This phrase, which in the 60s was better, sounds in the movie “Dirty shame” as if by chance. Many moviegoers have missed it by their ears. Let's get a story. American director John Waters began his career in the 60s. He became famous in the 70s, of course (Pink flamingos), but the 60s laid the foundation. Friendship with Harris Glenn (Devine), the creation of a creative family called “Dreamlanders” – this is all the 60s.
John Waters has been annealing for decades and shattering the limits of decency. When watching “Dirty Shame” – there is a strange feeling (forgetting about the whole farce), the director dullly exhausted. He doesn’t care what happens in his own movie. For the first time in my life, for the first time in a great filmography, John Waters is trying to deceive me. Baltimore, depraved residents, computer squirrels, etc.
"Dirty Shame" is a deception by John Waters. Let's be honest. The director had to put an end to the movie “Mad Cecil B”. It would be very beautiful, but for some reason he made Dirty Shame. "Dirty Shame" gave the director something? Nope. “Dirty Shame” gave something to his fans? Nope. On the contrary, some were even disappointed in John.
Waters surrounded himself with young talents – Selma Blair and Johnny Knoxville. But you know, this is kindergarten. The director has nothing to say. You can't just put a huge silicone breast on Blair and be happy. Waters is cunning. He's a smart director. He knows Blair can't be his new Mary Vivian Pierce.
And to make of Knoxville, the divine angel of depravity, is some terrible nonsense. This position was forever occupied by Devine. When it comes to humor, it’s not the funniest Waters movie. All that remains is lust. I agree, cool, the director urges not to be ashamed of themselves. You have to love and have orgasms. But it all happened (and not only in the 60s, ahaha).
You can argue for a very long time, but it is better to accept the banal truth - you need to leave the directorship on time. On the other hand, one extra movie is better than a few hundred. According to rumors, Woody Allen did not like my conclusion. Chu-kara Assa Radars!
Probably lucky virgin people with an indiscriminate sense of humor, they were able to appreciate the film to its dignity and out, some hurriedly write how they laughed and everything else. Lucky ones.
I would love to hear the director talk about this movie and why he did it. But, like most, he'll twist everything for the sake of an idea. In the end, it is difficult to understand - could not, did not want or so sees.
I understand why the movie failed so badly at the box office. What happened was mush. There was no thrash, no comedy, no shock. The whole film is a set of scenes where the uncle who knows about sex only on the Benny Hill Show tries to show jokes on this topic.
Actors are crooked instead of the game, if it was the 80s, perhaps the film was considered provocative and at least because of this watched. Now this topic will not surprise anyone, even in family films there are scenes more erotic. And humor – so not everyone had trepanation of the skull.
The scene with the bottle, so delighted by some – everyone can see that it is much lower than they wanted to imagine.
To some, the height of humor will seem to be the floundering of a drunk in a puddle, but I am glad that most turned out to be more discerning.
All the ideas and thoughts of the author, for me personally, remain aside, because everything is eclipsed by the Monstrous shame for the actors, for jokes, for translation.
Don’t compare it to the American Pie. They weren't even close.
My name is Wenceslas. I'm a sexy movie maniac. It all began innocently enough - an affair with pornography, which of us is not sinful. About a year ago, I discovered the ability not only to watch it, but also to peer-review it, to write with a breath, to expose the innermost things: the sweet dope of lilac, the cold blue of hydrangeas, my delightfully shameless euphemisms... The world was so sweet and tomen until the day before yesterday. Now I swear to watch hot, wear a dress in an ugly, chaste flower and think about breast reduction surgery. John Waters, John Waters, walk your left!
If I were a character in Dirty Shame, nothing would have changed. The inhabitants of alternative Baltimore travel in the same way between the states of “I am a sexless creature [in flower], give me a poster, let’s go picket the den of perverts” and “Arr! I’m a dirty whore, give me a poster, perverts... at least something!”. The rubbing is a divine blow on the head. The heroine slipped in the bathroom - the libido reached such heights that even the surrounding landscapes went into depravity, scaring not so much with characteristic body movements as with poor graphics. I hit the car door on the way to an orgy, and before us again the model frigid mother of the family. Given the high level of domestic injuries in the small homeland of Waters, gradually knocked in the right direction becomes more and more, they cover the city, copulating with everything that lies poorly, including eggs, cigarette butts, talc and ketchup. In vain, the “sexualless” pacify the flesh: Crude Ursula has already released her “babys” to walk, the followers of the sexual healer Ray-Ray are close to inventing a new Act, the blind have seen [wiping something sticky from their faces], and the dead have risen up – a sexapocalypse in the yard.
The problem with this spectacle is the vagueness of the director’s goals. There is either shock, or excite, or laugh, the fourth is not given. The first was not planned precisely, otherwise it would have been necessary to state that the maestro, who once made the “most disgusting film ever”, had exhausted his imagination and supply of bags for vomiting: light blasphemy, artificial breasts, two naked human individuals, and a dildo bottle not shown in direct action – well, what we did not see there. Not much excitement either. Tracy Ullman's level of sexual attractiveness is equivalent to a bag of potatoes, and when dressed in leopard - frighteningly aggressive, rabies tubers ... a bag of potatoes. Looking at how she blindly smears scarlet lipstick around her grinning mouth, it is time to flinch and button up on all the buttons. With the comedic element, things are better, he could even pull out the picture, not having here for every good joke 3-4 b-moments, during which you laugh reflexively, with surprise, simply because nature did not provide individual sounds for the situation “f***, what was it?”
Laughter and disgust fight each other, like the body on the bed: not aesthetically, not always effectively, not without problems with potency, but still interpenetrating and giving birth to something gray and inconspicuous. Not good enough to look for pleasure without the help of magic booze or natural endorphins. Not bad enough to please fans of thrash, hell and Israel. And yet, a dress in a flower is a witness to me, the effect of the film is striking: about 12-14 hours after watching you feel a vague antipathy to everything that is somehow connected with the famous process and gratitude for not being born in Baltimore.
The smell of lilac trampled with dirty feet, the last surviving hydrangea is carelessly stuck in the unwashed “vessel of eternity”
It is not enough to be just a talented person and have a peculiar sense of humor to shoot such caustic comedies, repeatedly harassing respectable representatives of the asexual majority. It's not enough to be gay or a copilot. You have to be yourself for that. Be John Waters.
In general, there is a feeling that the genre of parody has embarked on a free voyage, and is exclusively engaged in chewing the successes of others. As if there was no extremely fruitful interaction of parody with social satire and other denunciation-educative film genres. “A very scary-epic-children’s movie” tires with its bias. It seems that these films are part of a promotional campaign to promote paintings in them ridiculed.
That’s why John Waters’s snarky opuses are of particular value. Here the parody acts as a full-blooded genre. The director speaks out on the topic of the day, directing his poisonous arrows towards the endemic garripotterianism with its messianic ambitions, towards the psychohygienic studios of preventive cinema, and primarily towards decent pictures for family viewing. In Mad Cecil B., it went to Forest Gump, and in Dirty Shame, another very good man, to Jesus Christ. And more than once.
Waters works rough. The most interesting thing is that no one has been shooting so straight for a long time. Clichés are trying to beat, veil, but the truth, perhaps, is still on the side of Waters: gag remains gag, even if we are assured that it is not him.
Dirty Shame is like any normal movie. There are good and bad. Although everything is turned inside out, the good are more like the bad, and the bad are undoubtedly better than the good ones that are actually bad. There is a confrontation of interests, there is a restless hero who chooses from two evils. There is, finally, total love (not to express in words the depth of Fat Frank’s feelings for Busty Ursula). And as in any self-respecting blockbuster, a hero on the side of good, at the most decisive moment put the bandwagon. (Fortunately, Ray-Ray comes out of this delicate situation with dignity.)
Thus, placing his film at the intersection of the harsh satire of conservativeness inherent in provincial towns, parody of American blockbusters about the chosen and sarcastic attacks on religion, Waters does in Dirty Shame about the same as Jacob Propp in his textbook “Morphology of a Fairy Tale”. He reveals the plot structure of the American fairy tale (comics about the hero and the salvation of the world) and inadvertently connects it through irony with the biblical parables about the savior.
Easily performing such intricately composed pas, Waters gives an absolutely vulgar film dedicated to events occurring exclusively below the belt, a universal sound. The exhortation, “Let’s have sex!” sounds like a Buddhist mantra, and hitting one’s head on the head of one’s neighbor, with the aim of later turning into a sexually obsessed one, looks like the only way to save a humanity mired in the sin of abstinence.
So, what is available to the audience? The small town of Baltimore ("Baltimore is a city of diversity, as the film says) is where John Waters was born and where many of his films take place. In particular, in the film “Dirty Shame”, the city was gripped by “depression” – vile perverts, adherents of various forms of sex (here is certainly a huge variety!) by an unknown method multiply and multiply, reaching an incredible number of maniacs (this is a relatively small town), arrange a depraved revolution, despite desperate resistance, subjugating poor “sexual” residents against their will. That's the action, isn't it?
As for the actors... They did not give us anything ordinary. But maybe talking about this movie is a good thing. John Waters, anything is possible. Johnny Noskvich was more or less successful - he tried to demonstrate to the audience from the screen a certain guru of sex, the instigator of the sexual revolution, instructing everyone on the true path, namely the path of sex, who he could. All the other actors looked even fainter than Noskvich, however, perhaps they just had less interesting roles.
And so, thinking for a long time about whether I liked the film or not, I did not get to decide – so the review is neutral. Sex everyone, perverted maniacs and maniacs!