As a tie-in to one of the themes of Exploitive Black Rock History Month as well as an excuse to make public, once more, my feelings on the film Almost Famous, I thought I’d re-run the following thoughts on films that don’t rock. Our initial discussion was fun, but I was surprised more failed rock movies weren’t brought up and hashed over. What’s that one about the fictional Carole King figure (Illyana Douglas) – Grace of My Heart! I liked it, but I’ve gotten into some long discussions with a couple of friends who KILLED the movie for having, like, a 1967 mixing board in the background during a scene that was set in 1965! Many other rock films do not rock – or cause split reactions among us rock nerds. I’m thinking of The Doors, Andyr. I can’t get by the glued-on sideburns; my man Andy is all-forgiving thanks to the mystical Indian/peyote scenes.
This post initially appeared 5/21/07.
I’ve probably said my piece just fine on my main beef with Almost Famous. Long story short, it’s a cheap, self-help, feel-good story for people who won’t help themselves to feel good. That, and Kate Hudson is among the most annoying screen presences of this era. The kid’s defense of Hudson’s groupie with a heart of gold, Penny Lane (Kid: “You guys are always talking about ‘the fans, the fans, the fans’ – She was your biggest fan!”), during the “truth-telling” flight scare, is especially embarrassing. Knowing glances follow as this 15-year-old dork tells it straight up. How phony! How conceited of semi-autobiographical writer/director Cameron Crowe to cast himself in this role. For whom does Crowe speak? What about that imaginary band’s imaginary fans, who wanted to believe the myth of the cocksmen and their groupies? What about the sex, drugs, and rock ‘n roll? What about these imaginary fans having to see their imaginary heroes bond over “Tiny Dancer”? Surely there are more realistic, more noble ways to allow for a feel-good, coming-of-age tale in the middle of the world of rock ‘n roll!*
Let’s move onto the exquisitely conceived Black Snake Moan, or what I’ll refer to as Da Blooz Exorcist. Surely you were intrigued by the trailers a few months back of a barely clad Christina Ricci playing a white trash nymphomaniac who’s left by the side of the road, taken in, and nursed – in a sense – back to health and salvation by a blues-playing, Bible-totin’ Samuel L. Jackson, looking a bit like Pops Staples. I know I was intrigued! This had all the markings of a world-class, what-were-you-thinking turd of hilarious proportions. Last night I watched the film in my hotel room, and it nearly delivered the goods.
What they don’t tell you in the trailers is that Jackson’s Lazarus character has his own set of troubles, specifically woman troubles. What else? His woman done left him, and he’s been hittin’ the bottle pretty hard. Turns out he hasn’t been playin’ da blooz in public fo’ some time. The trailer makes you think he shows up on screen a fully formed blooz-slingin’, Bible totin’ healer from the git-go, doesn’t it?
Spoiler Alert! Beware before reading on.
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