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.