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BIG SCREEN BOY TOY

DESPERATELY SEEKING SUSAN (Orion Pictures)

by Mitchell Cohen

In its own sketchy, asymmetrical way, Desperately Seeking Susan is an engaging variation on the classic screwball comedy-of-liberation. A restless New Jersey housewife, Roberta Glass (played by Rosanna Arquette), gives up her microwave and her hot-tub peddling yuppie husband, and ends up in the arms of a distracted projectionist at the Bleeker Street Cinema. The catalyst for this journey is the eponymous Susan, a lady who lives by her wits and whims, casually lifting valuable remembrances (such as “Nefertiti earrings from the Cairo collection”) from her temporary amours. Susan is incarnated by Madonna, looking such as comfortable in her underthings on the big screen as she does on the tube.

This is one of those movies that chooses sides between the spontaneous (lower Manhattan) and the stuffy (Fort Lee), and this advocacy for a style of life is very much in keeping with the screwball spirit. In a famous essay on Howard Hawks, critic Robin Wood coined the phrase ‘‘the lure of irresponsibility,” and that’s what so many memorable comedies have dealt with. The trend in recent years, however, is to fudge the issue. Movies such as Arthur, Trading Places, and Risky Business perpetrate that infuriating attitude summed up in those Michelob Light commercials: “Who says you can’t have pin-stripes and rock ’n’ roll...Who says you can’t get ahead without losing your soul?”

You don’t have to make ethical choices: you can have it all.

A few contemporary movies, (Bill Forsythe’s Local Hero, Albert Brooks’s Lost In America) actually throw their characters into situations that test their assumptions about success and ask them to give something up. Roberta, in Susan, doesn’t leave her husband for another man, not really; she leaves him for another life, for an idea that other lives are lived with more passion (“Desperate,” she says at the beginning. “I love that word. It’s so romantic”). Dez, the projectionist (Aidan. Quinn) isn’t the force that turns Roberta’s head, the way Cary Grant operates in His Girl Friday. He’s a befuddled nice guy, stunned by a recent romantic debacle, who somehow finds himself as Roberta’s guardian, thinking she’s Susan, the girlfriend of a friend of his (this is an intricately wired plot). Quinn’s deadpan ambivalence (especially when he sees Roberta half-naked) redeems his deadbeat performance in Reckless, where he could barely murmur words of endearment to Daryl Hannah.

Director Susan Seidelman keeps the mechanics whirring, and creaky mechanics they are, too: amnesia, mistaken identity, a misplaced locker key, those stolen earrings. The pacing could be brisker, but there’s a comic logic at work that was only partially discernable in Seidelman’s Smithereens. This is a sweeter movie, and a more conventional one. It’s also funnier, with most of the jokes at the expense of the Jerseyites. Like the films of the ’30s and ’40s (and Alan Rudolph’s wonderful ’84 comedy Choose Me, and any Bill Forsythe film), Desperately Seeking Susan is populated with daffy subsidiary characters: comic Steven Wright and the fine stage actress Laurie Metcalf make a particularly intriguing couple.

Madonna seems, as always, unfazed and unintimidatable. This wasn’t meant to be a thoroughly modern Madonna movie—she was cast before her navel became the centerpiece of a zillion adolescent erotic scenarios—and that’s why she’s so easy to take. This is a perfect vehicle for her and her wardrobe, such as it is. Her best moments come when, through circumstances too contrived to go into, she ends up with Roberta’s husband Gary in the Glass’s Fort Lee digs (“Nice wallpaper,” Susan says). She fits right in, lounging by the pool, eating Cheez Doodles, admiring his bathtub. Susan is such an adaptable creature that, of course, she’s better for Gary than Roberta is (the movie seems to sense this, but lets the possibilities slide by). They’re the materialists; Roberta and Dez are the romantics.

The movie is part farce, part feminist fable, which puts Rosanna Arquette at a disadvantage. Physical comedy isn’t her long suit (she has to do a lot of running, falling, and being conked-out), and we’ve seen the “repressed wife breaking away” routine before. In her scenes with Quinn, however, Arquette’s in a spin: Roberta may have been lured into this wonderland by pursuing the adventures of Susan through the “Personals” column, but even through her memory-lapsed fog, she realizes that she wanted to tumble into Dez’s kind of rabbithole. Arquette is a vivid presence, with a perky face topping a curvy body that seems to be a delightful surprise even to herself, and by the film’s climatic chaos at the Magic Club, she’s shaken off her early tentativeness and plunges into the proceedings with dizzy abandon.

Gary, in the television commercials for his “Oasis” (one, is placed, strategically and hilariously, between an Iris Chacon number and a Coco Goya spot), promises that “all your fantasies can come true.” That’s the typical ’80s message: anything can be acquired. Roberta, bless her, just isn’t your typical girl of the ’80s, even if she does have her legs waxed. Desperately Seeking Susan is hip, but it isn’t yup.

STEPHEN KING EATS TENDER

VITTLES, LIVES, ROCKS, ETC.

by Edouard Dauphin

Cat horror movies—now there’s a genre you don’t see much of these days. In the past, of course, we’ve had several versions of Cat People, including one with the ad line: “Kiss me and I’ll claw you to death,” which sounds like it could be the new Madonna single. There was 1967’s The Torture Garden, in which a devilish feline compelled its owner to murder people so it could eat their heads. And let us not forget the 1977 classic The Uncanny, which depicted a houseful of vengeful kitties bent on a meal of Tender Human Vittles. The very thought of that flick makes The Dauph’s cat, Harry, sit up and grin wickedly.

Now you may add to that list Cat’s Eye or, as it is being billed in some circles, Stephen King’s Cat’s Eye. Not a bad credit for a screenwriter, huh? Guess those Hollywood marketing moguls must think ole Steve’s name above the title will sell a picture, which is what can happen when you come up with best sellers the way Blackie Lawless gives blood.

In interviews, Stephen King has confessed—one might even say boasted— that he cranks out his prose somewhere in the backwoods of Maine while listening to rock ’n’ roll blasting at high decibel level. That conjurs up an interesting image: ole Steve at his word processor writing about diabolical telekinesis, while Lemmy warbles “Killed By Death.” Or ole Steve spinning the tale of a murderous car named Christine as Sammy Hagar screeched “I Can’t Drive 55.” Wonder what the neighbors think.

Maybe they just shake their heads and say: “Good rockin’ tonight down at the King cabin!”

Sitting in the Embassy Theater on Broadway the other day for an afternoon showing of Cat’s Eye, with a grand total of two—count ’em, two—other patrons, The Dauph couldn’t be blamed for wondering if perhaps while composing the screenplay for this dog of a movie, ole Steve’s radio went on the blink and he lost the signal for some rockin’ FM station and had to switch over to something a bit more in the Easy Listening format. Yep, Cat’s Eye could have been written while the author was listening to high volume dosages of Wham! or—dare we say it—Cat Stevens.

Right about now I know what you’re probably thinking: “Enough of speculation, Dauph, what’s the damn picture about anyway?” Well, it’s really three episodes strung together clumsily through the device of being seen through an alley cat’s point-of-view. It’s a potentially clever idea and the cat, a sleek, agile street critter, gives it his all. In fact, though the cast is littered with names like James Woods, Drew Barrymore and Alan King, the puss walks away with acting honors, paws down.

“Who is this cat?” the three of us at the Embassy were asking but, disgraceful at it might seem, the feline went unbilled in the movie’s credits. Shame on you, MGM—you even have a lion in your logo!

Episode one has Woods, a chronic smoker, trying to give up the nasty habit by joining a vicious self-help clinic called Quitters, Inc. This outfit uses torture tactics to punish clients who go back on their promise to abstain. For the crime of sneaking a drag on a cigarette, Woods gets to watch his wife imprisoned in a glass cage and subjected to electric shocks, while Question Mark & The Mysterians sing “96 Tears.” Personally, I know several husbands who would smoke a whole pack of Gitanes for that kind of fun.

The second story has to do with a compulsive gambler in Atlantic City who bets his wife’s lover that he can’t walk around the narrow ledge of a tall building without falling off. The Dauph is a little vague on this one, since by that time, the Embassy trio had gotten up a little Canasta game with the popcorn girl from the lobby, making it a foursome. Episode three had the cat somehow getting to Wilmington, North Carolina, for a finale about stealing Drew Barrymore’s breath while she slept with a dagger-wielding Gremlin or Ghoulie (who can keep up with these midget special effects?) thrown in for good measure. At that point in the screenplay, ole Steve must’ve been tapping his feet to the Little River Band.

Skip Cat’s Eye. Except for the four-footed star, it’s strictly meat by-products, with a lot of filler.

(By the way, Steve, only kidding about your best-sellers. Loved The Shining and the first 51 pages of The Dead Zone.)

MASK

(Universal)

Sort of a teenage Elephant Man, this one’s a tearjerker without being a soap opera. Mask is the true story of Rocky Dennis, whose face was grotesquely deformed by a rare (eventually fatal) disease. The age-old cliche “beauty is only skin deep” is the message here, as well as attitude being everything. The film’s only flaw is that it treats its biker characters as angels with he’arts of gold (though I’m sure there are probably some nice bikers out there). Cher plays the kid’s doting mom, and she’s terrific. Should probably net her a second Oscar nomination, and who would’ve predicted that back in the days of “I Got You, Babe”? Gotta agree with director Peter Bogdanovich, though. The Springsteen tunes would have fit a lot better than the Seger replacements. After all, there’s a big difference between “Promised Land” and “Katmandu.” Nonetheless, Mask is still a real fine, uplifting (albeit often sad) movie experience. B.H.

VAN HALEN! by J.D. Considine (Quill Books)

A superior cut-and-paste author, Considine has told the Van Halen story in an amiable, plodding fashion, gathering quotes from the likes of Rolling Stone, Guitar and CREEM—thus eliminating the need for annoying research. Although the book manages to make Van Halen look like a bunch of bores, it is saved by Considine’s self-deprecating critical asides, e.g., “...to be honest, the guys in Van Halen aren’t visionaries in the way that Bob Dylan, Pete Townshend, Bob Marley or Bruce Springsteen have been.” Here is bluntness, indeed! Or how about this candid peek at the author’s private life: “Even my wife, the straight-A student, got a charge out of (“And The Cradle Will Rock”).” I think we can all agree we’d like to know this family better! Another favorite: “Comparisons were made to the Who (and ‘Jump’)... but the Who had never exhibited a pop sensibility as straightforward as this.” Here’s hopin’ that J.D.’s told that to Who biographer Dave Marsh, who’s credited as being “convinced [incorrectly, I need not add] I could do a book.” Nor can I overlook this man’s grasp of history: “ ‘When Wheels Of Fire came out,’ Edward said of the second Cream album...” Has Considine singlehandedly cut out Fresh Cream or Disraeli Gears? And, if so, why doesn’t he tell us which one never existed? It goes without saying that a far more detailed history of VH can be had from CREEM’s two specials on the band...plus you’ll be able to read many complete paragraphs J.D. was forced to delete in the interest of brevity, enjoy splendid color pictures of this popular band—and save money in the bargain! J.K.

This Month’s Media Cool was written by Richard Riegel, J. Kordosh, Jeffrey Morgan and Bill Holdship.

BOB MARLEY by Steven Davis (Doubleday/Dolphin)

Finally available in North America after a delay of several years, this still remains the definitive biography of the one man who, more than anyone else, helped make Mr. and Mrs. Middle America’s living room a Trenchtown Experience some 10 years ago. The photo section is informative without being exploitive, and the behind-the-scenes stories of struggle and triumph are far too detailed and numerous to reiterate here. Suffice to say that not only is it hard to imagine anyone improving on Davis’s book, it’s impossible to imagine any reggae devotee not wanting to read this stirring account of Bob’s “message to live.” J.M.

PUTTIN’ ON THE HITS (Syndicated TV)

Premise here is that the contestants do a complete mime performance—lip synch, moves, dress—to a current hit record, and then the celebrity judges rate ’em on their fidelity to every nuance of the original star’s act. This show may be early evidence that we’ve turned a corner in pop iconography, as apparently there are far more imitators of Michael Jackson than there are of Elvis Presley loose on our streets by now. Rating ersatz MJs back-to-back can be a real challenge, but fortunately P.O.T.H. has been able to dig up celeb judges the caliber of Gregg Allman (the William Shatner of rock) to split points on those one-gloved dervishes. R.R.