The Hours vs Showgirls

The Hours focuses on the stories of three separate women in three separate time periods. One, the writer Virginia Woolf, is linked to the other two, through her life and writing (whether, and how, the other two are linked to each other I’ll leave for you to find out).  Woolf is in somewhat of a remission from her usual depression/schizophrenia, and is focusing on her writing, rather than thoughts of doom and suicide. Those of you who know much about Woolf will already know that one thing she didn’t stay for long was non-suicidal. I guess it’s somewhat of a surprise that Nicole Kidman is playing Virginia Woolf.  Jodie Foster, Rachel Griffiths and Cate Blanchett are all talented actors who look like Virginia Woolf, why not just go with one of them?  Um…I dunno, but Kidman is fantastic.  Nicole Kidman always seems to be great in movies, and I’m always surprised. I guess I keep thinking the last good performance was a fluke, and that she’s bound to actually just be pretty and pale and dumb. But nope, here she is again, fantastic.  Guess she’s Australian after all. When Kidman’s Woolf sits to write, it’s as if she’s writing things that are actually in her head, not just moving the pen around cause the script said to.  When she fills her pockets with stones and wades into the river, it’s not one of those desperate, dramatic, beautiful Hollywood suicides. It’s the act of someone who wants to die, right now, and wants to feel it happen.

A lot has been made about Kidman wearing a prosthetic nose for the movie.  I figure since she’s basically the only actress of her generation to not appear in a movie in a fat suit, then a fake nose is no big deal.  If The Hours were more mainstream Hollywood—say, directed by Gary Marshal--then Virginia Woolf probably would have gotten a nose job and solved that whole schizophrenia problem by singing oldies into a hairbrush.

The Hours probably seems like one of those slow-paced, mannered dramas from Merchant Ivory or Hallmark Hall of Fame.  It’s probably testament to director Steven Daldry for keeping everything moving and focused.  There are supporting characters—John C. Reilly, really good as always, but apparently trying to break some sort of perfect attendance record or something--and various subplots, but the movie never veers away from the three main stories, and the thread that connects them.  The Hours is also one of the most expertly edited movies I’ve ever seen.

Woolf’s story is mirrored in two other tales, though the degree to which the characters want to feel what’s happening to them varies.  Julianne Moore plays a depressed housewife and mother in the 1950s who contemplates both suicide and abandoning her family.   Moore has probably the hardest role in the movie, hers being the least sympathetic.  She’s not a victim, per se, instead occupying that space where people found themselves before the phrase “find yourself” came into use. If only she had a couple self-help books to read or talk shows to watch, she might be able to carry on.  Or maybe she just needs to make out with the housewife next door.  Yeah, let’s give that a go, see what happens.  The neighbor in question is played by Toni Collette in what is being called a cameo, but is actually a supporting role.  She’s good, as usual, what with the whole Australian thing and all.

Meryl Streep plays a modern day version of Mrs. Dalloway.  I haven’t read Mrs. Dalloway, so any references to the book that aren’t otherwise pointed out in the movie were lost on me.  No matter though.  She plays a woman planning a party for her poet ex-boyfriend (Ed Harris), who’s being honored for his work and also happens to be dying, quite soon it seems, of AIDS.  She’s stressing out.  Besides the party, her daughter is home from college, her former lover’s former lover is in town, and her lover (Allison Janney in another not-a-cameo) has mysteriously came home just a tad late.  Her kitchen breakdown is hard to watch-- which I suppose a breakdown should be—and finds her on the floor freaking out, and embarrassed to be freaking out, and more embarrassed about being embarrassed, and well, there are eggs to break, so don’t go throwing yourself out a window or anything, okay?  By the way, I’ve never seen anyone separate eggs like Meryl Streep.  She doesn’t do that little “this shell, that shell, this shell, that shell” thing that everyone else does.  She just kinda whips those yolks outta there. Bet she can make a hell of an omelet.  And that, my friends, is probably the highest praise I can think of for Meryl Streep.  She’s so good, when she breaks an egg in a movie, you know it’s going to end up in something delicious. Frank’s Red Hot on mine, please.  Oh yeah, Claire Danes plays Meryl’s daughter, and after this and Igby Goes Down, I can’t believe how groovy she’s getting.  A message to young actresses: take a few years off and go to college.  Graduation from an Ivy League apparently makes you way groovy. I hope she doesn’t look stupid in T3.  I just want her smart-ass and laughing too loudly and being way groovy.  She’s in Shopgirl, apparently, so she’s hanging with Steve Martin; plus, Dave likes her, which is always a good sign.  This is what is known as getting off-topic.  Thanks for sticking with me.  I promise it’ll be worth it; I mention nipples in the next paragraph.

With all those lesbians and eggs and suicides, The Hours probably seems perfect, but there’s just something missing.  I think The Hours could have benefited immeasurably from a fourth storyline.  And that storyline, my friends, belongs to Nomi Malone.  A day in her life is pretty damned significant, to say the least.  She doesn’t bring home the flowers, but she does pick up potato chips, and while she’s not a poet, that I know of, she can lick her own nipples, one of the more overlooked skills.  Nomi Malone—and shame on you for not already knowing this—is the main character of Showgirls.  Nomi’s story takes her from the crack alley to the stripper pole to the stage of a big-budget Las Vegas naked dance show thing. Kids under 17 not admitted.

There are several myths about Showgirls, namely that it’s wall-to-wall nudity and dirty sex.  Another is that Elizabeth Berkley cannot act.  Listen, if it were possible to give skillful line readings of any of her dialogue (it’s mainly potato chips and fingernails and DANCING), then the casting process would have stopped a few pages of actresses before they got to Elizabeth Berkley.  Rent Rodger Dodger; she’s everything in that one that she’s not in Showgirls, and she has about a third as much screen time.  Oh, and by the way, Showgirls is wall-to-wall nudity and dirty sex.  I just said it wasn’t to sort of cushion the blow that I don’t think Elizabeth Berkley is a bad actress.

Okay, so if you’re going to watch Showgirls, I have some advice:

 a. Don’t watch Showgirls.  It’s terrible.  Terrible, terrible, terrible.  It’s fantastic. Watch it.  Never ever watch it. It’s the worst.  You’ll love it.  Watch it today.  Twice.  Seriously, don’t watch it.  We’re talking bad.  Color of Night bad.  Bread and butter pickles bad. The best movie ever made.

 b. Try to turn it into some sort of drinking game.  Here’s one I like:  get really stinking drunk before you watch Showgirls. Then, take subsequent drinks anytime a character speaks or does something with a nipple.

 c. VH1 shows it on the ironically titled Movies That Rock!. Since it’s basic cable, they can’t show all the bush, nipples, nipple-licking, lipstick on nipples, glitter on nipples, glitter on bush, etc that you can see on video.  It’s better though, because they have just some intern or whoever dubbing the dialogue, and she’s even worse than Elizabeth Berkley.  Shit, she’s worse than the girl who drops the marbles to make a rival dancer fall.  Also, they cover up all the nipples and lipstick on nipples and glitter on nipples with CGI bras and panties.  They get pretty creative. At one point there’s a floating leopard-print bra in front of Berkley’s torso. Plus, it’s free this way, and no one has to know you watched it. You can be all “What? Oh, I was scanning for the Osbournes. I would never watch this, although it seems pretty fucking awesome.”

Okay, so if I’m gonna make this much fun of Showgirls, then I should at least recap the plot a little, just so you can judge for yourself whether it’s worth a rental. (It is. Seriously, it rocks. Don’t. It sucks.)  Showgirls is all about Nomi Malone.  She wears really tight clothing and the most lipstick you’ve ever seen. It’s like her lipstick wears lipstick.  She wears it all around the outer edge of her mouth, and inside her lips almost to her teeth.  She’s hitchhiking to Vegas.  Wait, I think maybe she’s hitchhiking to L.A.  Anyway, this guy picks her up and tries to make a move, and—SWITCHBLADE!—she pulls a knife and sets him straight.  They stop in Vegas and while Nomi’s buying a burger (she eats like ten burgers in this movie and she wolfs them down like you wouldn’t believe.  Dancing makes Nomi hungry!), the guy drives away with her suitcase of All My Stuff Was In There.  She becomes so panicked and pissed that she pukes all over some girl in the parking lot. Inexplicably, or because we just don’t have time for Nomi to develop any actual human relationships, the girl, the puked on girl, asks Nomi to be her roommate.

Soon, Nomi is stripping in a club.  She does this pole-licking thing that looks cool, but isn’t going to do her any favors come cold and flu season.  She’s the single angriest stripper ever.  She’s not a stripper, you see, or a whore.  She’s a dancer!  Gina Gershon and Kyle McClachlan come in to scope out the stri—I mean whor—I mean dancers, and end up buying a lap dance from Nomi.  This is when she does the nipple lick thing (drink!).  Gershon plays Crystal, the hottest, most popular showgirl in Vegas.  She dances in this spectacular spectacular thing with dancing and fire and leather and stripping.  Basically, the only difference between her and Nomi, besides a ridiculous Southern accent, is that after Crystal’s show you can hit the buffet.  Nomi wants to be a Serious Dancer though, so soon she’s auditioning for Crystal’s show, with Crystal, McClachlan, and the red-haired guy from Ellen watching, while some sleazy producer type ices her nipples (drink!).  Nomi wins a role, starts dating McClachlan, eats a lot of chips, hates Crystal, kisses Crystal, glues sequins everywhere, gets all fucky in a swimming pool, pushes Crystal down some stairs, gets a show of her own, beats the crap out of a date-raping singer, eats a burger, DANCES, hitchhikes, switchblades and wins the audience over with her plucky drive and good heart.  The pole-lick doesn’t hurt either.

The Hours:  A
Showgirls:  D