Please Baby Please

 

Director Amanda Kramer

PLEASE BABY PLEASE         B                                                                                                    USA  (95 mi)  2022  d: Amanda Kramer

We’re all walking tragedies, all us guys.                                                                                    —Arthur’s father over the phone

Billed as a “genderqueer extravaganza,” this is certainly among the more peculiar films on the market these days, certainly not for all tastes, where the draw is watching Oscar nominated British actress Andrea Riseborough in yet another theatrical transformation, something she has done throughout her chameleon-like career, continually immersing herself in different characters, yet only recently receiving the acclaim she so rightly deserves.  However, this weirdly provocative performance, made immediately prior to her Oscar nominated performance in To Leslie (2022), is one for the ages, about as far removed from the Oscar conversation as it could possibly be in this outrageously bizarre, color saturated musical fantasia set in the 50’s Lower East Side that is so wildly over-the-top, a queer neo-noir musical unfolding like a grindhouse hallucinogenic dream, venturing into questions of gender identity where the masculine merges with the feminine.  While not exactly satire or parody, it shows a complete lack of restraint, veering into high camp, elevating queer themes with the deliriously stylized theatrical provocation of Fassbinder’s Querelle, advertised as “West Side Story by way of Kenneth Anger,” yet you’d have to throw in John Waters and Gregg Araki as well, where it’s literally a color explosion on the screen.  Reminiscent of the macabre strangeness of Tennessee Williams’ rarely performed Camino Real, where everyone’s elusive sexuality makes them a stranger to themselves, Kramer’s film is literally teeming with artifice, an absurdly surreal netherworld dripping with pink and blue neon colors (aka bisexual lighting), populated by a colorful collection of lost souls driven by desire and desperation, living in a seedier neighborhood on the edge of an unknown existential wasteland.  The film was actually shot in Butte, Montana, of all places, a former copper mining boomtown, the largest city west of the Mississippi at the end of the 19th century, almost entirely at night in the middle of the winter so it is completely unrecognizable, where this is like a subversive underground lab experiment nestled in the grandeur of the Rocky Mountains, exuding in a kind of comic book cinematography by Patrick Meade Jones, exaggerated choreography by Marty Kudelka, glitzy production design by Bette Adams, with gaudy art direction by Elizabeth Goldsby, Alana Mueller, and Chas Schroeder.  Kramer is a queer musician-turned-filmmaker with a background in theater, who casts her films without auditions, making a bat-shit crazy film that is at times hilarious, with unexpected dance numbers that exude in their own eloquence, yet it’s also so horribly awful that you wonder how this ever got made, with an off-the-rails Cole Escola stealing every scene he’s in.    

A story of two eccentric newlyweds living on the edge of nowhere, a rebellious Suze, Angela Riseborough channeling Amy Winehouse, and a more quietly pensive Arthur, Harry Melling (the loathsome, overly spoiled cousin Dudley Dursley, yet arguably the best actor to emerge from the Harry Potter franchise), who become the obsession of a luridly sadistic, leather-clad street gang known as The Young Gents, who don’t walk or dance, but kind of slink around corners and snarl their way down the street, smashing things along the way, exhibiting a kind of flamboyant masculinity as they pulverize an innocent couple, literally beating them to death just for the Hell of it, apparently, only to look up and see a dumbfounded Suze and Arthur staring at them, mouths agape, terrified at what they see, happening right in front of their apartment building.  Unable to sleep at night, paralyzed by the fear the Gents will be breaking through their door at any moment, this is a transformative moment, unleashing unexamined desires lurking beneath the surface of their relatively asexual relationship, refusing to accept established gender roles, as Arthur becomes transfixed with Teddy (Karl Glusman), the Brandoesque leader of the pack, while Suze, abrasive and rough around the edges, refuses to be the doting housewife, exploring her own sense of machismo, suddenly infused with a newly discovered sense of empowerment and wanting to run with it, exacerbated by a visit to a strange neighbor upstairs, Maureen (Demi Moore), a kept woman of expensive tastes who utters the phrase, “I ought to be famous, but I’m married,” reflecting a Norma Desmond birdcage mindset of being stuck in old Hollywood melodramas.  This, of course, takes place during the 50’s Eisenhower era of McCarthyism and moral conformism, when no one wanted to stand out and the American Dream was reflected by that perfect life in suburbia, typically viewed as an idyllic period, yet it led to rebellious Hollywood depictions like Marlon Brando as a motorcycle gang leader in THE WILD ONE (1953) and the underground biker subculture of Kenneth Anger’s SCORPIO RISING (1963), a groundbreaking cult classic embracing camp and the diabolical, deemed too obscene by authorities.  Yet for all its risqué allure, scripted by Kramer and Noel David Taylor, this is a relatively tame and sexless testament to youth in flux, with a steamy jazz score by Giulio Carmassi and Bryan Scary running through the background, as Arthur has his own issues with masculinity, alienated by cultural expectations and the relentless “comparison and measurement” between men, with references to the brute physicality of Brando’s Stanley Kowalski, expressing his own unique individualism, “I won’t be terrorized into acting like a savage because I was born male, and I don’t want to be rewarded for it either.”

But the real star of the show is Billy (Cole Escola), one of the few to bring humor to the party, initially introduced in drag during a phone booth sequence, apparently undergoing a tearful, emotionally traumatic moment before screaming out for help, “I need a fucking dime for love!,” where tragedy suddenly turns transcendent when he sings a candy-coated, rose-infused fantasia of that classic 50’s anthem, The Skyliners - Since I Don't Have You YouTube (2:42), paraphrasing Greta Garbo afterwards, “I never told him I wanted to be alone, I only told him I wanted to be left alone,” which is not the same, yet all is somehow right with the world, at least for that wonderfully realized moment.  In perhaps the scene of the film, Suze and Arthur are at a deserted blue-infused subterranean Blue Angel nightclub with slow jazz setting the mood, as Billy casually introduces himself as a man on the make on a night when nothing is happening, getting Arthur to sputter something about his masculinity, Please Baby Please – Clip – SFF 22 - YouTube  (34 seconds), with cheeky back and forth volleys between screwball banter and gay double entendre, getting into a Hamlet-tinged philosophical discussion about “What is a man, anyway?”  Billy cuts right to the heart of the matter, while the stylishly bohemian couple continue to delude themselves, not really confronting their own sexuality, still playfully avoiding what remains an enigma to them.  While all signs point to identifying as queer, they somehow remain oblivious in a surrounding universe that reads like a gay fever dream.  Arthur and Teddy have their moment alone in the men’s bathroom, a stylishly overwrought pièce de résistance that plays out like a slow dance, allowing feelings to smolder, only postponing the inevitable, as Arthur increasingly gets involved with the Young Gents.  Along the way there are musical numbers, vivid fantasies, and darkly violent clashes, with Riseborough’s Suze growing more hilariously dynamic and expressive, as her unhinged sexual awakenings are depicted in a series of musical fantasies, including one S&M depiction of the Young Gents taking turns ironing her ass, another performing a dance in a neon room filled with bubbles, while the more introspective Helling always brings a thoughtful honesty to Arthur, who always seems to be drowning in his own sorrows.  As they begin to embrace their inner selves, the surrounding cast adds both texture and weight, including Mary Lynn Rajskub playing a dyke with slicked back hair wearing a men’s suit while smoking a cigarette in the darkened confines of a squalid movie theater, or Alisa Torres as Suze’s acerbic friend Ida, but most importantly, Suze and Arthur's walk on the wild side doesn’t change them, only opens up what was always there.  Straining against the constrictions of society, Suze and Arthur question why they have to live arbitrary lives that have nothing to do with who they are, and while they fight against society’s conventions, a stirring final dance sequence is rapturously poetic and startlingly evocative, brilliantly fusing a split screen into a single final shot, suggesting more than ever that there’s no turning back.  Somehow, you expect the sounds of Roy Orbison in Club Silencio to bring down the curtain.     

Punch-Drunk Love

PUNCH-DRUNK LOVE                  C+                  

USA  (95 mi)  2002  ‘Scope  d:  Paul Thomas Anderson       Punch-Drunk Love 

This is an uninvolving film that goes haywire from start to finish, perhaps exploring some obsessive, passive-aggressive medical condition that doesn’t exist, more likely treading on thin ice, psychologically, as what this really is is another Adam Sandler movie, filled with little idiosyncrasies that come from his weird comedic persona, though the film was written and directed by Anderson, the shortest film in his repertoire, perhaps resembling the sprawling chaotic mess that emanates from Jerry Lewis movies, but this is on a completely other level altogether, and not in a funny way, or one that ultimately succeeds.  What’s missing here is an ounce of credibility or believability, lost in some kind of imaginary fantasia on urban alienation, yet somehow there are some that think Adam Sandler has somehow transformed himself into a serious actor, including Roger Ebert, Punch-Drunk Love Movie Review (2002) | Roger Ebert, who claims he “reveals unexpected depths as an actor.  Watching this film, you can imagine him in Dennis Hopper roles.”  Incredulously, one couldn’t disagree more, as it seems like the same old guy that first took the nation by storm as a weird character on Saturday Night Live TV (1975 to present).  While there are amusing moments, to be sure, the question is do they make up for all the other uncomfortable moments of wreaking havoc with reality, making this little more than a fairy tale.  Arguably the weakest film by this director, as whatever love may be found at the end does not in any way make up for the inexcusable behavior, violent outbursts, and lame attempt to express depressive behavior, actually making fun of it, where one consequence is that those with serious medical issues may be taken less seriously, as Sandler normalizes his reprehensible outbursts, after all, finding love and happiness in the end.  The same can’t be said for those actually suffering from depression, where baby steps are a barometer of improvement.  This outlandish concept is part of a breezy and whimsical romantic escapade that indulges in senseless violence as part of the repercussions for being human, and then excuses it because the lead character means well, or so it seems, so let’s cut him a break.  At least he’s trying.  If only we were that forgiving for the criminal acts of those suffering from medical issues, but our jails are filled with people who have done far less offensive behavior.  The latest trend is for police officers to actually shoot and kill the mentally ill, representing a quarter of police shootings in 2017 (Police shootings 2017 database - Washington Post) because they don’t follow commands, mistaking them for normal, when they’re not.  This film desensitizes viewers to that reality, instead wrapping up borderline psychotic episodes with musical songs and pretty colored balloons, making it all seem so harmless.         

Adam Sandler is Barry Egan, a goofy guy who is not just a loner, but a loser, emotionally infantile and remote, a guy that dwells on hating himself, frustrated and overwhelmed by his own insecurities, pushed around by his seven bullying sisters who gnaw away at his self-esteem, treating him like a pathetic basket case who just doesn’t fit into the family, always questioning his intent, so he leads a boring, non-descript life, spending a lot of time by himself, though prone to uncontrollable crying episodes, resorting to violent uncontrollable outbursts that erupt when things go wrong, apologizing for the damage afterwards, but his aggression issues are alarming, making him an unsympathetic figure, where viewers may wonder what the hell is wrong with this guy.  Leading a solitary life, wearing the same blue suit throughout the entire movie, never changing his clothes (who metaphorically may as well be called Mr. Blue), he works out of an empty warehouse in the Los Angeles suburbs selling supposedly indestructible plungers, though the one we see him display smashes to smithereens.  He thinks he’s onto something with his latest brainstorm, however, when he discovers coupons for airline mileage have a coding error, allowing him to collect hundreds of thousands of miles for just a few hundred bucks, upping the ante, thinking for a few thousand he could attain over a million miles, seemingly unlimited mileage, though he’s never flown on a plane, stocking up on pudding cups (the cheapest item with the greatest reward) that pile up in a corner of the warehouse, causing attention.  But before we learn anything about him, a mysterious occurrence takes place before his observing eyes, as a car comes careening down the street in front of his warehouse before crashing, turning over several times, where a cab screeches to a halt right in front of him, depositing a harmonium on the street, as if that was the object of the chase, and then accelerates out of sight.  Not that any of that makes any sense, Barry simply returns to his job as if nothing happened, but an attractive English lady (Emily Watson) leaves her car for repairs in the outside alley, leaving him the keys as the neighboring company doesn’t open for another hour and she has to get to work.  Again he thinks nothing of it, like this kind of stuff happens all the time.  What sets this film apart from others is the Gary Rydstrom audio design, mixed with the percussive musical score by Jon Brion, and repeating abstract color designs by Jeremy Blake, as a neverending series of distractions pile up at work, taking on a life of their own, as we hear incessant phone calls interrupting his sales pitch, also the accusatory tone of his sister (Mary Lynn Rajskub) visiting him at work, reduced to snippets of dialogue on repeat, sounding overly condescending, introducing him to the English lady with the car, Lena (presumably the Lady in Red), her coworker who turns out to be some kind of blind date set-up, asking questions, making him feel like he’d like to just disappear altogether, as the warehouse sounds grow into a crescendo of noise drowning out his own life, given a kind of symphonic expression that intensifies until the bubble bursts when a forklift accident occurs just outside his office, and we’re back to reality.  In this way it’s easy to see how Barry’s mind wanders or gets distracted, collecting too much information, losing focus altogether, overcome by unseeable and unknowable forces that leave him emotionally paralyzed, confused and disoriented, evoking the titular mood of being punch-drunk.

What seemingly gets the ball rolling is an odd parallel of two forces, first a telephone sex chat line that Barry, in a moment of loneliness, succumbs to that turns out to be an extortionist scam that feeds on his credit card information, continually asking for more money, eventually sending thugs out to collect their fee if the customer hesitates to pay, which only adds to the already victimized relationship Barry has with a seemingly hostile world.  The other is the boldness of Lena’s continual interest in Barry, making all the first moves, calling him, asking him out, where it takes a while before Barry even realizes what she’s offering, as he’s so used to people having little to no interest in him.  When someone finally takes an interest, he literally goes bonkers, destroying the bathroom fixtures in the restaurant in a cringeworthy moment where he’s apparently punishing himself for not being honest or withholding the truth, rationalizing his behavior before being escorted off the premises by the manager.  Lena, however, is not dissuaded by this seeming embarrassment, but remains attracted to him for whatever reason, choreographing one of the more awkward good night kisses imaginable.  However, she’s leaving for Hawaii the next day on a business trip, with Barry running out buying thousands of dollars worth of pudding in hopes of attaining free airline mileage to join her, only to learn it takes six to eight weeks to redeem the coupons, dazed by the obstacles impeding his path, so in a frantic rush he decides to just head for the airport, arriving in Hawaii, where he has to play the detective and learn where she’s staying, all accentuated by a Shelly Duvall as Olive Oyl song out of Robert Altman’s almost universally unseen POPEYE (1980), Punch-Drunk Love - He needs me - YouTube (3:15), surprising her with a call, and the unimaginable happens, becoming an impressionistic, candy-colored, kaleidoscope journey to paradise.  In typical Barry fashion, staring out at the ocean as they’re having a cocktail, he utters the infamous words, “It really looks like Hawaii here.”  Apparently that was the aphrodisiac she was looking for, retreating to their room, where Barry is finally rewarded for all his efforts, as somehow, someway (despite zero onscreen chemistry between them), things are finally looking up, echoed by their love chatter, where dirty talk has exceedingly violent overtones, but it’s right for them, which is all that matters.  However there’s lingering unfinished business back home with the telephone goon squad, sending attackers out to rough up Barry, led by the boss behind the scenes, no less than Philip Seymour Hoffman as the mastermind, a creepy guy with a mouth as foul as Barry, getting into a phone call that’s nothing but a series of F-bombs from both of them, as if they deserve each other, another kind of distraction that represents a senseless, jumbled up mess, turning into a Western stand-off that literally goes nowhere, becoming an unfunny satiric skit on male pride.  But Barry has to clean up the unfinished business in his life before he can start anew with a clean slate, supposedly happy and in love with an adoring woman who inexplicably has no problems whatsoever with this guy, making this a dream come true, just like in the Hollywood musicals. 

Note

The intrinsic story is modelled after David Phillips, David Phillips (entrepreneur) - Wikipedia, aka the Pudding Guy, the University of California at Davis engineer who discovered a loophole in a Healthy Choice/American Airlines promotion, bought $3,000 worth of pudding and actually exchanged it for 1,253,000 frequent-flier miles.