FILM REVIEW: THE DIARY OF A TEENAGE GIRL

Charlotte (Kirsten Wiig), Minnie (Bel Powley) and Monroe (Alexander Skarsgård in The Diary of a Teenage Girl.

Adol-l(ic)esentiousness

By John Esther

San Francisco, California, 1976. The kidnapping of heiress Patty Hearst is the news story du jour. It is a time of permissibility. The radical politics of the 1960s are gone. Noxious disco, swapping couples, and cocaine are in full swing.

In one particular home in The City by the Bay, 15-year-old Minnie Goetze (Bel Powley) is looking for love and loins in the wrong places. A budding artist, she draws a gigantic woman who rules the streets of San Francisco (brought to “life” by animator Sara Gunnarsdottir.) Minnie has dreams, desires, woes and whimsy, which she records in her diary. She also has the desire to sleep with “The handsomest man in the world,” Monroe (Alexander Skarsgård).

However, Monroe is a lot older than Minnie.

Meanwhile, Minnie’s mother, Charlotte (Kristen Wiig continuing to impress), is clueless to her daughter’s daily activities and aspirations. Once a raving beauty, at least she claims, Charlotte spends her life in a drift of drugs, "living nostalgia ([less] humble pie [than] bitter fruit"). Since her divorce to Minnie’s father, Pascal (Christopher Meloni), Charlotte had to find a job at a local library; but work and motherhood do not stop her from partying every chance she gets. Indeed, these responsibilities seem to generate it.

Charlotte's number one party pal is Monroe.

Based on the novel by Phoebe Gloieckner, writer-director Marielle Heller’s The Diary of a Teenage Girl is not your typical summer film fare. Few films this frank about teenage sexuality are found in American cinema. (Adolescent desire in French film is old hat.). Americans are still repressed when it comes to sexuality. And the last person who should be thinking about sex in “God’s country” is an American teenage girl. (Never mind, the US has the highest teenage pregnancy in the industrialized world. Thanks to all that jabber about abstinence.)

Rather than receive the typical Hollywood movie meme where the unremarkable teenage dude -- after a series of mishaps, pranks and bullies (usually handsome, rich dudes) -- gets the remarkable girl, The Diary of a Teenage Girl offers a more realistic approach where the awkward adolescent girl gets the older dude – tapping into his psyche where the conquest of the virgin is nearly unstoppable.

Their relationship, rather than titillating, is poised for stress. Monroe knows the ramifications if he gets caught. He will be arrested, lose Charlotte and be plagued as a sex offender the rest of his life, but the triumph for him is worth the risk. Legally speaking, he is a sexual predator. As far as the story goes, at best, he is a damn lascivious fool. For her naive part(s), Minnie seems clueless to the illegalities of such a relationship.

Powley, who was in her early 20s when the film was shot, gives a powerful and believable performance as the titular character. Minnie is awkward yet ambitious, eager yet earnest, troubled and troublesome. She begins to understand the power of her sexuality and it disturbs her. Minnie wants to use it for good via pleasure, not the domination of others via their desire.

Heller seems to agree. Audiences looking for some petty, petite bourgeois punishment for female sexual transgressions will be disappointed. This is not a story about how damaging sex can be for a young teenager, but how it is simply a part of life. It is about identity and growing up. Sex happens.

 

 

 

 

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SUNDANCE 2015: TAKE ME TO THE RIVER

A scene from Take Me to the River.

Head games

By Don Simpson

Ryder (Logan Miller) is a gay teenager who lives in Los Angeles. He recently came out to his mother (Robin Weigert) and father (Richard Schiff), yet they have refrained from spreading Ryder’s news to his mother’s family in Nebraska. When they arrive in Nebraska for a family reunion, Ryder quickly learns what is deemed normal in Los Angeles might be considered totally anomalous in Nebraska.

Ryder has no problem being the black sheep in midst of what he perceives to be a backwards family of Midwestern rednecks. With no intention of trying to fit in, Ryder wears his red short-shorts and yellow sunglasses loudly and proudly. His relatives might not jump to the conclusion that Ryder is gay, but they definitely assume that something is “off” about him.

The young girls of the family, however, love their cousin, Ryder. Specifically, Ryder forms a unique connection with Molly (Ursula Parker), but this only exacerbates the Nebraska family’s freakish perception of him. It is not long before Ryder finds himself the target of a witch hunt and is exiled to an abandoned cottage on the family’s property.

Secrets and denial have serious consequences in Matt Sobel’s darkly contemplative Take Me to the River; and though this film is set in Nebraska, this familiar problem is certainly not limited to Cornhuskers or Midwesterners. There are some things that need to be discussed and explained openly, especially among family, no matter how uncomfortable or painful. Pretending everything is normal simply does not make the secret disappear. The longer these secrets fester, the worse the eventual impact will be. Whether the motivation is self-preservation or to protect others, running away is never a viable solution.

Sobel’s film masterfully leaves important details up to the viewer’s imagination, allowing us to come to our own conclusions. When the closing credits appear, it is still unclear as to what in the hell just happened, which is precisely how Ryder must feel as he drives away with his parents.

Presumably the film’s title is a reference to the Al Green’s song (popularized by Talking Heads) “Take Me to the River,” which David Byrne once described as: “A song that combines teenage lust with baptism. Not equates, you understand, but throws them in the same stew, at least. A potent blend. All praise the mighty spurtin’ Jesus.” Sobel’s film is not all that different from Byrne’s description of the song. The film certainly serves up a potent blend of puberty, sexuality and conservative values. Also, the story represents a seminal moment in Ryder’s coming-of-age, which could be interpreted as a baptism into adulthood; though rather than being cleansed with water, Ryder ends up with mud on his chest.

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STAGE REVIEW: COCK

Blow job

By Ed Rampell

Ticket buyers who love their theater pure will be suckers for Cock. British playwright Mike Bartlett’s stellar one-acter is pared down to the theatrical essence of dialogue and acting -- no special effects, dance numbers or storyline derived from comic books, Hollywood blockbusters, other plays, etc. (although Bartlett did win a 2013 National Theatre Award for a work named Bull -- so one can honestly report that he’s written Cock and Bull stories). The cast is flawlessly directed by the award winning Cameron Watson, and the four actors hold forth in a cleverly designed space (per the dramatist’s intent) on a stage surrounded by seating at the Rogue Machine that suggests a cockpit (or cock ring), giving a whole new meaning to theater-in-the-round.

Be that as it may, there’s nothing square about this up-to-date drama with laughs that takes a, uh, cockeyed view of sexuality. In a series of rapid scenic transitions signaled by the lights, the story, such as it is, unfolds. As Cock opens John (Patrick Stafford) and M (Matthew Elkins) are mulling over their relationship.

As the tale evolves we see that the handsome, if slightly built John, has also become sexually involved with W (which stands for “Woman”?), a lonely 28-year-old who has fallen for him (Rebecca Mozo). So the play quickly unfolds into a not-so-classic triangle saga, with a tug of war ensuing for John’s affections and attention (and of course for the play’s titular member of the cast). (BTW, W’s witty term for the female equivalent of a “hard on” is almost worth the price of admission alone -- well wordplay-ed, Ms. Mozo and Mssr. Bartlett.)

John is the central character at the apex of Cock’s triangle and the nature of his sexuality is at the heart of the play’s theme. Is he gay, straight, bisexual? Or is his sexuality not predicated upon gender but on the individual he is involved with, no matter what his/her sex? Bartlett seems to be asking: If sexuality is a matter of pleasure and intimacy does the gender of one’s partner(s) really matter?

Of course, for some, there’s more to sex than that, such as playing power games of control, dominance and manipulation. Such seems to be the case for M, who is far bigger than John and in addition to being physically domineering, can be psychologically overbearing. M seems to be henpecking John, and some pro-gay rights advocates may read an anti-gay theme into Cock, in that M is coercing John to choose homosexuality over heterosexuality. Although repeatedly alluding to John’s job, it is never disclosed and he seems to be a confused man unsure of himself. On the other hand, M’s career is revealed, and of course he’s some sort of capitalist. Plus there’s no question re: M’s sexual preference. While this reviewer has no idea if it was the playwright’s intent to consciously or unconsciously insert an anti-gay POV into Cock, a reasonable viewer could assume that this is a point the play makes.

Not all love, of course, is sexual (Freud calls various platonic types of relationships “aim inhibited” because they don’t result in orgasm), and towards the end of Cock Bartlett tosses yet another ingredient into this roiling stew, which could be filed under the “Guess Who’s Coming To Dinner?” heading: Enter M’s dad, who is called F -- perhaps for “Father”? -- played by Gregory Itzin.

F injects the whole parent-child, father-son nexus into an already complex relationship. F is commendable in that he stands by his son, no matter what his sexual preference. But as Itzin sort of indicated to this critic after the play, this “no matter what” stance can prove to be problematic. Because if love is completely unconditional, one is not constrained by disapproval and the like from loved ones for perpetrating bad behavior. Which can lead to acting with impunity, minus any fear of being held accountable for one’s actions -- you know, sort of like the way Attorney General Eric Holder hasn’t imprisoned a single Wall Street big shot, even after these banksters wrecked the economy (although Holder has no hesitation throwing the book at whistleblowers and low level offenders, but that’s another gruesome story).

The play is meant to take place in Britain and all of the thesps have what sounds to this Yank’s untutored ear authentic British accents, although none of the actors seem to actually be Brits. (Indeed, Mozo is a Jersey Girl -- and I don’t mean from the isle off Normandy’s coast but from the Garden State off of Manhattan’s west coast.) To tell you the truth, although the Oxford-born Bartlett who studied drama at the University of Leeds is British, this reviewer doesn’t know whether setting Cock’s action in not-so-merry olde England makes a difference compared to simply staging it in the not-so-good ol’ USA, but that’s beside the point.

Another thing about Cock’s British-ness -- most Yankees have preconceived ideas about the Brits as being Caucasian. But at some point during the 85-minute or so play it dawned upon your humble scribe that Mozo is not a stereotypical white Anglo Saxon, and indeed, it turns out that this gifted actress is half-Brazilian, half-American. This may be merely coincidental or just could be a bit of clever casting in that it further complicates and raises Cock’s main theme.

Like the current movie, Dear White People, Cock is largely about the notion of identity. Who am I? How do I identify? This is the quest that John is on, and his lack of knowing the answer is at the root of his lack of self-assuredness.

Although Cock is not for the squeamish it is yet another reason why L.A. theatergoers are going Rogue. Producer and artistic director John Perrin Flynn’s Rogue Machine remains one of L.A.’s best theaters, presenting topnotch, thought provoking, entertaining works of art on the live stage. Experiencing Stafford, Mozo, Elkins and Itzin have at it gave this critic the same sensation he has when watching a magic show: How do theydo it? From the accents to their intensity in character, how do these actors conjure up this spell that their dramatis personae are real? Of course, deft directing and superb scripting while keenly commenting upon the human condition help, but this is what great ensemble acting and theatre are all about. It’s enough to make Rogue Machine act, well, cocky.

 

Cock runs through Nov. 3 at Rogue Machine, 5041 Pico Blvd., L.A., CA 90019. For info: 855-585-5185; Cock.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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AUSTIN 2011: AFTER FALL, WINTER

Sophie (Lizzie Brocheré) and Michael (Eric Schaeffer) in After Fall, Winter.

Feminine/Masculine

By Don Simpson

Sophie (Lizzie Brocheré) is a 25-year-old nurse who helps take care of terminally ill people in their final days. She also moonlights as a dominatrix. The two careers describe Sophie very well. She can be gentle and kind, yet she also enjoys control and power. In either scenario she displays the utmost strength and fortitude. Despite her natural beauty, Sophie has never had a boyfriend; perhaps because feeling love for someone would exude weakness.

Sophie is used to taking care of elderly people who are dying, but then she is assigned a 13-year-old gypsy girl — Anais (Marie Luneau) — who is dying of leukemia. Being around Anais changes Sophie and she begins to soften just enough to be receptive to a pushy American author, Michael (Eric Schaeffer). Michael has come to Paris to hide from his dying career and crippling amount of debt. Like some Americans, Michael does not possess adequate enough manners to say, "hello" (or "bonjour," in this case) before entering into a conversation with someone -- a fault Michael quickly corrects, in order to have a chance at winning Sophie. Oh, and Michael is addicted to S&M. He enjoys being dominated by women.

One would think that Sophia and Michael would be the perfect match and they do share a fiery — sometimes combustible — chemistry. Partially due to their language barrier, Michael often comes off as being arrogant and condescending — those are two traits that Sophie does not react well to. Despite being fairly frank about their likes and dislikes in the bedroom, Sophie and Michael opt to hide their love for S&M from each other. This, my friends, is their downfall…

It seems as though films that portray characters who do not abide by vanilla heterosexual behavior in favorable and sympathetic perspectives are a dime a dozen these days. All of these films share a very similar message — we need to be honest about our sexuality, first and foremost with our lovers. Writer-director Schaeffer’s After Fall, Winter is no different. That is not a bad thing. After Fall, Winter clearly communicates a message that needs to be pounded repeatedly through many puritanical Americans’ thick skulls.

What I enjoy most about After Fall, Winter — well, besides Brocheré (The Wedding Song) — is the way that Schaeffer toys with conventional gender roles. Sophie is mostly masculine. She is strong, blunt, and has sex when she wants it, but she shies away from intimate conversations. Michael is mostly feminine. He is a fragile romantic and quick to fall in love; he loves intimate conversations, and — depending on who you ask — he might be described as open and honest.

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