Siren

 Over at the Vegas Seven, i wrote a review of Siren, the dire vanity project made by Nevada politician Michele Fiore. Once upon a time, she thought singing in the movies would be what made her famous, now she's just another yahoo trying to be Sarah Palin and ride the right-wing entertainment complex to notoriety and hopefully a gig on reality TV. Whatever it takes to get a slot on Dancing With the Stars...

Spice World

Oh, this one takes me back. Way back.

 

Specifically, to a period in the late 90s. I was a music critic/editor and general NYC rock chick. It was the internet boom, the rise of downtown, the zenith of the major labels, it was a giddy motherfucking time indeed. And it was also the time of the Spice Girls, the cartoonish girl group that i and a number of my Lower East Side proto-hipster chick friends (un)ironically loved.

They were like the Monkees but with cool outfits and a line of dolls and stickers and books and lollipops and viewmasters and creepy inflatable toys and all manner of crap.

See that Ginger doll, second from left? Sitting in my library, still in the box,
right next to my NRFB Debbie Harry Barbie.

And, like any band that's more persona than chops and that has a ton of money and a young fanbase behind it, someone decided they needed to make a movie. Spice World tries hard to be A Hard Day's Night, but it actually doesn't even make it into Head territory.

The plot, such as it is, is the same plot these movies always have: Will They Make It To The

Big Gig, although this also has a dash of We Must Stay True To Where We're From  No Matter How Famous We Get. As you can imagine, a lot of time-killing shenanigans and amusing set pieces are needed to fill up this cream puff, but the Spice Girls and Spice World just don't have enough in them to pull it off.

 

There's a bit where the Spices swap personas--Posh as Baby, Scary as Ginger, etc.--and do mildly nasty impersonations of each other. The best part is when the girls flash forward to what they would be like as mothers--overly fecund and correspondingly cranky Baby, drop-'em-off-at-boarding-school Posh, bedazzled jogging suit Sporty, kente caftan earth-mother Scary and, my favorite, cocktail-swilling, rollers-and-rhinestones Ginger...

 

What Spice World has in spades is a truly insane amount of cameos: Elton John, Elvis Costello, Bob Hoskins, Bob Geldof, Jennifer Saunders (in Edina Monsoon mode), etc. Roger Moore plays their boss and Meatloaf plays their bus driver. Said bus has a little thematic nest for each Spice Girl--Posh has a runway and fashion magazines, Baby has a swing and stuffed animals, Sporty has exercise equipment and Scary has... zebra print. It is not explained why they need to careen around London in a bus, rather than just go home each night. I mean, they're not on tour. There is also a curious fixation on the bus' plumbing. Although maybe that's supposed to be humor, I dunno...

 

 

 All manner of shit is flung around in hopes that something sticks: Male strippers, drill sergeants, costume changes, childbirth, haunted houses, alien encounters, bomb scares... none of it is exactly dreadful, but none of it is particularly droll either.

 Spice World was truly the last of its kind: Today's teenybop stars already feed their fans a steady stream of Twitter and Youtube, so there's no need (or much desire) to bother with a full-length film. Which is just as well: Do you want to see Justin Bieber as a boxer or a carny? Selena Gomez beach party? One Direction meets the Phantom of the Park?

Now this is the movie i wanted to see...

The best one can say for Spice World is that it moves along. One wishes they'd gone a bit further--of course it wasn't going to be Beyond the Valley of the Dolls or Ladies and Gentlemen, the Fabulous Stains, but it could have pushed a wee bit harder. Posh's peevish reaction to everything (summoned to meet a fan in the hospital, she begins screaming "It's Victoria!" in the comatose kid's ear) and Ginger's cleavage-flashing and boy-chasing hint at something that could have gone a bit more Ab Fab. Still, it's got "girl power" and, lord knows, it is a relic of its time.

... which leads me to one of my favorite conversation starters: "Did I ever tell you about the time I managed a Spice Girls tribute act?"

Back during the second Clinton administration, i had a cable access show and a shitty punk band. Even more than bar-and-party-gigs, my bandmates/improv troupe/girl gang were known for getting into full glamour drag and crashing high-profile parties. Once as we strutted into a Grammy after-party, people began shouting about us being the Spice Girls and thus a brief turn as a lip-synching Spice Girls tribute act was born. Before you ask, i was Managerial Spice, which meant that i did not have to dress up as a Spice Girl (i was actually in a heavy Mamie Van Doren phase then), but got to run them through their routines like an autocratic Russian ballet mistress, get everyone to the nightclub, give the manager our CD and have top-shelf Scotch with said manager, and finally collect our pay. (In drink tickets: After all, we were lip-synching in a nightclub, back before this was something Britney Spears could make five figures a night for.)

Fake Spice: Ginger, Scary, Baby, Posh, Stalker.

(Managerial Spice is behind the camera, natch.)

Rock & Rule

Most movies are augmented by their soundtracks. Rock & Rule exists as an excuse for one.

In the spirit of Heavy Metal and Fritz the Cat, this Canadian animated musical extravaganza is justly best-known for featuring the music of Blondie, Cheap Trick, Lou Reed, Iggy Pop and Earth, Wind & Fire. Unfortunately Rock & Rule came a little late to the party, was buried by its studio and didn't do so well at the box office. Then it hovered in limbo until about 2005 until it finally got a reissue.

So, we have our heroes, a struggling rock band, which is either Cheap Trick with Debbie Harry or Blondie with Robin Zander, depending on whose outfit wrote the particular track. The band itself is never named.

 And we have our villain, ossifying rock god, Mok, whose songs are courtesy of Lou Reed and/or Iggy Pop, depending on what mood he's in.

Oh, and the movie brings up this sort of half-assed effort at post-apocalyptic mutant society in the opening and then just kind of leaves it there. Sure, there's a club manager who looks kind of like a rat and is kind of rat-like, I guess; Omar aka Robin Zander looks vaguely like a dog, but acts nothing like one; Angel just looks like Debbie Harry and acts like a human.

So, the plot is that Mok wants to raise a demon that will make him all-powerful or at least boost his sales--"You must remember that my last concert was not... completely sold out."--but he needs a magical voice for the summoning. He's been scouring the world and the last place he looks is a dive bar in Ohmtown, where the band--again, nameless band--is playing a gig. Omar does a surprisingly rockin' Cheap Trick number that gets their power cut. Then Angel/Debbie takes over with her keytar and plays a pretty badass Blondie song. Omar stalks off, his delicate feels hurt, but Mok knows he has found the voice.

Mok gets the rest of the band loaded on something called Edison Balls, which is some kind of drug--Edison Balls? Really? Then he tries to convince Angel/Debbie to join him, but she refuses because she's gonna stick with her band--which, if it was so important, you think someone would have found a name for said band by now. I mean, I think I've been in a half-dozen bands that were just names.

Anyway, Mok asks Angel to join him, she refuses, he dopes her up with a rose full of roofies and then whisks her off to Nuke York in his blimp because what is more supervillain than a blimp? And the rest of the band sobers up and steals a cop car to give chase. (Usually the stealing and the sobering happen in the opposite order, but who am I to judge?)

 While they bumble around, Angel/Debbie manages to spring herself with the help of Cinderella, a zaftig roller derby girl who is on her way to the "hottest anti-gravity disco in town!"

 Rock & Rule may initially seem to play into the old damsel in distress routine with Angel/Debbie, but upon further consideration, she's no pushover. She insists on playing her own songs; the band follows her, not Omar Zander; she says no to Mok; she springs herself and keeps taking the initiative straight through to the end. Compare this to the males around her (Mok and Omar) both of whom are totally ego-blinded and can't tie their shoes without flunkies cheering them on.

 

Anyway, Angel/Debbie does still wind up at "Carnagie Hall" for Mok's big gig. But the demon summoning somehow goes wrong and Mok simply blows out all the power in Nuke York. He decides to return to Ohmtown--which had loads of electricity as the name may indicate--to try again, with the goofballs of nameless band again in pursuit....

With its angelic singer in the clutches of a demonic rock has-been, Rock & Rule is more than a little reminiscent of Phantom of the Paradise. Rock & Rule has an outstanding soundtrack, but suffers from a lack of plot--the episodic nature of Heavy Metal at least meant that by the time you got bored with one ridiculous premise, it had moved on to the next one. Also, Debbie Harry and Robin Zander should totally have duetted more, as their voices blend really well. Ultimately, Rock & Rule has some nice images, but works better as music than a movie--which is weird, because they never actually released that soundtrack after all...

Beyond the Valley of the Dolls

Much as i love Valley of the Dolls -- and i do, enough that i've shown it at screenings and based Oscar parties on it -- i love Beyond the Valley of the Dolls even more.

Largely because it is like the original but more. More bodacious ta-tas, more big hair, more fabulous outfits, more ridiculous dialogue, more bad acting, more drunk scenes, more kinky melodrama. And you read that right: Roger Ebert, beloved film critic co-wrote this masterpiece. And, trust me, it is a fucking masterpiece. If you have not seen this movie, your life is poorer for it.

In the fashion of the original Valley of the Dolls -- as well as other girl-power masterpieces such as How to Marry a Millionaire, The Heroic Trio and Sleater-Kinney, not to mention Charlie's Angels -- it's the story of three women and a shared goal.

This is Kelly, lead singer and guitarist. Like all lead singers/lead guitarists, she is narcissistic and unreliable and preoccupied with getting laid. She also has an inexplicable British accent that comes and goes. Kelly is played by Dolly Read, better known to Playboy readers as Miss May of 1966. She later married (and divorced and then married and divorced again) Dick Martin, of Rowan and Martin's Laugh-In.

This is Casey, the bass player. Like all bass players, she was hired for aesthetics/backstory rather than musicianship and digs whatever kind of downers you can give her, man. Casey is played by Cynthia Myers, best-known as Playboy's Miss December of 1967. I saw her on a Russ Meyer TV show several years ago and damn if she has not changed. Well-preserved and/or i want the name of her plastic surgeon.

 This is Petronella, aka Pet, the drummer. Like all drummers, she doesn't understand the concept of consequences and is mostly interested in getting high. Pet is played by Marcia McBroom. McBroom was the daughter of prominent Civil Rights activists, Stokely Carmichael was her cousin and Katherine Dunham and Duke Ellington were family friends. She was also in Jesus Christ Superstar, got over this shit and is now a history teacher in New York City.

At the opening of the movie, the ladies and their band, the Kelly Affair are playing some kind of school dance. For those of you who wonder how a Russ Meyer film passes the Bechdel test, it happens right here, where the girls spend about three minutes talking about hauling equipment and scoring dope.

But enough of that, time for the traveling across the map montage! The Kelly Affair and their manager, Harris, a sad sack who is also Kelly's boyfriend, head out for Los Angeles. Apparently Kelly's aunt is there and she owes Kelly some inheritance. Also L.A. is where it's at for musicians, man. Remember, this was before the internet, so people had relatives they hadn't communicated with in over a decade and there still was a music industry.

Kelly finds her Aunt Susan in her over-the-top 70's fashion studio -- an appropriate profession, given the series of sensational outfits in this flick. Despite the "This is not a sequel. There has never been anything like it" billing, Beyond the Valley of the Dolls was originally intended as a sequel to Valley of the Dolls. The Aunt Susan character was actually Anne Welles and Barbara Parkins originally signed up to play her. Then things went south. I think someone read the script...

Anyway, Aunt Susan whisks Kelly off to a party thrown by music producer and Hollywood it-boy Ronnie "Z-Man" Barzell, a sort of Phil Spector figure with a pseudo-Shakespearian line of patter. This party scene stands out as one of the best party scenes ever filmed.

 

Yup, you read that right. The second Austin Powers movie stole a good half-dozen lines from Beyond the Valley of the Dolls verbatim. I guess they figured Ebert wouldn't get noisy about asserting ownership. I would have though: That shit is timeless! Another steal? Look closely at Kelly's palazzo-pant jumpsuit. It's the same one worn by Sharon Tate in the original Valley of the Dolls.

So, the rest of the girls (and boy) show up, the band plays a song (with some help from the Strawberry Alarm Clock), Z-Man decides to sign them after changing their name to the Carrie Nations. Sad Sack is kind of upset, but is also easily distracted by porn star Ashley St. Ives, played by Edy Williams, aka Mrs. Russ Meyer.

Yup, another steal.

Also, if you have not yet adapted yourself to the unique rhythms and editing of a Russ Meyer film, please do so quickly. Everyone just sort of recites their dialogue and the camera cuts as quickly as possible from person to person to object to person to boobs to person to object to person to boobs to boobs to boobs. Meyer had a thing about actors blinking, so he would cut away every time anyone's eyes shut for even a fraction of a second.

So, the Carrie Nations' careers kick off in a big way. Kelly tosses Sad Sack aside professionally for Z-Man and personally for vapid gigolo Lance Rocke. Sad Sack takes up with  Porn Star. Casey is the victim of some really heavy-handed pickup attempts and takes up with predatory fashion designer Roxanne. Pet hooks up with a waiter/law student who knows where she can score some weed.

Sad Sack starts getting so hammered that he can't get it up anymore and Porn Star leaves him. Law Student is so busy studying that Pet starts making eyes at a Muhammad Ali knockoff. Kelly and Gigolo keep scheming to get a bigger chunk of the inheritance. Casey is popping dolls and huffing grass. What next, you ask? A lot of things. Amazing things. You'll have to watch the movie to find out, but i can promise you that all of this happens...

There's a peculiar irony that arch-chauvinist Russ Meyer wound up making a number of films that are now considered pseudo-feminist masterpieces. Beyond the Valley of the Dolls is no Faster Pussycat, Kill Kill, but it does have three women who write their own songs, make their own decisions and bang whoever the hell they want. Sure, they're bubbleheaded hedonists, but no more so than anyone else in the film and less than most.

 Beyond the Valley of the Dolls was a critically panned flop when it came out, ending Russ Meyer's brief Hollywood majors career. However, it has since become one of the cult classics, an over the-top-piece of camp genius that must be beheld to be believed and whose influence can still be seen today.