Yes, they talk like little wise guys, using insipid potty-mouth dialogue based on insult humor. This is still more evidence for my theory that the greatest single influence on modern American culture has been Don Rickles.
B.A.P.S.
(Directed by Robert Townsend; starring Halle Berry, Martin Landau; 1997)
B.A.P.S. is jaw-droppingly bad, a movie so misconceived I wonder why anyone involved wanted to make it. As a vehicle for the talents of director Robert Townsend and actors Halle Berry and Martin Landau, it represents a grave miscalculation; I hope they quickly put it behind them.
The title stands for “Black American Princesses.” Its two heroines are more like tacky Cinderellas. Berry and Natalie Desselle play vulgar and garish homegirls from Decatur, Georgia, whose artificial nails are eight inches long, whose gold teeth sparkle, and whose hairpieces are piled so high on their heads that the concept passes beyond satire and into cruelty.
There is a thin line between satire and offensiveness, and this crosses it. Its portraits of these two working-class black women have been painted with snobbery and scorn. The actresses don’t inhabit the caricatures with conviction. The result is a hurtful stereotype, because the comedy doesn’t work to redeem it. We should sense some affection for them from the filmmakers, but we don’t—not until they receive a magic Hollywood makeover in the later scenes of the movie, and miraculously lose their gold teeth. The movie invites us to laugh at them, not with them, but that’s a moot point since the audience I joined did not laugh at all, except incredulously.
The plot: Berry plays Nisi, a waitress, who hears on MTV about a contest to choose a dancer for a music video and national tour by Heavy D. She shares this news with her friend Mickey (Desselle), a hairdresser, and it fits right into their plans for marrying a rich guy and living on easy street. So they say good-bye to their shiftless boyfriends and fly to L.A. wearing hairstyles so extreme no one behind them on the airplane can see the movie. Funny? No. It could have been funny, but not when the reaction shots are of annoyed white businessmen asking to change their seats.
In L.A. they’re spotted at the audition by a mysterious figure who makes them an attractive offer: Room and board in a Bel Air mansion, and $10,000. What’s the deal? He represents Mr. Blakemore (Landau), a dying millionaire, who has only experienced true love once in his life, many years ago—with Lily, his family’s black maid. Nisi will pose as Lily’s granddaughter and cheer the old guy in his final days on Earth.
There’s more to it than that, of course; it’s all a scam. But Mr. Blakemore inexplicably takes to the women from the moment he sees them. (Nisi, dressed in pink latex and high heels, looks like a hooker, and Mickey looks like her coach.) The plot later reveals details that make it highly unlikely Mr. Blakemore would even for a second have been deceived by the story, but never mind; the movie’s attention span isn’t long enough for it to remember its own setup.
Even though the movie fails as a comedy, someone should have told Landau it was intended to be one. He plays Mr. Blakemore with gracious charm and great dignity, which is all wrong; his deathbed scene is done with such clunky sincerity that one fears Landau actually expected audiences to be moved by it. Not in this movie. The cause of his ill health is left a little obscure, and no wonder, because shortly before his dreadful deathbed scene he’s well enough to join the women in a wild night of disco dancing. You have not lived until you’ve seen Martin Landau discoing. Well, perhaps you have. He is both miscast and misdirected, and seems to labor under the misapprehension that his role should be taken seriously.
Another key character is Manley (Ian Richardson), Blakemore’s butler, who turns up his nose at the first sight of the women, but inevitably comes to like them. The message of the movie, I guess, is that two homegirls can find wealth and happiness if only they wear blonde wigs, get rid of those gold teeth and country vocabularies, and are nice to rich old white men. It gets even better: At one point, the boyfriends from Georgia are flown out to L.A. to share the good luck, and they vow to get their acts together and Plan for Their Futures in a scene that comes way too late in the film for us to believe or care.
The movie was written by the actress Troy Beyer, who has a small role as a lawyer. What was she thinking of? I don’t have a clue. The movie doesn’t work, but was there any way this material could ever have worked? My guess is that African Americans will be offended by the movie, and whites will be embarrassed. The movie will bring us all together, I imagine, in paralyzing boredom.
Battle of the Amazons
(Directed by Al Bradley; starring Lincoln Tate, Lucretia Love; 1973)
Dear Mr. Ebert: I would like to object to consumer fraud in the ads for Battle of the Amazons. They taught us in Greek mythology class that the real Amazons had only one breast so they might better shoot their bows and arrows. So I went running down to the Michael Todd with the intent of seeing an eighty-inch boob and instead I got conned with a pair of forties.
Signed, Dennis Boy
Dear Mr. Boy: Ah, but those Amazons were Greek; these Amazons live someplace in Asia Minor. That is all the more puzzling because none of them is Asian and only three are minors. The drinking age was well below nineteen at that time in history, however, you will be glad to learn.
The Amazons and their captives are also interesting because, if I read lips right, they spoke Italian dubbed into English. Many historians are of the opinion that neither language existed then, but American-International, the distributor, may be onto something. One thing is for sure: No movie in the last twenty years has been dubbed more ineptly. No, not even Godzilla vs. the Smog Monster. In one scene, a man has his head split open with a ferocious blow from a sword. On the screen we see his lips opening in an anguished scream. On the sound track we hear him say, in English: “Oh, no!” It is possible to respect his opinion while questioning his sincerity.
Another problem in the movie is that the actors who were hired to dub it into English have a hard time not laughing. There was one speech that went something like: “Zeno, surely you agree that no matter what Ilio, Antiope, Medio, Eraglia, and Sinade say, Valeria is right!”
An additional difficulty is that most of the pretty girls in the movie are Amazons. No wonder the men of the village will not fight to resist capture. It’s hard to be sure exactly when the movie takes place; there are spears and bows and arrows and swords, which suggests early times, but then again all of the women on both sides are fresh from the hair dryer. They also employ impressive advances in the art of brassiere design.
One of the most intriguing aspects of Battle of the Amazons is that it was released only four weeks before the scheduled opening of The Amazons, a big-budget epic directed by Terence Young, who made some James Bond pictures.
Sometimes a schlock picture will be rushed in to exploit the publicity of an expensive movie, but here’s the funny thing: both movies are from American-International, which by ripping itself off solidifies its reputation as the best exploitation outfit in the business. I am waiting confidently for the first Kung-Fu Amazon movie. No, wait: One’s due before long. It’s called Red Hot China Doll, which used to be the name of an interesting Szechwan-style chicken dish served in a nice little place on Clark Street.
Beautician and the Beast
(Directed by Ken Kwapis; starring Fran Drescher, Timothy Dalton; 1997)
Fran Drescher is a taste I have not acquired, but I concede that one could acquire it. It would help if she made a silent film. Her speaking voice is like having earwax removed with a small dental drill. And yet, doggone it, there’s something lovable about her. I picture her making the coffee at Stuart Smalley’s AA meetings, or doing the ringside announcements for pro wrestling.