr. Lee usually leads with his emotions. His visual style is immediate and erratic, yet self-assured. He's not afraid to luxuriate in the filmmaking process, but neither is he averse to tying us to a runaway train.

Sadly very little of his usual vigor and iconoclastic punch are to be found in She Hate Me. His usual, drumming, colloquial patter feels a bit forced and gratuitous. His caricatures of white people, Italians, and yes, lesbians lack the core truths that justify his previous films. I welcome the work of any artist that enables me to see Caucasians through the eyes of an African American, and ordinarily, Lee does this very well, but the numerous villains in She Hate Me are just too much like puppets. Or targets.

As much as anything, She Hate Me is about corruption, and the power of money to corrupt. It raises a cluster of other issues: racism, ethics, moral responsibility, scapegoating, eugenics, hypocrisy, but seems to pivot on how the desire for profit corrupts white-dominated, corporate America and the desperation for money corrupts our hero, John Armstrong.

John is sacked after reporting the unethical tactics of the firm where he works, and forced to find other methods of gainful employment when his assets are frozen. His ex-fiancée', Fatima, comes to call, and offers him $5000 a pop (hehehe) if he will agree to impregnate her and her female partner, Alex. She quickly realizes that John's ability to inseminate makes him a "cash bull" and offers to broker his services to lesbian couples who wish to start a family and crave his genetic pedigree.

In retrospect, John says he's ashamed he's earned money this way, but never explains exactly why. It's suggested he resorted to prostitution, but surely the fact that he provided a valuable service, without the emotional perils of artificial insemination and adoption, overshadows this. Lee treats this endeavor as satire, with lukewarm results. Some of it is relatively amusing and not all of it is offensive, but it's surprising to see how much of it just runs down like a broken clock. It's funny to see John wash down a Viagra with a can of Red Bull, or his animated sperm racing to penetrate an eager ovum, but it feels so slight. So pitiful.

Lee gets a lot of mileage out of the diesel dykes and how the women revel in their opportunity to diminish and degrade John. But while there may be some accuracy in his depiction of the lesbian community, a lot of his material is unconscionable. He takes stabs and swipes at the reasons why women sexually attach to other women, and sincere as he may be, a lot of She Hate Me is blighted by pure ignorance. The women in Lee's film are decidedly non-nurturing and the lesbian women kind of strange. Even if we account for natural human curiosity, they seem awfully impressed by John's penis, and more than a little receptive to him in bed.

John confronts Fatima about her sexual ambivalence in a key sequence. We backtrack to a devastating scene where John discovers Fatima in bed with another woman not long before their wedding day. I do not want to downplay John's legitimate sense of betrayal, but frankly I resent Lee's disingenuous implication that Fatima (while not completely honest) was playing fast and loose with her fiancée's feelings. Can he really be this stupid?

People of both sexes often conduct same-gender affairs for years, only to walk away in favor of heterosexual romance. And because so many of us are raised to assume we're straight, sometimes sexual orientation doesn't become clear until after we're married. It happens all the time. Almost 20 years after breakthrough films like Lianna and Desert Hearts , Spike Lee is still clinging to the sweet, ridiculous myth that the right man (i.e. caring, tender, sensitive) can "cure" lesbianism. Maybe the right guy could cure his heterosexuality.