I hate this rule the lesbian community makes up, where if a film featuring lesbians is made and none of the aforementioned lesbians wind up killing themselves or going straight (as if that were possible) before the end credits roll, all of us are supposed to hail it as some masterpiece of filmmaking. Particularly in the case of this train wreck of a borefest, I refuse to join the crowd on this one.
The characters (particularly the woman who owned the lodge, the Southern-belle romance writer, and the nice-little-mom-of-two-in-her-jumper-outfits-writing-her-first-book) were offensive stereotypes, caricatures of what they could have been. It's possible for a straight woman to find the idea of lesbianism repellent without portraying her as some strange replica of Tammy Faye Bakker. And -- surprise! -- it's also possible to portray a lesbian lodge owner as something other than a hard-ridden, raspy-voiced, rough-n-ready bulldagger.
The plot dragged. AND dragged. AND dragged. If I learned a single thing from watching this movie, it's that I have an incredible reservoir of restraint -- I didn't stalk out of the theater in disgust. But then I'd paid $7 to get in, and that was in 1992 at an artsy-fartsy house. LOL
My take? Not a classic. Not even a contender.
