Only now does it occur to me... MOTHER'S BOYS (1993)

Only now does it occur to me... that MOTHER'S BOYS (1993) deserves its place in the pantheon of scary-campy "diva gone mad" thrillers, a proud tradition stretching at least from 1964's STRAIT-JACKET to 2019's MA.

Picture it: KRAMER VS. KRAMER, THE STEPFATHER, and SLEEPING WITH THE ENEMY, mashed together and directed in the fashion of "a John Waters Hitchcock thriller"... and starring Jamie Lee Curtis!

It must be noted that Jamie Lee, in a rare villainous turn, is decked out as if her style icons are Angelica Huston and Annette Bening in THE GRIFTERS: cool sunglasses, dyed blonde hair in a "sea anemone" cut, and the most wicked blazers this side of a Joan Crawford movie. I mean, look at how Queen JLC elevates the pedestrian act of grocery shopping:

JLC plays "Jude," a mother of three who abruptly left her husband (Peter Gallagher) and kids for reasons the screenplay judges as "um, I dunno... unknowable crazy-woman motivations maybe involving a traumatic childhood?" She didn't leave a note, at any rate.

In the three years since, Gallagher's "Robert"––a primo soap opera archetype, the stiff-upper-lip architect dad who's trying to repair his broken heart––has moved on and is dating Joanne Whalley (WILLOW, NAVY SEALS). She is styled like Jeanne Tripplehorn in the thrillers of this era and in no way deserves the inspired madness which is deposited on her doorstep.

You see, Jamie Lee Curtis shows up out of nowhere––and she wants her family back, her Gallagher back, and Joanne Whalley... dead!

She is willing to use raw sexual/elaborately violent schemes to get what she wants, and I must say that this movie truly has a Joe Eszterhas-ian (BASIC INSTINCT, SHOWGIRLS) understanding of human sensuality. 

There are so many ludicrous happenings in this movie that Dame Vanessa Redgrave (!)

is pushed down a flight of stairs by a her grandson

 ––we're talkin' two, full-body flips––

and it's only, like, the fifth most insane thing to happen in this movie.

What are some others, you might ask? I couldn't dream of giving them all away, but I will say that Jamie Lee gets a bathtub masturbation scene as campy as anything in THE PAPERBOY or the Angela Lansbury workout video.

A personal favorite is when she buys a bunch of sugary cereals for her estranged family (on that grocery trip where she looked so fabulous) and, before she can gift them to her children, she sees them out enjoying a nice dinner with Joanne Whalley (the horror!). She does what any sensible hag-horror-heroine would do and drives into the sunset, sob-steering while she flings entire bags of groceries onto the highway.

To me, this is as iconic as the bunny boiling in FATAL ATTRACTION, Bette Davis' outbursts in WHATEVER HAPPENED TO BABY JANE, and the car burning in WAITING TO EXHALE.

There's melodrama for days, and Jamie Lee does a tremendous job, really giving it 110%––

"I'M STILL THEIR FUCKING MOMMA!"

––even when the three screenwriters let it be known that they have the combined psychological maturity of an adolescent boy who caught a double feature of THE CRUSH and POISON IVY on late nite TV after his parents went to sleep. This all works in the movie's favor, I believe.

Oh man, there's a scene where Jamie Lee tries to show her son her c-section scar in a (seductive?) attempt to manipulate him into becoming THE BAD SEED/THE GOOD SON, so... MOTHER'S BOYS is not without its groaners, I suppose.

Ooh, and there's a very proto-FIGHT CLUB bit where Jamie Lee gets into a fight with herself in Joanne Whalley's office

to make it look like Joanne is the crazy one who attacked her. Nice!

The grand finale involves a beautifully absurd scenario wherein Joanne is tied up and put on trial by "Mother's Boys"

and Jamie Lee orchestrates a murder plot which involves cutting the brakes on someone's car and sending out the family dog to make them swerve to their doom

and it's all camp, beyond camp, and it brought many a smile to my lips.

There's a glossy "taking this seriously" workmanship to the direction by Yves Simoneau (BLIND TRUST, BURY MY HEART AT WOUNDED KNEE) and a solid supporting cast which includes the aforementioned Vanessa Redgrave as Jamie Lee's mom, John C. McGinley (THE ROCK, SCRUBS, SURVIVING THE GAME, OFFICE SPACE) as a hapless biology teacher

and Joss Ackland (THE APPLE, LETHAL WEAPON 2) as a slimy divorce lawyer.

But, as you would assume, the entire project rides on the commitment and charisma of one Jamie Lee Curtis

Check out those fish earrings, a WANDA reference?

who I've now decided is the hero of this picture and will be awarded full custody. MOTHER'S BOYS, ladies and gentlemen.

Film Review: THE DEVILS (1971, Ken Russell)

Stars: 5 of 5.
Running Time: 111 minutes.
Notable Cast or Crew: Oliver Reed (REVOLVER, THE BIG SLEEP '78, GLADIATOR, TOMMY, WOMEN IN LOVE, THE THREE MUSKETEERS), Vanessa Redgrave (BLOWUP, HOWARD'S END), Dudley Sutton (BIG SLEEP '78, Fellini's CASANOVA), Graham Armitage (KICKBOXER 5, THE SPY WHO CAME IN FROM THE COLD), Murray Melvin (BARRY LYNDON, ALFIE), Michael Gothard (LIFEFORCE, FOR YOUR EYES ONLY), Christopher Logue (JABBERWOCKY). Production design by Derek Jarman (director of JUBILEE, EDWARD II, BLUE, the "It's a Sin" music video for the Pet Shop Boys, which has surprising connections to THE DEVILS).
Tag-line: "Hell holds no surprises for them."
Best one-liner: "What fresh lunacy is this? A crocodile?"

THE DEVILS, holy shit, THE DEVILS! I have been rendered nearly speechless. It's two hours of nonstop brilliance- melodrama, spectacle, terror, history, religion, self-destruction, despair. I'm unsure if I've ever seen a more convincing, compelling portrait of the human condition for what it is– a puppet theater of the absurd; the strings pulled by repression, indoctrination, and the gluttonous, diabolical powers that be; the propmasters wield the accoutrements and ornamentation of faith; the actors are the the overzealous, the overeager, those who thirst not for righteousness, but rather the delusion of righteousness. Those who do not recite the lines expected of them had better pay heed- knowledge and rationality will not save us! [To quote IN THE MOUTH OF MADNESS (a personal favorite which I've just re-watched), "A reality is just what we tell each other it is. Sane and insane could easily switch places...if the insane were to become the majority."] A whispered truth is meaningless beside a screamed deception– he who shrieks loudest possesses the most credibility! And these are harsh truths spelled out here (with visual splendor, I might add) by Mr. Ken Russell. Apparently, I've made the mistake of watching Russell's films in the wrong order: TOMMY, ALTERED STATES, even THE LAIR OF THE WHITE WORM (which I adore!) are mere crumbs in comparison to the provocative, grotesque feast served up by THE DEVILS- a tale of politics, witchcraft, and corruption which makes THE CRUCIBLE look like THE WORST WITCH.

Based on Aldous Huxley's THE DEVILS OF LOUDUN (a work of non-fiction), which in turn is based on the historical event of the 1634 Loudun possessions, THE DEVILS takes certain liberties with its storytelling (well, of course it does, it's Ken Russell), but the end result is the same: calculating, powerhungry fucknuts (a hypocritical, pseudo-religious establishment) take advantage of human nature (low self-esteem can be raised by believing that you're 'right,' which means that someone else is 'wrong,' which means they must be punished, and ohhh, doesn't it feel so good to punish 'evildoers?' Oh, it feels so good!) in order to defeat their enemies (rationality, tolerance, enlightenment), and said enemies can't properly fight back because they're not calculating, powerhungry fucknuts, and I don't need to tell you that this happened over and over before 1634, and happened over and over again since, and keeps happening and there's nothing we can do about it unless we become calculating, powerhungry fucknuts, in which case we'd be happy to see it keep happening, and this may officially be the longest sentence I've ever written.

The performances are astounding. The legendary Oliver Reed (unfortunately now is not the proper time or place to delve into his ridiculous off-screen exploits) delivers perhaps the grandest performance of his career as the stoic Urbain Grandier. He later said of the film:

"You would think from the critics’ hostility that Ken Russell had tried to pull off some obscene hoax. On the contrary, the film is, I think, an utterly serious attempt to understand the nature of religious and political persecution. It is not in any way exaggerated. If anything, the horrors perpetrated in Loudun in the 17th century were worse than Russell has chosen to show...the character of the priest was a marvelous one to act. Ken Russell’s brother-in-law is an historian and he helped me research Grandier’s life, with particular reference to his thesis in celibacy. The people of Loudun loved him. He walked among the plague victims and comforted them. I started to play him as a priest and realized that he was a politician."

At once a weak philanderer, an eloquent defender of freedom, and a steadfast champion of his city, Reed glides through the film like a sort of elegant bulldog- unafraid to admit his own shortcomings, but ever-prepared to take on the master manipulators with a throaty bellow and mustache-twirling élan.

As the hunchback'd, repressed accuser, Vanessa Redgrave is absolutely electrifying from the instant her off-kilter presence penetrates the frame– her canted head and giggly demeanor seem at first humorous, then chilling, and ultimately pitiable.

Her pain, her despair, and her desire to be wanted fuse together to form an unholy runaway train whose ultimate destination is self-obliteration. Redgrave takes that journey from point A to B to C and beyond, into the void, and the ever-curdling weight it all effortlessly plays upon her gasping, tortured countenance and twisted form.

Ken Russell tackles the material with the fervor one would expect from his mad genius, and this film's influence can be felt from Peter Greenaway to Julie Taymor. In the first five minutes, we have glitter-daubed queens prancing about onstage in a vivid reimagining of Botticelli's Birth of Venus and maggots wriggling and slithering forth from a Protestant's corpse (lashed to a rickety wagon wheel stake). Derek Jarman's jaw-dropping, elaborate sets recall an earlier, more opulent studio era- that of Griffith and Lang and DeMille. Oliver Reed fights a man, using a crocodile's corpse as a fencing sword. Father Barre (Michael Gothard) plays a notorious witch-hunter who seems, at times, more like a modern-day rock star:

Graham Armitage plays a Louis XIII who's so flamboyant that he makes "Amen" ("Aaay-mennnn.") sound like a pick-up line (the historical Louis XIII was supposedly bi).

Later, he shoots peasants dressed as birds ("Bye-bye, blackbird!") as a conniving Richelieu endeavors to catch his ear. Nuns cavort nude in the midst of sacreligious shenanigans that would make even Caligula blush. This movie is all about over-the-top utter fucking mayhem, but that's precisely why it has the ring of truth to it. The quality of frothing-mouthed, fevered, shrieking performance is quite compelling... have you turned on FOX news lately? The performance becomes a mask of sorts, and there is a delicious, faux-righteous anonymity in the wearing of that mask. At Father Grandier's eventual trial, the entire crowd- the very citizens who he has continually sought to protect- wear actual masks as they join the fray (as willing participants), reciting the very lines which Grandier refuses. This is a powerful, powerful film, and one whose criminal unavailability (censored or uncensored) in this country speaks volumes about the feathers it might ruffle. See it censored, see it uncensored, but, by God, see it.

-Sean Gill