Cocaine Angel

It was almost one year ago today that I sat down and finally gave into the perks of Netflix. The realization that I could receive unlimited flicks each month for less than the cost of renting two movies from Blockbuster persuasive for sure. Three weeks later, I set off for a two-month excursion to Alaska, returning just in time to begin what would be the most frantic year of my life. It's easy to fill a queue from afar and in the sparse minutes between classes, but it's difficult to pick away at those movies when Netflix's online perks are incompatible with my eroding but endearing PowerBook. (With so many products placed in this entry, you'd think I'd be getting paid. Alas.) 

Of course, this sob story has a happy-ish ending. Now that summer has burst into my space, I'm finally finding time to eat away at those earliest entries. And I have to say that I've been mostly disappointed in what I've found. My early thirst for the obscure films I couldn't find at the material video queue has meant mountains of dry foreign flicks and the indiest of indie flicks have been assaulting my mailbox at a masochistic rate. I try to get through them. I try to find the good, but being innundated with drug addiction, awkward sex and handheld camcorders does not a happy RaeRae make.

And Michael Tully's 2006 Cocaine Angel promised more of the same. The groans rendered from my movie-mate as I read the flick's sleeve would make a wildebeest in heat green. And the previews (which tend to give you some idea of where this flick will go) failed to illicit any more confidence (Seriously, no one wants to watch Ted's documentary about how shitty his life is done Chris Crocker-style on his iPhone. Boring). The grainy beach scene that filled only a ninth of the screen almost convinced me to shut the production down and send away for the next disappointment.

But I tell you, dear reader, the hour that followed was somehow captivating. Initially, I mocked the flick's every pretentious not-twist to in some way make up for the waste of time it promised to be for my partner (as you know, no film is a waste of my time). However, after only a few minutes, we settled into a trance induced by Adonis (named by the victims of the largest ego trip in recent history) Boyd's portrayal of Travis, a crackhead just striving to prove that his crumbling life is still worth something. Travis is both hilarious and heart-wrenching as he makes recurrent trips to the restroom to quell his crack cravings, list the events that are unfolding, and reassure himself of his abilities to survive a little longer. You have to love the earliest toilet soliloquy when Travis kisses the mirror repeatedly as a means of obtaining the affection he so desires. When he's not bolstering his ego, Travis is bumbling about on the streets with only one shoe (heart), visiting his daughter, and aiding his girlfriend-ish in her attempt to hoof it to Texas. Boyd's portrayal of the most lovable junkie in the history of cinema makes this flick a must-see.

This is not to say Cocaine Angel is all good, nor is it a recommendation to eBay that shit.  The other components of the piece are somewhat lackluster. The other actors bumble their way through the script with an awkwardness that cannot be attributable to the narcotic cereal their characters consumed at brunch. The film also relies on many of the drug-flick's cliches: overdoses, drunk preggos, random, disease-spewing sex with strangers, etc. And, as with many indie flicks, one must grapple with the fact that nothing seems to happen and nothing is ever resolved. However, I think this might be what I liked most about the flick. If there's a moral message, it's well hidden. No one ever realizes the error of his/her ways. Love isn't transformative. And no one is ever blamed. Even the implication that maybe things could be better is subtle. Love it. Reader, all I'm saying is that this flick is better than you'd think, and should not be cast into the Purgatory that is your typical pretentious-insincere-boredo-indie flick.

Reason to watch: A movie about drugs that's almost free of didacticism!

Favorite junkie: No face guy! 

Shopgirl

The recent trend in the novel world is to create books that could feasibly be condensed into a ninety minute screenplay. Movie rights are sold almost before publication, and I'm sure I'm not the only one who has met a heroine with an uncanny resemblance to the starlet of the hour. These novels make me anxious; I don't enjoy vignettes that pan and track, and close-ups make for tedious summer reading. Steve Martin's Shopgirl is a sample of this literary shift towards the cinematic. It is convenient that the author of the book is also a renowned actor who just happens to be old enough to play Claire Dane's lover, no? Can you see him sitting beside his pool, scheming ways to get to play a mostly-naked, twenty-something's more experienced and detached fuck-buddy? And then the answer smacks him in a wave of California sun stroke: novella. A novella is especially beneficial and convenient as its authorship gives one an air of scholarliness, but its size does not require the commitment of a novel-novel (thereby assuring faster access to an unclothed Claire).

Having never read the book, I have to wonder whether the craftsmanship is as shoddy as this movie's narration implies. If you've seen this, you know the narrator (also Steve Martin) habitually disrupts the action to fill the viewers in on any individual's less-than-pertinent  thoughts. This narrator is contradictory, clearly not wanting to write off the older man entirely, and yet, also unable to condone his actions either, because any author who would side with such a character is clearly not the kind of guy a Family Values American would welcome into his/her God-box (the hallowed television).

And who is this character? Ray Porter, a.k.a. Mr. McCreepsinator. I think there is a reason Steve Martin is best known for his comedic timing. His unwillingness to allow Ray to completely embrace his assholery makes, not for a realistic depiction of a conflicted character, but for a portrait of an underdeveloped old man. My grounds for this slander? There's no talk of impotence anywhere in this flick. I'm not saying that the elderly should be deprived of a little action, merely that it takes a little more time, a little more work to rev up their engines (that's code for penises).  Even without impotence, these sex scenes are awkward like WHAT?! Martin smirks and smarms over an overly orgasmic Danes, who is surprisingly susceptible to wrinkly robut sex. Icky.

And Claire Danes. I do heart Claire Danes, mostly because something like my angsty adolescence was so wonderfully depicted on My So-Called Life. However, this character, this Mirabelle Butterscream (this isn't exactly right, but it's pretty close) is nothing like any woman I've ever met, further proving she is the shallow creation of a lusty, decrepit actor. Firstly, if I were named after a cow, you know that would be the first thing dropped upon arriving in LA. But more importantly, women do not stand around all day dreaming only of their lovers, nor do they spend all of their off-hours grooming. She takes so many baths! If one were to actually hunker down in a pool of stagnant water as often as she, one would be afflicted with lizard skin. And that, dear reader, is unappetizing to even the smarmiest of gentleman callers. Finally, I think it unfair that Ms. Danes had to spend the majority of this flick in the nude, and in awkward positions (i.e., the scene where she offers Ray her hind-quarters), while the most we see of Mr. Martin is a bared shoulder. Not cool.

The saddest part about this movie is that Dane's character actually represents the ideal woman. The rest only use their lady caves to attain mas ducats, and apparently never sexual satisfaction. There is a pretty disgusting self-help radio program (also Martin's voice) that suggests it is a scientific fact that women do not and cannot crave sexual intercourse; their biological lusts are programmed for holding and money. That's crap, reader! It's so two-dimensional and tired. Seriously, stand up for women! Write Steve the angriest letter of your life today!

But now, after ranting about this flick for days, I must make a debasing confession. I do, in fact, own this piece of so-called (!) art. I heart Jason Schwartzman. Were he in a romantic comedy with Ryan Reynolds (and you know how I feel about Ryan Reynolds), I would still make multiple appearances at my local multiplex and would definitely stand in line over night to purchase the flick upon the moment of its release. Jason is adorable in this movie! I know we're supposed to think of him as the inadequate lover in  the first half, but I was smitten with him from the get go. It makes me sad that it is a new car and a schnazzy new suit that makes Danes finally deem to call him a worthy partner. Dear readers, if you do not watch this flick for any other reason, watch it for Jason. He is beautiful and precious. Fo sho.

Reason to watch: Besides the ever-lovely Mr. Schwartzman, this flick has potential to turn into an excellent drinking game: one shot for every naked lady, two for every resurgence of Steve Martin's narration.

Most awkward come-hither line of ever: "How would you like to just lie there, Ray? It'll be like Thailand. You just lie there, and when I'm done, I'll slip away into the night." Huh.

High Art

By now, dear readers, you have most likely established the understanding that no film is too tedious, no movie too abysmal, no flick too foolish to be without merit in  my mind. And while I strive to instill and maintain your sense of stability in my style, I am sorry to say that not even I can justify your spending precious time on this pretentious sack of boring.

Plot summary (short because nothing happened): an assistant editor at a photography magazine falls in love with her neighbor, an edgy photographer who has hidden herself away from the business and who is falling ever deeper into the clutches of her heroin addiction. Now, I love a good lesbian flick as much as the next guy, but I tend to pass on "edgy" late-nineties' perceptions of drug abuse, and would have glanced over this one had Netflix given a more in depth analysis of the piece. Trust me, these flicks are rarely as exciting as you'd think. And actually, I'd say High Art's only redeeming-ish quality is that it remains true to an outsider's slant on red chicken abuse (you have to love slang dictionaries): BORING! My experience turning tables brought me in close contact with many a needle lover and all of the melodrama that comes with them.  No really, watching this movie is like reading a poorly executed sensation novel, minus all the fun fainting couches and thinly-veiled rape scenes. And then those demon junkies get theirs!

So trust me when I say there is nothing redeemable about this flick: no lesbian sex, no dead babies on the ceiling, no extended digressions into faulty bodily function. Boring. Straight (Ha! Get it? My word choice is funny because it's a movie that fails to explore homosexuality) boring.

Reason to watch: I got nothing.

Obligatory second snappy insight: Still nothing.