THEATER REVIEW: I LOVE BEING ME, DON'T YOU?

A scene from I Love Being Me, Don't You. Photo credit: Steven Gunther.

Unleashed downtown

By Ed Rampell

If you love your humor hurled like a drone missile and dripping with irony, then head on down to the REDCAT to achieve your sarcasm orgasm at Sandra Bernhard’s I Love Being Me, Don’t You? 

When I entered the sold-out theater, along with around 300 other intrepid souls, I was perplexed to see the otherwise bare stage setup for a concert, and didn’t know what to expect: A) A standup routine? B) A one woman show? Or: C) Was Madonna’s onetime gal pal (and lord knows what else) presenting a musical performance?

The answer is: D) All of the above – and then some. Yes, the now 50-something bad girl of comedy did open the evening with a song and went on to perform a variety of pop numbers, accompanied by a melodious backup band -- and an African-American crooner whom Bernhard quipped was her “black-up singer.” However about 60 percent of her act remained spoken comedy, served with Bernhard’s signature slice-and-dice-anything-but-nice brand of scathing humor.

Nothing escapes Bernhard’s scorching gaze and no vapidity, shibboleth, sacred cow (or bull) and social pretense is safe from her withering wit, which could curdle the milk of human not so kindness. Onstage she mockingly reads ads with gusto, reaming consumerism a new one. The wag lampoons The New York Times and harpoons celebrities, from Iman to Bristol Palin (don’t expect to see our gal Sandy Dancing With the Stars any time soon). To her audience’s delight, the openly lesbian Bernhard holds forth on the superiority of gays over straights, insisting that homosexuals have more disposable income, fashion sense and so on than their poor misbegotten, downtrodden hetero counterparts. A sort of latter day Oscar Wilde, Bernhard is proof positive that the love that once dared not speak its name can no longer be shut up.

Bernhard gets away with this because -- like those court jesters of yore who mocked the royals -- she’s high-lariously funny (even if many of the laughs may stick in your craw). Although she’s the sworn enemy of societal hypocrisy heaping scorn upon pretentiousness, pomposity and the like, Bernhard doesn’t spare her own self from her razor sharp, acid-dipped tongue. In fact, Bernhard is one of her favorite targets, and her hilariously bad singing not only deconstructs rock music but spoofs her own persona and pretention that she has anything remotely resembling musical ability. The only thing this lady has in common with Mick Jagger, for instance, are mile long pouting lips -- certainly not any singing talent. By poking fun at herself, Bernhard gets away with ridiculing those who are no longer high and mighty after they undergo the Bernhard treatment.

I Love Being Me, Don’t You? includes guest performers, and on opening night the diva of rock and droll was joined onstage by Leisha Hailey, who’d co-starred as the outspoken gay rights advocate Alice on Showtime’s The L Word (which Bernhard had a recurring role on) and sang a spirited duet with Bernhard. (Not coincidentally, Hailey is reminiscent of a younger Bernhard.) Other guest stars are expected to make special appearances during the run of the show.

Onstage Bernhard appeared rather tall in her heels and was looking good, although she cracked wise about surgical procedures she may (or may not have) undergone. At her debut show she wore a sexy dress with see-through slits that seemed to reveal that the only thing she was wearing beneath the glittery gown was a thong, which Bernhard joked at one point was responsible for her moodiness (use your own fertile imagination, dear reader). Her flesh seemed minus any body tone, although the thought of her working out at a fitness center conjures up visions of sheer hilarity. And of course, with those exaggerated elastic features, Sandra has a punim made for comedy.    

Bernhard and her unique brand of Don Rickles-on-steroids humor isn’t everybody’s cup of hemlock. But for those who enjoy the puncturing of balloons of bombast, self-importance and arrogance, and the treating of those suffering from delusions of grandeur with comical derision, get thee to the REDCAT for a yuk-a-minute laugh-a-thon. (Earplugs optional.)

Sandra Bernhard: I Love Being Me, Don’t You? runs through Aug. 21 at the REDCAT, 231 W. 2^nd St., L.A., CA 90012. For more info: (213)237-2800; www.redcat.org       

FILM REVIEW: AUTOEROTIC

A scene from Autoerotic.

Own is the loneliest number

By Don Simpson

Havelock Ellis, a British sexologist, defined autoeroticism as “the phenomena of spontaneous sexual emotion generated in the absence of an external stimulus proceeding, directly or indirectly, from another person.” Joe Swanberg and Adam Wingard’s film Autoerotic focuses on four heterosexual couples as they contend with relationship-crippling sexual arousal issues; however, Autoerotic is not always about self-arousal. Structured in four mostly autonomous vignettes (all with unnamed thespians): the first and fourth chapters reveal perverse men who are grasping at straws to achieve sexual satisfaction, whether it be the desire for a significantly larger penis or a penetrable mold of an ex-girlfriend’s vagina; the second and third chapters portray women whose sexual desires are insatiable, one cannot have enough orgasms while the other is unable to enjoy a complete orgasm (their male partners are little to no help in quenching their thirst).

Commencing with a good old fashioned iPhone-recorded spanking session, Autoerotic is just as much about watching others as it is about sexual gratification. (The male character in the first chapter is the only one who seems more satisfied while looking at himself in the mirror than at others.) Swanberg and Wingard’s focus on voyeurism places the audience in a somewhat awkward position. As we observe the questionable ways in which the characters observe each other in order to obtain arousal, we are forced to question what we are achieving from the footage. Are we becoming aroused? Is that okay?

Swanberg (Hannah Takes the Stairs, Uncle Kent, Silver Bullets) has never been one to abide by the overwhelmingly puritanical view of sex in Hollywood; and with Autoerotic, he and Wingard effectively comment on many cinematically taboo issues: male body issues, fetishes, the desire for orgasms, and the importance of communicating your sexual needs and desires to your partner. For Swanberg and Wingard, sex remains utterly confounding despite the openly frank conversation between partners and friends. Just as the characters are often not judgmental about their partners’ sexual idiosyncrasies, Swanberg and Wingard’s perspective is also quite open-minded. They merely seem interested in posing questions for their audience to ponder and discuss: Is autoerotic asphyxiation okay (what about erotic asphyxiation)? Is masturbation acceptable behavior (if so, how much is too much)? How do fetishes figure into romantic relationships? Is is acceptable to recruit a same-sex friend to help a pregnant woman enjoy a successful orgasm? How much kinkiness is okay before it becomes perverse?

FILM REVIEW: BELLFLOWER

A scene from Bellflower.

Until it is struck

By Don Simpson

Bellflower follows best friends, Woodrow (Evan Glodell) and Aiden (Tyler Dawson), as they get their two-man imaginary gang “Mother Medusa” ready for a global apocalypse. To prepare for the end of days, the duo builds weapons of mass destruction, such as an honest to goodness flame-thrower and a tricked-out car named MEDUSA. Woodrow and Aiden, Mad Max fans since they were kids growing up in Wisconsin, are not violent guys in practice, they just really dig the cinematic concept of absolute annihilation.

Woodrow meets Milly (Jessie Wiseman) during a alcohol-fueled cricket-eating contest and it is love at first bite, that is until…well, I will just say that if you have been through an emotionally devastating break-up, you will know that heartache sometimes feels like the end of the world. And rather than Woodrow just crying a few tears in his beer, Bellflower spirals into a bitter and jaded tale of betrayal, infidelity, and violence that unleashes the menacing apocalyptic fantasies within Woodrow’s subconscious.

Painfully discussing the highs and lows of love, as well as revealing the horrors of acting on impulse alone, writer-director Glodell utilizes some not-so-traditional cinematography techniques (thanks to cinematographer Joel Hodge), magnificently penetrating sound design, and a seemingly haphazard non-linear plot structure to convey Woodrow’s psychologically decaying perception of the uncompromising world around him. Glodell does not rely on his cinematically artful bells and whistles alone to sell Woodrow’s breakdown; he also depends on his own mad thespian skills while portraying (with ugly and brutal realism, I might add) Woodrow’s amazing transformation from nice guy to raging monster.

FILM REVIEW: COWBOYS & ALIENS

Jake Lonergran (Daniel Craig) in Cowboys & Aliens.

Chumps and the Other

By John Esther

Directed by Jon Favreau and based on a story and script with far too many non-committal voices attached, Cowboys & Aliens offers a masturbatory referential game to numerous paradigmatic films (i.e. Raiders of the Lost Ark, Alien, True Grit, The Searchers) patriarchal, bourgeois critics refer to as leaders of the “Western” or “Sci-fi” genre, including the spastically delusional ones confronting how the west was won.

Tellingly enough, Jake Lonergran (Daniel Craig) wakes up in the middle of the desert with a scientifically anachronistic brace around his wrist. Like Jason Bourne (Matt Damon), Jake has no idea who he is or how he got there, but he can sure take care of himself when he is accosted.

Eventually making his way into town, it does not take long before the latest incarnation of the Malpaso Man finds himself in the middle of trouble when alien forces swoop down and kidnap the town folk – the same aliens who absconded and incinerated his wife (Spencer Alice) before his eyes.

Thanks to Ella (Olivia Wilde), the only “woman” with any identity other than someone’s wife in the film (eventually explained during the hackneyed movie’s most idiotic moment), we learn the illegal aliens have invaded and are now occupying post-Columbus/post-Civil War America because gold (not black gold) is as precious to them as it is to us. Why, we do not know. Is it currency? Fuel? After all, gold in its essential form is useless. Only its perceived value has meaning. In other words, gold is essentially worthless (if not negative – given its natural weight) unless you can buy something with it.

The typical bourgeois incarnation of the antihero -- where we never have a second to dislike him on camera (his bad ways are explained through exposition) -- Jake is forced to reconcile with his violent, gangster past through heroic salvation by using his Spiderman-ish wrist weapon. Of course Jake will need help. The help mostly comes from his nemesis, Woodrow Dolarhyde (Harrison Ford), the local rich tough son of a bitch, but there are a few others like Natives, a few outlaws and others to help. Everyone can aid in the defense of the land, but that incompetent entity known as government.

It would hardly be giving anything of note or surprise to say who wins in the end. A few sacrifices of the poor, the female and the non-whites will be necessary, but hey, this is “liberal Hollywood” and they are just as class conscious as the intended audiences of this film are not.

Literally and metaphorically, Cowboys & Aliens displays a vision essentially uncomfortable yet ultimately assured in America’s acquisition of its natural resources from foreign hands.

DVD REVIEW: SENTIMENT OF THE FLESH

Héléna (Annabelle Hettmann) and Benoît (Thibault Vinçon) in Sentiment of the Flesh.

One to (se)x-ray you

By Don Simpson 

Love makes people -- especially characters in films -- do some really crazy things. In the case of Héléna (Annabelle Hettmann) and Benoît (Thibault Vinçon), they decide that attraction to each other's external features is not quite enough; they want to delve deeper into each other, and not metaphorically either, they literally want to peruse each other's innards, bones, muscles, organs, every nook and cranny.

Their mutual interest in the human anatomy stems from different perspectives, Héléna is pursuing a degree in anatomical drawing, while Benoît is a medical doctor and professor. Héléna and Benoît meet while Héléna is getting x-rays in an attempt to diagnose a lower back pain. In addition to the x-ray of her back, Héléna discovers that Benoît has inexplicably taken an x-ray of her thorax as well. From there, the duo delve into a discussion about how every human being is unique; their individual quests to acquire absolute knowledge about human anatomy (according to Benoît, "1000 painters died not knowing the sentiment of the flesh. Many more will die not knowing...") are fatefully (or fatally) intertwined. When a date in the MRI lab does not totally quench Benoît's thirst for completely penetrating Héléna's intimacy, their desire to continue down this path spirals totally out of control.

I am not quite sure I believe that Héléna and Benoît would have free reign of a hospital to use x-ray and MRI machines as their sex toys. The most unfathomable scenes, however, are when Benoît and Héléna are each caught red-handed on separate occasions, yet no punishment in enacted upon either of them. Then again, I do not work in a French hospital, so maybe security is much more lax than I would expect.

David Cronenberg comparisons are unavoidable, as writer-director Roberto Garzelli's feature-length debut The Sentiment of Flesh reveals a certain kinship with the erotic perversity represented in Dead Ringers and Crash. The primary difference is that Garzelli revels in the eroticism while Cronenberg amps up the perversity.