Although I like to believe that the Northshire Bookstore is standing valiantly on the front line against the massive forces trying to dumb down America, I have to admit that, every once in a while, I defect to the enemy.
Living On Velvet: Whatever happened to Kay Francis?
The store can now offer our customers access (by special order) to hundreds of older movie titles that are not available in most retail outlets through a subsidiary of Warner Home Video. I take advantage of this as often as I can afford to do it. I recently bought a little-known 1935 domestic drama directed by Frank Borzage called Living On Velvet, Anthony Mann’s western, Devil’s Doorway, and George Cukor’s first excursion into expansive, open-air filmmaking, Bhowani Junction.
I’d gone over in my mind a dozen times which film I would watch first and sorely tested the patience of our receiving department by asking day after day if the shipment had arrived yet. So what movie did I watch on the first night I had all three of my little treasures in hand? I watched something called MacGruber. The movie might be regarded as the celluloid equivalent of a General Patton in the battle to dumb down America.
In my defense, there are some nights when I just don’t feel like tackling Last Year at Marienbad (alright, there are some decades when I don’t feel like Last Year at Marienbad). That well-worn excuse loses some of its steam in this instance when you consider that I had to simultaneously convince myself that the Mann film, that miscast Robert Taylor as an American Indian was going to overload my intellectual circuit board. No, I must have wanted to watch MacGruber.
The satire can be a rich source of screen comedy, but it is treacherous territory for neophytes and notoriously difficult
MacGruber: It might have looked funny on paper.
to sustain throughout the running time of a feature film. MacGruber boasted the participation of two cast members of Saturday Night Live, Will Forte (reprising his SNL character and as a co-writer) and Kristen Wiig. It occurred to me that Mr. Forte’s incarnation of an action hero might be stupidly funny in five-minute doses, but building an entire movie around it was like propping up the Parthenon with chopsticks. It didn’t work with a lot of characters who first saw the light of day on SNL skits (remember Pat?), but Hollywood has a very selective memory when the potential for big bucks hang in the balance.
I will give MacGruber this much, however. It managed to sustain the subterranean level of humor it established right off the bat. Without wishing to offend anyone, suffice it to say that the villain in the movie has a name that also is a particularly vulgar word for an intimate part of the female anatomy (with an “h” tacked on to the end). It allows Forte’s character to keep shouting that he is out to “pound some ______.” Again, without elaborating, you also might think twice before eating another stalk of celery. Pretty funny stuff, huh?
The only hopeful sign that this embarassingly inept comedy prompted was its lackluster performance at the box-office. I made a mental note to watch The English Patient again as penance. On a night when I was really, really tired. I suppose you would have to understand the depth of my dislike for Patient to understand the scope of my shame for having wasted an evening with MacGruber.
{ 1 comment }
