Single All the Way (Michael Mayer, 2021)

Single All the Way (Michael Mayer, 2021)

Cast: Michael Urie, Philemon Chambers, Luke Macfarlane, Kathy Najimy, Jennifer Coolidge, Barry Bostwick, Jennifer Robertson, Madison Brydges, Alexandra Beaton, Dan Finnerty. Screenplay: Chad Hodge. Cinematography: Eric Cayla. Production design: Guy Lalande. Film editing: Adriaan van Zyl. Music: Anton Sanko. 

It’s hard to know who the sexless gay romantic comedy Single All the Way was made for: people who think Will and Grace is too raunchy? It certainly wasn’t made for a gay audience. It even seems to have inspired a backlash with such gay romcoms as Fire Island (Andrew Ahn, 2022) and Bros (Nicholas Stoller, 2022), in which gay men are having sex with one another and enjoying it. Single All the Way is mostly set in an idyllic New Hampshire town, to which Peter (Michael Urie) returns for Christmas accompanied by his roommate, Nick (Philemon Chambers), with whom he is not having sex. They are greeted by his large, boisterous family who seem to want Peter to have sex, especially with Nick. Except, that is, Peter’s mother (Kathy Najimy), who wants him to have sex with the only gay man in town, her hunky spinning instructor, James (Luke Macfarlane). At this point, you’re probably asking yourself what gay man wouldn’t want to have sex with Luke Macfarlane, but Peter is reluctant to be pushed into any such thing. Of course, the word “sex” is never mentioned. The idea is for Peter to find himself in what these straight people consider ideal: what they would call a “committed relationship.” Chad Hodge’s screenplay leaves no romcom cliché unused as the movie proceeds toward its obvious conclusion: Peter and Nick declaring their love for each other. (Maybe they even have sex, but the film is too squeamish to suggest that.) Gay icon Jennifer Coolidge is there for what fun the movie provides, as Peter’s addle-brained aunt who is directing the town’s Christmas pageant. The absence of chemistry between Urie and Chambers is only one of the film’s problems, and given the apparent squeamishness about gay sex, perhaps its least. 

Vive l’Amour (Tsai Ming-liang, 1994)

 

Vive l’Amour (Tsai Ming-liang, 1994)

Cast: Chen Chao-jung, Lee Kang-sheng, Yang Kue-Mei. Screenplay: Tsai Ming-liang, Tsai Yi-chun, Yang Pi-ying. Cinematography: Liao Pen-Jung, Lin Ming-Kuo. Production design: Lee Pao-Lin. Film editing: Sung Shia-cheng.

Vive l’Amour, the ironic title of Tsai Ming-liang’s film, brings to mind another French phrase: comédie larmoyante. And not just because it ends with a very long close-up of the character May Lin (Yang Kue-Mei) sobbing bitterly, but because the film is its own kind of tearful comedy, one with roots in the genre of farce, in which characters occupy a common space but somehow avoid making connection with one another. It’s a story about existential loneliness. Ah-jung (Chen Chao-jung) is making his rounds in the gloomy job of funerary urn salesman when he finds a key left in the lock of a vacant luxury apartment. He sneaks in at night planning to commit suicide, but only makes a half-hearted attempt at cutting his wrist with a Swiss army knife and bandages himself up. Then he realizes that he’s not alone in the large apartment when he hears a couple having sex in another room. They are May Lin, the real estate agent supposed to be showing the apartment to clients, and Hsiao-kang (Lee Kang-sheng), who have picked each other up in a restaurant. Hsiao-kang, who illegally sells women’s dresses on the street, steals her key to the apartment and moves in. Eventually, Ah-jung and Hsiao-kang encounter each other and become friends. But their friendship is tested when May Lin and Hsiao-kang return to the apartment, and Ah-jung, hearing them enter, hides under the bed. As the couple have sex, Ah-jung masturbates below them. After May Lin leaves, Ah-jung gets in bed with the sleeping Hsiao-kang and stares at him longingly, then kisses him. May LIn, having discovered that her car won’t start, sets out to walk home but winds up weeping on a park bench. The story of the three is intercut with glimpses of their lonely lives: May Lin waiting patiently for clients that don’t show, Ah-jung distributing leaflets advertising his urns, Hsiao-kang trying on one of the dresses he peddles. There’s no music score and very little expository dialogue, but the sound track is alive, from the noise of love-making Ah-jung hears from another room to the pock-pock-pock of May Lin’s heels as she sets out on her long walk homeward. We don’t know why May Lin weeps, or what drives Ah-jung to consider suicide, but by showing the texture of their isolated lives, Tsai makes us intuit the causes. 

My Own Private Idaho (Gus Van Sant, 1991)

 

My Own Private Idaho (Gus Van Sant, 1991)

Cast: River Phoenix, Keanu Reeves, James Russo, William Richert, Rodney Harvey, Chiara Caselli, Michael Parker, Jessica Makinson, Flea, Grace Zabriskie, Udo Kier, Tom Troupe, Sally Curtice. Screenplay: Gus Van Sant, based on plays by William Shakespeare. Cinematography: John J. Campbell, Eric Alan Edwards. Production design: David Brisbin. Film editing: Curtiss Clayton. Music: Bill Stafford. 

When is a cult film not a cult film? The term is bandied about so often, that I have to protest when people use it about My Own Private Idaho, which seems to me to transcend the label. To my mind, a cult film is one that reaches an enthusiastic audience despite its apparent limitations as a serious work of film art. They Live, for example, John Carpenter’s 1988 movie, is a cult film because it’s part of a genre, the horror/sci-fi flick, looked down on by “serious” critics, made on a shoestring, with some really awful acting and cheesy production values, but carrying a potent subtext that continues to be appreciated by audiences years after others in its subgenre have been forgotten. What lifts My Own Private Idaho above cult level is its wit and intelligence, which should have been obvious from the start, and the sheer brilliance with which its director and actors carry off its audaciously ironic vision of what lesser filmmakers would have treated with message-movie earnestness: The lives of street hustlers. Gus Van Sant’s decision to work in an analogy with the coterie surrounding Falstaff in Shakespeare's Henry IV, Parts I and II, and Henry V is a stroke of genius. (Shakespeare is credited – tongue-in-cheek, I think – with “additional dialogue,” even though most of the borrowings are paraphrased into contemporary English.) But it’s only the most obvious of the film’s surprises, which multiply with every viewing. My Own Private Idaho will also continuously engender a sense of loss, from what may be River Phoenix’s finest performance, as the narcoleptic lost boy, hopelessly in love with Keanu Reeves’s controlled and conniving Scott, a character that makes its own wry comment on Shakespeare’s Prince Hal.

Lust in the Dust (Paul Bartel, 1984)

Lust in the Dust (Paul Bartel, 1984)

Cast: Divine, Tab Hunter, Lainie Kazan, Geoffrey Lewis, Henry Silva, Cesar Romero, Gina Gallego, Nedra Volz, Courtney Gains. Screenplay: Philip John Taylor. Cinematography: Paul Lohmann. Production design: Walter Pickette. Film editing: Alan Toomayan. Music: Peter Matz.

The presence of Divine in the cast of Lust in the Dust, and of Tab Hunter, who co-starred with her in John Waters’s 1981 movie Polyester, might make you think this is one of Waters’s films. Too bad it wasn’t: It would probably have been funnier and trashier, but Waters chose not to direct a film for which he hadn’t written the script. Paul Bartel’s movie might be described as “Waters adjacent”: Edith Massey, another member of Waters’s stock company, was originally set to play the role of Big Ed, but died before filming started and was replaced by Nedra Volz. Still, Lust in the Dust is a reasonably funny, reasonably raunchy, and certainly trashy Western spoof, with Hunter playing a character who’s obviously a parody of Clint Eastwood’s Man With No Name from the Sergio Leone movies. Hunter and his husband, Allan Glazer, also produced the film.

 

Jabberwocky (Terry Gilliam, 1977)

 

Jabberwocky (Terry Gilliam, 1977)

Cast: Michael Palin, Harry H. Corbett, John Le Mesurier, Warren Mitchell, Max Wall, Deborah Fallender, Annette Badland, Terry Jones. Screenplay: Charles Alverson, Terry Gilliam, based on a poem by Lewis Carroll. Cinematography: Terry Bedford. Production design: Roy Forge Smith. Film editing: Michael Bradsell. 

Despite being directed by Terry Gilliam, starring Michael Palin, and featuring a cameo by Terry Jones, all members of the troupe, Jabberwocky is not a Monty Python movie. Gilliam protested when the distributors wanted to market it as “Monty Python’s Jabberwocky.” It might have been better or funnier if it had featured the talents of the group, because as it is, Jabberwocky is mostly a string of gross-out gags held together by a story about a peasant, Dennis Cooper (Palin), who comes to the city to make his fortune and winds up slaying the Jabberwock and winning the hand of the princess – which he doesn’t particularly want. It’s too messy and too choppy, concentrating more on creating a grimy vision of the “Dark Ages” – “darker than anyone had ever expected,” says the Narrator (Palin) – than on bringing Lewis Carroll’s poem to life. That said, the film does feature a splendidly realized Jabberwock, based on John Tenniel’s illustration, a shambling, ratty-winged creature, performed by an actor (Peter Salmon)  who was forced to walk backward inside the costume so the legs would bend in birdlike fashion. The movie has many admirers, so I have to admit that I appreciate Gilliam’s efforts – it was his first solo feature as director after the success of Monty Python and the Holy Grail (1975), which was co-directed with Terry Jones.