Elizabeth Gage goes out with a bang with the last of
her five book deal with Simon & Schuster.
INTIMATE is one roller coaster ride of secrets and sins among the
rich. The main sufferers are three beautiful
specimens (aren’t they all?) whose interconnections end up destroying one of the
trio. Jordan Lazarus has come from
nothing and is now one of America’s richest men but he’s far from being happy,
especially in the matters of the heart.
That is until he meets Leslie Chamberlain, a blue color type who also
rises up to become one hot commodity in the advertising world. But she has secrets of her own, big ones that
will eventually destroy their relationship.
In comes Jill Fleming, a double-crossing sociopathic chameleon who uses
men and women to satisfy her every need. When she sets her eyes on Lazarus, fireworks,
until he realizes the evil of her ways; then it’s cuckoo time as she becomes
nuttier and nuttier for the sake of owning him.
Of course there’s more to the plot but since I don’t want to give away anything
major, I’d better leave it at that.
What’s safe to say is that, whatever lies between the
covers, you’ll end up devouring the book in no time—despite the sometimes flawed
approach taken. Because let’s be honest
here. I, being an
old pro, can find some predictability in any printed work, and it’s no
different with INTIMATE. Every
now and then I found myself guessing its outcome. But since the novel works aplenty already due
to its strong narration and characterization, not to mention a psychological
depth rarely used in a fluff piece such as this one, I scarcely minded. Besides, I’d rather focus on the positive when
it comes to a Gage. It makes the reading
experience all the more worthwhile. Especially
when the soap bubbles pop, and believe me they often do.
As in her previous work, sex abounds. So do well-thought-out plot twists in general. There’s nothing better than an erotica novel
with meat. It’s all about
effectiveness. And Elizabeth Gage knows
how to attain it. She is, in a way, the E
L James (Fifty Shades of Grey) of her
time but with a better outcome (but not income, for sure) because she at least can write. Or he can. If you’re a regular here or simply a Gage
fanatic you probably know of the debate regarding the author’s identity (Elizabeth
Gage is a pseudonym). I think she’s a
he, some think otherwise. But in the end
does it really matter?
So why did Gage never became a household name if she’s
such a talent? There’s a back story to
this, one I discussed in another post (along with her true identity). But in a gist, she was underappreciated by
her publishers, resulting in low sale of her work. It’s probably the reason why she moved to
Mira Books. I have yet to read those,
which I believe—if based on reviews—to be more toned down. But it’s all right. I’ll get to them eventually. I still have PANDORA'S BOX, which is another
big glittery door stopper, to get into.
You can be sure I will savour every moment of it—as I did with
INTIMATE. Find it, read it, love it.
Season four of
DYNASTY is all about Peter De Vilbis, the jet setting rogue. Well, not exactly but he does take center
stage in regards to Fallon’s storyline. She’s
madly in love with him. Or so she says. But we all know that it isn’t true. How
can it be? The guy’s a total ‘mo. But for the benefit of the plot, we’ll pretend
he isn’t. Of course, I don’t have any proof of this but I have a hunch that he
likes nothing better than hanging around West Hollywood when the itch beckons. Fallon
seems to be fooled, though, except for Claudia and Jeff who, like us, know
something’s wrong with him. OK, Jeff’s still enamored with Fallon and will do
anything to get her back, including butting heads with the competition. But that just doesn’t erase the fact that he
sees right through Mr. De Vilbis, whose last name, by the way, couldn’t be more…
devilish.
But moving
on… After rescuing Alexis and Krystle
from a flaming cabin Mark—Krystle’s ex—is accused of starting the fire in the
first place. Though the real culprit is
Joseph the major-domo, it takes a few episodes before Marky boy is off the
hook. He then becomes Alexis’s bodyguard before someone pushes him off a
balcony ledge to his death. As for Joseph,
well, after being discovered as the true firestarter (move over Drew Barrymore),
he offs himself with a handgun, turning his pregnant daughter into a vengeful wimp
when she discovers he’d been blackmailed by Alexis (over his wife’s—Kirby’s mom—rep).
Yes, wimp, because her conscience takes over before she’s able to pull the
trigger on Alexis even though the dragon lady deserves it so.
As if that wasn’t complicated enough, it turns out that the father of her
unborn child is none other than debonair but rapist Adam. But don’t tell husband Jeff that. Though he’s already back shacking up with
Fallon, he wants to be a good husband and father. Until he finds out the real
deal about Kirby and Adam, that is. Then it’s every man for himself as he fistfights Adam on the
rooftop of the Carrington plaza. Since it’s a double whammy for Adam, him being
a rapist and a poisoner (tried to
kill Jeff with it in season three and Jeff now knows) Adam is almost a goner but
not quite. The show needs him to raise more hell, not to mention to support
wimpy Kirby whose storyline has gone awry.
But the best reason
to watch season four, in my opinion, is to feast your eyes on newcomer Dex
Dexter whom I call Sex Sexter on account of his rugged virility. I mean the guy
oozes sex appeal even when he burps. “I
don’t bend for anyone”, he warns Blake in one episode. Oh I’ll just bet you
don’t. Where is Steven when we need him?
Oh yeah, he’s off fighting his dad and Sammy Jo for custody of his son,
which he finally obtains after marrying cuckoo Claudia. Although this union
doesn’t please mama Alexis she has other fishes to fry like bending for Sex
Sexter for instance. Their hook up is the best thing that could ever happen to
her. It makes her almost likable.
Since she got
remarried to Blake (first one was annulled), Krystle wants to be a better wife,
which means working for him as a publicist at Denver Carrington (why? Just
enjoy the wealth, honey). Enter Tracy who’s all sweet and doe-eyed as Krystle’s
secretary but is really a woman scorned. She wants Krystle’s position and will
stop at nothing to get it, even seducing Blake which he does not take very
kindly and fires her. Then she changes camp to Colbyco’s but quits when Alexis
wants her to bed a client. She is never seen again.
I could go on
and on about the plots and subplots but let just say that season four ends up
with Fallon as a runaway bride (bid adieu to Pamela Sue Martin who wants off
the series), Kirby running off to Europe for good (bye-bye), Alexis
getting arrested for the murder of Mark Jennings, and the revelation that a
black wealthy socialite singer could be Blake’s sis (oh the shade of it all!);
all in all, a strong season, even though the first Fallon will be greatly
missed (hint, hint!). And this goes even
for you, Mark Jennings. You were kind of
a hottie yourself.
I’ve been
meaning to review this book ever since I landed my hands on it, but here we are, almost a year later and nothing. So I’m
finally doing it. Here it goes: I first
caught sight of Jilly Cooper’s megahit RIDERS in 1985 when it hit the
shelves. I was close to my 20s and mostly
a horror geek but the sight of that guy’s hand touching the woman’s derrière on
that now-infamous cover made me want to flip the pages very quickly. Still it took me almost 25 years to finally do
so, but when I did, it was fireworks,
let me tell you.
First and
foremost, I’ve got to say that the novel looks like a door stopper. It’s over 900 pages, but
contrary to other big books, this one goes by real quick. It’s all about horses
and sex, rich folks and sex. Did I say
sex? The author spends as much time
dwelling on this as explaining the ABCs of show jumping, which is fun but less
stimulating, if you get my drift. I
mean, I was ready to light up a cigarette every time super stud Rupert
Campbell-Black’s prowess as a ladies man came to an end. Oh, make no mistake, the guy’s a big douchebag,
but what a piece of man candy he is; and he becomes somewhat less arrogant as
you go along. All thanks to the author’s
keen ability to juggle him and other colorful characters through their wicked
ways which lead them to the Los Angeles Olympics for the final showdown.
Truth be told,
Rupert Campbell-Black isn’t as much the lead character as he is part of an
ensemble team that starts with good guy Jake Lovell who’s on a quest to steal
the spotlight from Black. Of
course the novel has a few flaws, the biggest it being somewhat predictable,
like (BIG SPOILER AHEAD) having their team win the big championship in the end,
for instance. I mean, duh. But overall it is a great
reading experience that has an impressive enough plot, strong characterization
and a cheeky sense of humour only the British can excel at. I’ll definitely move on to Cooper's second
novel. Let’s just hope that my review of
it will appear sooner this time around.
Having been a
connoisseur of glam fiction for a while now, I earned the right to be selective.
But there was a time when I used to read anything from anyone as long as it was
categorized as trash. Not anymore. I’ve been around the block too many a times
and I need to concentrate on what makes my brain—and another bodily
function—pop. Hence Havana Adams’ ebook
BLACK DIAMOND, which centers around a set of twins, who, under nebulous
circumstances (at least they are to them), are torn apart at a young age, only
to be reunited almost two decades later. It’s in between those years that the
novel focuses mostly. In one corner we have a spoiled rich Hollywood celebutante
who makes all the wrong choices; and in the other a poor overweight but
strong-willed black sheep who yearns more out of life in the UK. Cheating lovers, two-timing friends, drug taking,
and child abuse are just some of the heartaches plaguing these girls before coming
face to face eventually.
What I like
most about BLACK DIAMOND, besides its strong but clear narrative, is the sure
way the author handles her plot. She
isn’t afraid of getting into the psyche of her characters, digging a little deeper
than we’re used to even, to tell her story. Not only are her heroines
completely fleshed-out but she throws in a few (believable) curve balls that
make BLACK DIAMOND an even more compelling read. Though she could have done
without the big kidnapping denouement of one of her girls (and some omnipresent
typos), which to me blemishes the essence of an already strong story, this is
an overall impressive first novel—a rare attribute in this era of overindulgent
e-books. Now if her second novel
REMEMBER MY NAME is as exciting as this one, I’ll definitely move her up as a must-read
novelist.
BLACK DIAMOND
is published by Carina UK and you can get it wherever ebooks are sold.
“Oh papa, I do love you”.This line taken from the big-screen
adaptation of Sidney Sheldon’s second novel THE OTHER SIDE OF MIDNIGHT somehow stuck
with me throughout the years.Whenever I
think of the movie or its stars, I always blurt out the line, which ultimately became
a catch phrase in my entourage (meaning my boyfriend).It certainly sets the tone for the film
ridiculous but so addictive story of love gone wrong.In fact, most of Sheldon’s adaptations are
about bad relationships.Whether set in
WWII (THE OTHER SIDE OF MIDNIGHT) or in Hollywood (A STRANGER IN THE MIRROR) or
in Romania behind the Iron-Curtain (WINDMILLS OF THE GODS) no one is left
unfazed, which to trash connoisseurs like you and I is pure joy.
The first time I ever laid
eyes on a Sheldon book was when RAGE OF ANGELS was topping the paperback best-seller
lists, which was around 1981 if I remember correctly.I was in my late teens, having spent my youth
reading solely horror.But I had a
friend who introduced me to the author swearing I was going to have as much of
a swell time.At first I was a bit
hesitant.How could he ever top the
likes of King, Koontz or Saul (yes, Saul)?But ultimately he did.That’s how
I came to know about fast-paced, sexually-charged roman à clefs that could
literary blow my mind. Strange that it occurred
during my tumultuous bouts of my own sexuality, but it did, in a big way.From then on I was a Sheldon man, grabbing
any work of his I could get my hands on.When I finished with him, I switched to Jackie Collins, then after her,
Harold Robbins.I mean, I was on a roll.
In 1983 I became even more
ecstatic when I found out there was to be a mini-series adaptation of RAGE OF
ANGELS on NBC, and it was going to star my fave Charlie’s angel, Jaclyn Smith.Suffice to say I had the greatest time
watching her in it.The TV event was
such a rating success that it spawned a sequel (the only one not based on a
Sheldon novel) and many other adaptations like MASTER OF THE GAME in ’84, IF
TOMORROW COMES in ’86, MEMORIES OF MIDNIGHT in ’91…Speaking
of MEMORIES OF MIDNIGHT, this one is the sequel to the megahit THE OTHER SIDE
OF MIDNIGHT released on the big screen in 1977. I saw it on TV some late night in the mid-80s.The late Marie-France Pisier does a fabulous
job playing mega-bitch Noelle.Her
journey from the slums of Paris to the beds of the most powerful men around the
globe makes for a fun trashy experience.And no one does it better than Sheldon since he wrote the screenplay.
Rumor has it that Susan Sarandon,
who plays the other lead (Catherine), refuses to talk about the film, that she’s
even omitted it from her filmography.A
shame, for I certainly would be interested to know of her input; however
negative it may turns out to be.As for
Sheldon’s later works, though not all slam-dunks, they always brought me joy.They still do today with author Tilly Bagshawe taking over after his death in 2007.But one thing’s
for sure:there will never be another
one like him.He was the best in the
business. So rest in piece, dear sir. But you are surely missed.
As expected, style wins over
substance in this Ann-Margret comedy from 1966. In it she plays a fashion buyer who is sent
to Paris (more like a Hollywood soundstage really) to purchase creations from
hot fashion designer Louis Jourdan. Of
course he only wants to bed her. In
fact, every guy she meets wants a piece of la Ann. But she refuses to give in, even to hunky
Chad Everett, her boss’ son (for whom I would drop my trousers in a sec). He is so into her that, when a fashion crisis
arises, he takes no time in joining her to save the day. But when she ends up having men trouble with
both Jourdan and Everett, she quits her job and goes on a binge drinking with
Everett’s womanizer friend Richard Crenna (who, of course, wants to do her as
well). It all ends up with Margaret having
a heart to heart talk with her three gentlemen and choosing bachelor number
one, Everett, as husband potential.
What’s left to say about this
little piece of fluff? A lot, starting with
the fabulous wardrobe Miss Margret gets to wear (designed by Oscar great Helen Rose). I swear it’s like watching
RuPaul’s Drag Race all over again. Every
piece screams drag queen. Big hair, big
hats, pointy beaded tits… and chiffons, lots of chiffons. I could admire this shit all day, even if
it’s only there to derive us from the no plot plot. Because yes, MADE IN PARIS is mostly depthless,
awkward even —just like the performance of its leading lady. OK I may be a little too harsh here. ‘Cause even though she’s on the paste and
copy mode from her last dozen films, she’s still a likable character. The girl has star quality, no doubt about
it. But it would have been fun to see a
different side of her this time around. However, as this was during the star system
craze where one had to be at the mercy of the studio, it took years before some
big shot realized she had more to offer than her sexy self.
Nevertheless, despite these
flaws, MADE IN PARIS is still a blast. It
reminds light fares such as WHERE THE BOYS ARE (1960), THREE COINS IN THE
FOUNTAIN (1954) or THE PLEASURE SEEKERS (another Ann-Margret vehicle made two
years earlier, in 1964). It may not be as
soapy as VALLEY OF THE DOLLS or PEYTON PLACE but the bubbles do pop. As for
Jourdan and the rest of the cast, besides being used only to elevate the star’s
appeal, they do have a certain je ne sais quoi as they go at it with their eyes
shut. But it hardly matters. For the importance is not to be overly impressed
by riveting performances or intricate plot points but to be tickled by an overdone
Hollywood production that should have known better from the start.
Like many of
you, I read the best-selling novel BEACHES by Iris Rainer Dart before seeing
the Gary Marshall film. The year was
1987 and I had just gotten my first apartment near the gay village, and to
quote Bette Davis in BEYOND THE FOREST (1949), what a dump it was. No
style no natural light just two square rooms.
BUT it was my dump and the
best part was I could bring back as many guys as I wanted. Not that I was the slut of all time but like
many healthy gay men in their 20s I had a high libido. I didn’t have the luxury to have a serious boyfriend
then (that would come five years later) so I loved playing the field. But back
to BEACHES. Just like the novel, the
film caught the essence of what real friendship is all about, thanks mostly to screenwriter
Mary Agnes Donoghue’s faithful adaptation which helped the leading ladies give riveting
performances. Of course I was already a fan
of Bette Midler. How could you not
be? She had been on our side for as long as I can remember, and for that we’ll forever
be grateful. I had caught many of her comedies
on screen, her career being on an upswing since DOWN AND OUT IN BEVERLY HILLS
in 1982. But it wasn’t until BEACHES
that I realized that she really could play serious too (by then, I had never
seen 1979 THE ROSE for which she was nominated for an Oscar).
But BEACHES is
more than just a drama. There are many moments of hilarity (as expected since it is
a Midler film). But because of the subject
matter (death and friendship) most of the wisecracks are played down. Midler plays CC Bloom, the extraverted
singing sensation from the Bronx who makes it big but crashes as hard
throughout 30 odd years. Early on as a young
girl (played by BLOSSOM and THE BIG BANG THEORY Mayim Bialik) she meets demure Hillary
Whitney, also a kid but from the right side of the track. Together they embark on an unlikely
friendship that will endure the test of time.
Then one of them is diagnosed with a deadly heart disease and, well, you
probably know the rest. But for those
who have yet to discover the film, trust me, you are in for a swell time. Yes
it’s a tad too melodramatic and yes Midler is often at the vocals (some à la
MTV), but the film works 100% for the simple fact that both characters are very
much appealing.
Although it
is clearly a Midler vehicle (since it’s her own company that produces the film),
we can’t overlook the fabulous job Barbara Hershey does as CC’s BFF. Her quiet
but classy Hillary is the perfect antipode to CC’s wild antics. She not only plays it with class but adds a dose
of insecurity and frivolity just right for the character. And I bet anyone to not feel sorry for her when
she, alone at the public library, discovers the truth about her health. Sure, the Midler tune helps the scene a great
deal, but I’m sure Hershey would have nailed it without. Heck, play the scene with no sound and you’ll
see what I mean. Truth be told, I was a
tad sceptic when I found out she was going to share the screen with Midler. I always figured her to be too “serious” an
actress to be caught in this type of film.
But boy was I wrong. It clearly
looks like she’s having the time of her life.
I went to the
first screening in December of ’88 then again the next day (right before
Christmas Eve’s dinner). That just how wonderful
I thought the film was overall.
Today? It still holds up. Quite well, I might add. Sure it’s a bit excessive at times. Many times if I’m being real honest, but I
wouldn’t change a thing. That’s
melodrama for you. I’m sure it wouldn’t
be as much fun if played otherwise (imagine PEYTON PLACE or VALLEY OF THE DOLLS
without the camp). I certainly wouldn’t
rave about it in this great blog of mine. So here’s to you, Midler, Hershey and
Marshall, for bringing to the big screen one of the best soapy pieces of the
late ‘80s. May you return in full force
real soon. Just so you know, the author
did write a follow-up called I’LL BE THERE if you’re ever in the mood for a
sequel. Besides, the Divine Miss M already
has a name for it (via Twitter): BEACHES
2: THE BEACH IS BACK. I’m game. Are you?
Krista Errickson in LITTLE DARLINGS wasn’t the only one
who stroked my fancy during my quest for beauty when I was a teen. Lori Loughlin (currently in WHEN CALLS THE
HEART on the Hallmark channel) quickly came into the picture as well. I think the first time I ever saw her was on
the now-defunct daytime soap THE EDGE OF NIGHT which, if I remember correctly,
was always struggling in the ratings back in the early ‘80s. But how gorgeous was she even then?! That face, that hair. She truly was the epitome of the perfect
girl—in my eyes anyway. I’m sure if you
talked to her in those days she’d humbly say how incorrect I was. But boy, what a looker she was. Anyway, after that soap went off the air,
nothing major in her court until she was cast in the campy 1983 horror AMITYVILLE
3-D, playing the first girl who gets it.
I was kind of bummed by her quick demise but at least I got to see her in
something else and in 3-D no less. But a
better role came her way two years later in the lovable teen comedy SECRET
ADMIRER. It featured a bunch of talented
actors, some seasoned, some younger, but starred C. Thomas Howell who was a big
thing to female teens (and to some males, I’m sure) back then.
In it Loughlin plays Toni, the girl next door type who
has a secret crush on Howell. Her anonymous
love letter to him sets off a chain of events that make SECRET ADMIRER a fun if
totally fluffy experience. What I liked
most about this film, besides connecting with the plot, is the staying power of
Loughlin. She isn’t tossed aside after
her triggered mishap, which could have been easily made by director David Greenwalt (who subsequently ended up on GRIMM’s doorstep on ABC). No, the script calls for her to embark even
further into this comedy of errors and the result is quite engaging, I’m
telling you. That is, if you can put
aside the silly teen male bonding subplot.
How tiresome is that. But, hey,
this type of flicks were a dime a dozen in those days, not to mention
specifically aimed at adolescent males with a high dose of libido. Some were truly effective (FAST TIMES AT RIDGEMONT
HIGH, CAN’T BUY ME LOVE, JUST ONE OF THE
GUYS…) and some not so much (FRATERNITY VACATION, WEEKEND PASS, JOYSTICKS…). And like its well-made predecessors, SECRET
ADMIRER understood quite well its purpose: to be funny without going too far on
the joke.
Loughlin went on to make all kind of features, from big
to small screens, but she truly found her niche when she joined the cast of FULL
HOUSE on ABC in 1988. Sadly, I never
watched it. There’s a limit to my
following the careers on my fave stars.
I mean, FULL HOUSE is just too goodie goodie for my taste. But I’ve heard that she was quite remarkable
in it. I’m not surprised. Hadn’t she proved her comedic flair in SECRET
ADMIRER already? One show I did follow
for a while was SUMMERLAND which she starred and co-produced 15 years later. I know, this one had kids in it as well, BUT
it also featured pre-TRUE BLOOD Ryan Kwanten who of course was shirtless most
of the times. So here’s
to you, Lori Loughlin, may your beautiful and talented self still be a
permanent fixture on our screens for many years to come, just as long as you
bring other hotties with you. And from the way things are looking up (Hallmark
has just renewed WHEN CALLS THE HEART for a second season) I wouldn’t be
surprised.
Oh
my.Where do I begin?There’s nothing redeeming in watching this
over-expensive piece of fluff.Except
perhaps to chuckle at the many scatterbrained moments involvingThe Village People.Along with Valerie Perrine, Steve Guttenberg—and yes, the Kardashian dad himself: a young and quite dashing Bruce Jenner—the group sole venture into films is nothing to shout about.But boy, what a way to go.That is, if you can stand two hours of overexposed
bonbons shaking.On the heels of making
it big with GREASE, producer Allan Carr decided to bring to the forefront this
celebrated disco sextet who’s popularity was already waning before the musical
comedy even got released.That, along
with its overall awfulness didn’t help at the box office.Indeed, the film tanked so much that it is
still considered to be one of the biggest bombs to ever grace our screens, and
with good reasons.Starting with the
director ofchoice:Nancy Walker.
If
you recall, this short lady used to be a celebrated comedienne, playing, among
other things, Rhoda’s mom in the self-titled classic sitcom.People can also remember her later on as
Sophia’s feisty sister in NBC’s The Golden Girls.Why did Carr choose her to be at the helm of
this flick?Who knows?But one thing’s for sure: she’s either a
lousy director or is the greatest thing to ever happen since Orson Wells,
depending to whom you talk.I personally
think she was on the verge of senility.There is no other explanation for what we’re seeing.Grant you, after catching Carr’s remake of
WHERE THE BOYS ARE a few years later, I’m starting to wonder who’s really to
blame.I mean, have you seen that one
too?Talk about horrible.I nominate it for a full blown blog entry as
well. But back to our topic at
hand.I sure didn’t expect it to be this
bad, but it was.And not really fun bad.Just plain bad bad.And there’s a limit to my loving this type of
shit, really.
The
plot—if you can call it that—centers around the making of the Village
People.
Guttenberg plays this wet behind the ears songwriter who, besides having an
impressive bulge, just can’t stand still when it comes to his career.He wants to make it big, and along with curvy
roommate Perrine, who’s a former fashion model turned partner with connections,
eventually gets there.And that includes
kneeling on the floor while taking Jenner’s pants off (don’t ask).Contrary to that last part, it takes time for
Guttenberg to assemble our six spotlighted gentlemen but when he does we are
treated (?) with plenty of gay-oriented moments such as the YMCA music clip
involving many boys in different states of undress.When male bodies aren’t the sole focus, you
can actually taste other avenues such as awful dialogues and situations and a
slew of dumber characters after the next (sorry, demure Barbara Rush who plays
Jenner’s mom).Yes, all should be taken
with a grain of salt but the slapstick here is just as awful and embarrassing
as the off-pitched solo performance of the construction worker who, seconds
before, claimed to have had talent.
Am I
too hard on this flick?Absolutely
not.You really have to see it to
believe it.It seems to have become a
cult favorite over the years.Perhaps,
but this then-15 year old in the closet gay boy who had first seen and enjoyed the
flick back in the day can honestly tell you that, contrary to him, it has not
aged well.I suggest that you lower your
expectations or be high as a kite before ever putting the film into your DVD
slot.Otherwise you’ll be left with your
mouth agape the whole time wondering why you couldn’t make better use of it.
It’s always a chore for me to watch anything involving screen legend Joanne Woodward. Not that she isn’t a good actress. She has shown her true colors in some of the most sought-after films ever (THE THREE FACES OF EVE, RACHEL RACHEL, SYBIL...). No, the reason I seem to steer clear of anything regarding her is that she is the spitting image of a girl I once knew. One who had made my life a living hell. To make a long story short, her helping me find my way as a gay man is the only good thing that ever came out of that so-called friendship. Fast forward to last night while I’m cleaning out some of my old VHS tapes and wouldn’t you know, one holds a label named THE STRIPPER. Thinking it couldn’t be, I pop the sucker in, and there you have it, the 1963 film starring Woodward, which automatically brings me back to that crazy chick of mine. But now that I’m older and wiser, I shake myself up and focus on the discovery. I had forgotten that I had recorded the film that many years ago and now I am salivating, and with good reasons. This film is a lovable mess. LONELY LADY lovable. Or so I think. Because when I sit my ass down to (re) watch the thing, I realize to my surprise how much better it actually is. And here’s why.
Woodward can act her way out of a paper bag. She’s sort of like the Meryl Streep of her time. In THE STRIPPER she plays a sweet but none too bright wannabe actress passed her prime. She wears her bleach blond hair à la early 60’s Monroe to remind us that she still got it but we all know that she doesn’t, and deep down she knows it too. When her hoodlum of a boyfriend leaves town with all the cash from her gig as a magician assistant, she is forced to stay with her former childhood neighbors, a widowed nurse (silver screen star Claire Trevor) and her troubled adult son Richard Beymer, from INDISCRETION OF AN AMERICAN WIFE and PAPER DOLLS fame. But of course, her bohemian ways disturb. Especially for Beymer who just can’t stop drooling over her. In fact, he secretly yearns to bed her but is too scared to even try. So in the meantime he settles for younger Carol Lynley who’s totally gorgeous but won’t put out.
When circumstances force Woodward to subsequently become a stripper, Beymer tries to put a stop to it but Woodward refuses. She has finally opened her eyes to the ways of the world—now that Beymer has given her up after finally making it with her—and wants nothing to do with him. This scene is the pivotal point of the story and is the film’s best moment. Woodward sparkles as she delivers her venom to a boy who represents all of her bad choices in life. When she succeeds in finally getting rid of him, as of her hoodlum of a boyfriend who’s back in the picture, she goes one step further in her epiphany. Just like Jerilee Randall does in THE LONELY LADY or Nomi Malone in SHOWGIRLS, she chooses to leave it all behind and start anew. So off she goes to another town in hoping to find happiness and herself this time around. But though we wish her the very best, deep down we have a hunch she’ll never make it. She is damaged goods, and we all know how girls like herturn out in Hollywood films.
THE STRIPPER is based on a play by William Inge (GOOD LUCK, MISS WYCKOFF) and is directed by Franklin J. Schaffner who afterwards helmed such hits as the original PLANET OF THE APES and PAPILLON. Even if it has its share of wackiness (like the magic show sequence which looks like a psychedelic bad trip on acid), it is an overall great movie experience. I wonder if Ms Woodward feels the same. I doubt it—since the film was bombarded with negative reviews at the time. But I for one love it and urge anyone to check it out—if you ever find a copy, that is. And please, don’t write to me about your disappointments over this film if you ever do find one, for I’ll set my psycho ex-friend on you. I hear she’s on the lookout for another in-the-closet gay boy/gal.
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