Not long ago I was playing a game called "Cranium" with some friends. It's one of those Trivial-Pursuit-meets-charades games, and during the evening somebody drew a card that demanded everyone do impressions of Mae West. It was a sad two minutes as we sat around in a circle, staring at the carpet, mulling the apparent fact that Mae West means nothing to anyone anymore. Fame is fickle.
I was so ashamed that when one of Mae West's smash hit movies, She Done him Wrong, was playing at the neighborhood vintage theater, I went penitently to see it. Take my word for it, Mae West could out-diva even a mutant Celine/J.Lo hybrid with one feather boa tied behind her back. But as much as Mae West tried to charm me, I was taken more with the picture itself. Just over an hour long, it was a pure, distilled star vehicle. The only (and I mean only) point of the picture was to show Mae West being sexy and flippant, and the sardonic quips were flying back and forth like a Gilmore girl's ping-pong match, interrupted only for the frequent boudoir shots.
The plot itself was charmingly shallow, with Mae West negotiating a labyrinth of romantic entanglements. Here's a rundown: While two local big-shots fight for her hand, she seduces a dashing frenchman (even though she's in love with an undercover detective played by a young Cary Grant), before accidentally killing his lover, the Russian crime moll, all the while simultaneously fending off her old lover after he breaks out of prison. But then her escaped husband kills off one of the mob-bosses in a fit of jealous rage while Grant simultaneously nabs the other suitor for counterfeiting, before Cary and Mae ride their carriage off into the sunset.
Nutritional Equivalent:
Popcorn with real butter
"Can I hold your hand?" asks Cary Grant.
"It's not heavy. I can hold it myself," coys Mae West.
People just don't write movies like this any more, at least, not without bookending it with some frame tale or making it a blatantly generic spoof.
The School of Rock
Well, some people still like sass. Richard Linklater for one, he likes sass. Just like the Mae West picture, School of Rock is a sass-laden star vehicle prominently featuring a voluptuous smart-ass. The parallels go on and on, really. I'm just thankful Jack Black doesn't seduce anyone. They're only children!
When I say "star vehicle" I mean it. Are there even any scenes in this film that don't feature Jack Black hogging the screen? He bounces around earnest as a celluloid cappucino, and it's entertaining enough for most everyone without their head in the clouds. I'm just glad that the people behind this movie didn't try and make it too flashy. There was no high-concept crap, just a main character with some kids thrown
Nutritional Equivalent:
Popcorn with butter substitute
into a feel-good Bad News Bears plotline. I think, however, that you can only make a simple movie like this after you've made a name for yourself doing something 'groundbreaking' and/or complicated (i.e. Linklater's other pictures).
On the other hand, Jack Black seems to have found a niche. High Fidelity, Orange County and now this . . . there must be a pattern there somewhere.
PS. Did I mention that Mae West wrote most of her movies? She's the real deal when it comes to sassy.
