By D.K. Holm
February 14, 2006
[nota bene: The following column, by necessity, contains some spoilers! If you don't want to know the ending of the movies mentioned, don't read on.]
These Boots are Made for Posing
THE NOTORIOUS BETTIE PAGE
THE NOTORIOUS BETTIE PAGE could be the first film about sex that will please both the perverts and the preachers.
In summarizing the life story of the cult figure, Mary Harron's film manages neither to mock (unduly, anyway) the fetishists, nudists, and all around sexualists who came to rely on Page for surrogate sexual satisfaction, nor the religiots whence Page came and to whom she returned after her seven year career (1951 to 1957) as Queen of the Pin Ups.
In traditional HBO biopic style, NOTORIOUS tells Page's life story, rather straightforwardly, from the time she is a 10 year old to the mid-1950s, when a religious re-conversion or rebirth took her out of the smut trade. I wish it had been a better film, but it was also better than I expected, and Gretchen Mol gives an unpredictably excellent turn as the cover girl cutie.
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Page is unusual among models of the period for always using her real name. She was born Betty Mae Page on April 22 1923 to Edna and Roy Page in Nashville, Tennessee; at some point in her career, the spellings Betty and Bettie became interchangeable. According to the movie and at least one of the two bios of Page, her father abused her (though he eventually repented and became a traveling preacher) and later she was gang raped, which precipitated her flight to New York. There, while working a series of odd jobs, she took acting lessons. An African-American cop and amateur photographer named Jerry Tibbs "discovered" Page and even re-fashioned her hair into the famous bangs (to hide her high forehead). While Tibbs was selling her photos to girly magazines, Page had a sideline as a model in amateur "camera clubs," where men gathered ostensibly to improve their photographic skills. Soon Page proved to be infectiously popular with magazine editors, and her image was splashed across the pages of several hundred men's magazines then being published. But the foundation of her later reputation in the hedonistic 1990s was solidified when she hooked up with Irving Klaw and his sister Paula, who owned Movie Star News, which in front of the store sold stills of movie stars, but also had a side line in commissioned sex shots and silent stag shorts. Page alternated between the Sodom of Manhattan with the Klaws and their kinky clients and pix on the one hand, and on the other Miami, where model-turned-shutterbug Bunny Yeager shot pix of the more nature loving Page in the raw for nudist mags, leading to an invitation from Hugh Hefner for his recent startup PLAYBOY, where Page became Miss January, 1955. A failed romance with an actor and the inquires of Senator Kefauver's sub-committee into the scourge of pornography (which shortened Irving's life), drove Page back down to Florida, where her Christian beliefs, never forgotten or disowned, reasserted themselves, and she decided to devote herself to Christian teaching.
It would have been very easy for an activist filmmaker to turn all this into a post-feminist diatribe against men, masculinity, the Phallus in all its unfurled power, and / or into a maudlin account of a woman victimized by man, society, religion, and her own imprisoning biological machinery. But not only is Harron sympathetic to Page and her difficulties, but to her fans, to Klaw (Chris Bauer, of THE WIRE), even to the prestigious lawyer who becomes a Klaw benefactor by commissioning Klaw, and his colleague, photographer and BIZARRE magazine publisher "John Willie" (AKA, John Coutts, played by Jared Harris, who is in that skuzzy British tradition of sallow sleazy slobs players like Gary Oldman and Tim Roth; my understanding is that Coutts wasn't quite as shabby as this), to snap shots of Betty in laced fetish boots and brandishing a whip. And the film is equally sympathetic, or at least not explicitly critical of, Page's religious faith. Here's another example. The Kefauver commission, led by the racket-busting senator (David Strathairn) takes testimony from a man whose son died from auto-erotic asphyxiation, which he blames on pornography — where else would such a nutty idea have come from? In the hands of another director, the man might have been mocked for his rather schematic views, but Harron offers him his testimony with compassion. But than, this is the woman who also showed sympathy for the woman who tried to kill Andy Warhol (I SHOT ANDY WARHOL), and for a murderous investment broker (AMERICAN PSYCHO). Nor does Harron mock Page's climactic rebirth, and the preacher (Victor Slezak) who woos her (in an ecclesiastical sense) is presented quite beautifully.
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Harron's film is limited only, presumably, by its budget. Yet one can't help but think what Scorsese, who was at one time supposedly associated with a project about Page, would have made of this material. Some vestige of what Scorsese might have done is present in NOTORIOUS's black and white film occasionally lapsing into color, both for some home movies moments and whenever Betty goes to Miami. But archival footage stands in for what Scorsese might have envisioned of 42 Street in the '50s, and the roiling postwar world of Manhattan where the old morality was interfacing with wised up ex-soldiers bent on pursuing their private sexual interests.
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NOTORIOUS is very good on the "supply" side of Page's life and economics — the Klaws, Page's various mentors such as Tibbs and Yeager, the camera clubs, the magazine covers (especially in a sequence "borrowed" from Van Sant's MY OWN PRIVATE IDAHO), the short films. What suffers is the "demand" side, the political economy of sexual desire. What was it about Page that distinguished her from the pack of thousands of girls are vying for the attention of the camera, the editors, the consumer?
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Aside from having a great figure and a terrific set of legs (they are "50s" legs, well fed gams that look great in heels and hose, not the anorectic sticks or sinewy trunks of today), Page also conveyed a sense of fun about what she was doing. Her "overacting" in the images that Klaw took made it clear that it was all a joke, all in good spirits, and her engaging light-inducing smile said, "Hey, it's all right! Go ahead and jerk off to this picture of me in gloves and boots! It's all right! Isn't it all just a kick?" Page's very being defied the morality she believed in her private life, and the generosity of spirit that her image communicated gave men permission to relax of the guard of morality they were brought up with. If someone had filmed her life at the time, Page would have been played by Shirley MacLaine, who had a similar figure, effervescence, and smile.
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One of the most frustrating things I know about Page, whom I revere as a cult icon, is that for three years we lived within 20 blocks of each other and I didn't even know it. This was from 1963 to 1965 when Page when to the Multnomah School of the Bible (Page wanted to be a missionary), which is on Southeast Division Street in Portland, Oregon, and at that time I was living 20 blocks directly north of the school on Northeast Hassalo Street. Of course, I was only a tyke and hadn't even heard of Betty Page yet. But I like to think that once or twice we were in the same Fred Meyer grocery store at the same time, me looking at the comic books, she unable to resist peeking into the fashion mags.
This was six years after Page had been a top PLAYBOY centerfold and then dropped out of sight. Things got worse after that, according to Richard Foster in his book, THE REAL BETTIE PAGE (Carol Publishing, 1997, 214 pages, $21.95, ISBN 1 55972 432 3), a book not to be confused with the better illustrated but more hagiographic BETTIE PAGE: THE LIFE OF A PIN-UP LEGEND, by Karen Essex, a reporter, and James Swanson, Page's then attorney and agent (GPG, 1995, 288 pages, $40, ISBN 1 881649 62 8).
Page, who is still alive as of this typing at the age of 83, spiraled, according to Foster, into mental problems and clashes with the law and a succession of landlords. Page was in a form of hiding for many years, but recently has opened up to fans, and has even been a guest at the PLAYBOY mansion, where she has hobnobbed with Pam Anderson. NOTORIOUS leaves out all this stuff, simply alluding to the fact that Page desired to be a missionary.
The script is credited to Harron and Guinevere Turner, who is A) one of the most beautiful women who ever lived, and who B), could, as a sometimes actress herself, have play Page (they resemble each other), and C) has some sympathy for the world of alternative sexualities, as she played a dominatrix in PREACHING TO THE PERVERTED, and is an "out" Lesbian.
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But she didn't play the role; instead they counter intuitively hired Gretchen Mol (ROUNDERS, THE SHAPE OF THINGS), and the result, surprisingly, is that they couldn't have made a better choice. Mol is brilliant. She is about the same height (five-six to Page's five-five), and doesn't particularly look like her (Mol has an overbite), but has a similar figure and the same shining exuberance. Despite being touted by a VANITY FAIR cover when no one had heard of her, Mol hasn't been particularly impressive up till now, but this performance is a career maker. She's subtle, whacked out when she needs to be, lusty, happy, game when it comes to putting on fun costumes, and has an unexpectedly expressive face, especially when she is in her acting class, or when she is enduring occasional failed auditions. At one point, doing a scene in class, she has to do that difficult thing, act out the act of acting, while doing it good enough to sow the viewer that Page had skill but not good enough to "impress" her teacher (Austin Pendleton). Mol thrives under the attention of the costume and make up departments, which really fully integrate her into the '40s and '50s; this is one of the few modern movies that truly recreate that time (note her painted eyebrows when she is doing a film audition). I can't say enough about Mol in this role. To my surprise, she fully embodies the role, and turns the part into a real Page turner.
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When GREY'S ANATOMY: SEASON ONE (Touchstone, 387 minutes, color, 200x, TV-14, 1.78:1, DD 5.1, with English subtitles, animated musical menu with 10-chapter scene selection per episode, two discs in keep case with slip case, $29.95, released on Tuesday, February 14, 2006) came up as a potential review, I almost didn't order it. I'd never seen it. No one I knew watched it. I hadn't read any reviews. I was sick of medical shows, and it was linked with DESPERATE HOUSEWIVES as some kind slyly sexual thing to titillate the rotund masses. OK, the real thing is that I don't get ABC clearly on my cable free TV. But I did order it, and when I got through the last of the first season's nine episodes I was really sad that there weren't any more on the set.
The last four eps of the real first season were transferred over to the start of the second season, which, presumably, will have the full complement of 24 or 25 shows. That's great for fans, but being a new fan, I wanted them all. I guess I'll have to wait until this fall when the second season hits DVD.
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In case you are ignorant like me, GREY'S ANATOMY is the story of Meredith Grey (Ellen Pompeo, who is Renée Zellweger 2.0), who is a new surgical intern at Seattle's Sacred Whatever hospital. Her fellow interns - competitors include the unfeeling and aggressive Christine (Sandra Oh), trailer park trash turned underwear model Izzy (Katherine Heigl), well meaning nerd George (T.R. Knight, in the patented ABC Marshall-Kevin Weisman role), and a few others whose importance increases as the season goes along. Grey has some advantages over her foes: she is the daughter of an eminent and well known surgeon (whose personality sounds like Christine's) but who now secretly languishes in a home with Alzheimer's, and she is fucking the attending surgeon, Derek Shepherd (Patrick Dempsey, who has ceased looking like Tatum O'Neal). Intimate relations between mentors and supplicants are frowned upon by management, but Grey and Shepherd met and fell into it before either knew who the other was.
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The series is really a soap opera with a little bit of HOUSE and CSI thrown in for gross interest. When will A tell B he-she loves him-her? When will C tell D the secrets being kept close to the vest? And there is a lot of fucking going on in this show. In fact, no closet or storage room in Sacred Whatever is sacred; it seems like each one has been violated by the bodily fluids of the latest re-coupling. Someone will have to change the name of the place to Sacred Fuck.
The show it most resembles is SCRUBS, and I'd have said that it's an unfunny SCRUBS except that it is in fact in its way as funny as the sitcom. It's about the romance of the characters; it's about interns; it features lots of musical montages in which characters are shown to have learned life lessons. Half the characters are unlikable or unappealing, but I still found myself getting wrapped up in it. Part of what intrigued me was the music selection, which is like no other in any other show. It's all by bands that are the 21st Century version of '50s mood music: Psapp, The Postal Service, Bow Wow Wow, Ivy, K T Tunstall, Bang Sugar Bang, Tegan and Sara, and the Ditty Bops (Alexandra Patsavas, is the music supervisor and she keeps a blog over at A HREF="http://abc.go.com/primetime/greysanatomy/music/season2/music1.html">ABC).
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Extras are medium in quantity, but pretty good. They include on disc one two commentary tracks for the pilot, the first by the show's creator, Shonda Rhimes, and its director Peter Horton, the second with actors Oh, Heigl and Knight. The first disc also has some ads for TV on DVD and the first five eps (A Hard Day's Night, The First Cut Is the Deepest, Winning a Battle, Losing the War, No Man's Land, Shake Your Groove Thing). All episodes are named after songs. Disc two features "Under the Knife: Behind the Scenes of Grey's Anatomy," a making of, "Anatomy of a Pilot," which is really a whole bunch of deleted scenes with commentary by Rhimes and Horton, five deleted scenes from three shows, also with optional commentary by Rhimes and Horton, and an alternative, or rather more normal, main title sequence.
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One thing missing from the disc is Rhimes's blog at ABC about the show. I can't imagine loving the show enough to buy the discs and not reading this, so I am hoping that it will appear on the season two set.
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If I had seen PROOF (Miramax, 99 minutes, color, 2005, PG-13, 2.35:1, DD 5.1, with French and Spanish tracks, English subtitles, xx musical menu with 15-chapter scene selection, one-page insert with chapter titles, keep case, one disc, $29.95, released on Tuesday, February 14, 2006) when it first came out I would have added it to my 10 worst list. This movie is terrible. Based on an award winning (naturally) play by David Auburn, it is exactly the kind of junk that Miramax too often tries to proffer. Because of CLERKS and PULP FICTION and PRIEST we tend to think of Miramax as a progressive and hip and "alternative" (even independent) company, but it is this stagy, star-packed, yet ill thought out crap that they love to sell, dull, self-important tradition of quality material that we've seen all too often out of Hollywood, from Daryl Zanuck to Brian Grazer.
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The premise is simple, so simple you'll swear you've seen it before. The film concerns the aftermath of a mad mathematician's (Anthony Hopkins) death. His daughter Katie (Gwyneth Paltrow) is equally brilliant, supposedly, but also equally disturbed. In the course of the film's brief yet still fragmented time, Katie's conventional sister (Hope Davis) comes to square away the house and her sibling, while at the same time, a young math prof, Hal Dobbs (Jake Gyllenhaal), searches through the deceased's papers for some vague formula. But is Hal just a figment of Katie's beautiful mind?
Nothing happens in this thing. And even at 99 minutes it feels padded. Hope Davis pisses away her potential by yet fucking again playing an annoying, unsympathetic shrew; and Gyllenhaal bears the brunt of dull dialogue that treads water as it repeats itself endlessly like a Miami dinner theater version of a Beckett play. Oh, and there is a "happy" ending, with the nut case first accepting her trip to the asylum fleeing, then running, dashing into the nerdy arms (or at least mind) of her math teacher "savior." Paltrow, the star of every Miramax show it seems, sounds like a Valley girl, and worse you don't care one whit about her or her stupid problems; if I had had to have seen this crap in a theater I would have screamed in agony of boredom. Or at least stood up and shouted, "Fire her!"
The transfer is fine, sound good blah blah blah. Extras consist of a low-key drone of an audio commentary track with director Madden, a short conventional making of, and two deleted (extended, really) scenes with optional commentary.
And incidentally, if you are interested in KILL BILL, you might find my new book, KILL BILL: AN UNOFFICIAL CASEBOOK useful. It is now available in fine bookstores everywhere, or from Amazon.
Not only that, I've got a new book out on an aspect of film noir I call film soleil, titled simply FILM SOLEIL. It is sure to alter film criticism as we know it to its very core. Order it now!
And if you are interested in what I sound like, I can be heard on KBOO radio (90.7 FM) the second and the fourth Wednesday of the month, at 9 AM in the morning (Pacific Standard Time) on Ed Goldberg's show MOVIE TALK along with Dawn Taylor. It's available via streaming audio (in 20 Kbps Stereo). The next broadcast is Wednesday, February 23, at 9 AM, with the critics' ten best lists.
COMING SOON: Italian horror films, giallo, and action flickers, plus Italian poster books, a package of Hitchcock movies and TV shows, REMINGTON STEEL and other TV mystery shows, many STAR TREKS, the third annual DVD Tray of Horror, and more!
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