Okay, here's the deal. Most of us harbor a secret wish or two. For some folks it's a dream to play pro sports, or to spend a fantasy weekend with a supermodel. For others, the secret wish takes on more of a daredevil bent. For years, my secret wish has been to try skydiving, so recently I convinced a guy I know to take me up and do one of those tandem dives, where a rookie is harnessed to a seasoned jumper, and they jump together, with the veteran doing all the cord-pulling and stuff, while the rookie just hangs there. It sounded harmless enough, so off I went.
Well, what nobody bothers to tell you is that the rookie does have a part to play in the skydive. He has to fall out of a moving plane. Now, see, my momma didn't raise no fool. I leaned out that door and looked down, and suddenly, jumping out didn't make a lot of sense to me. My friend, Duffey, thought I was kidding, and kept scooting me toward that door. He realized I was serious when I punched him flush in the mouth and told him I'd post his medical records on this very website if he so much as said the word "jump" again. Duffey, being a reasonable person, told the pilot to land the plane, thus avoiding having to explain those frequent penicillin shots to his wife. In short, if I'd kept my secret wish bottled up, Duffey and I might still be friends.
It's all well and good to have a secret wish. Acting on it, though, is a whole other matter. Take, for example, Madonna's big desire to work with Rupert Everett. Ever since Everett scored major kudos for his supporting role in My Best Friend's Wedding, Madonna has been sweating wine coolers to get into a movie with him. She got her wish. Problem is, though, what she should have wished for is Rupert Everett to be in a GOOD movie with her.
Her Royal Highness plays Abbie, a yoga instructor whose best friend in the world, Robert (Rupert) is gay. They get together all the time, complain about their respective love lives, commiserate with each other -- all the normal best friend stuff. Well, Abbie has a particularly crappy breakup with her latest guy, and Robert comes over to ease her through it. The two get blistering drunk while they talk. And, as the saying goes, one thing leads to another, and, in a few weeks, Abbie tells Robert she's pregnant.
So, being Californians, the two decide to live together as a couple and raise their child together. The two have separate rooms, and, of course, separate love lives (hers being a lot less active, all things considered) but, for their child, the two will always be together, supporting one another and their offspring come what may.
What they don't count on is the "whatever" being a visiting businessman (Benjamin Bratt, a.k.a., Mr. Julia Roberts.) Abbie falls hard for him, and finds herself contemplating moving to New York to be with her new sweetie. But Robert has been a wonderful father for young Sam. So, Robert decides to go to court to demand his paternal rights. But, it seems there's this big secret that Abbie has never told Robert, but I'll let you sit through that piece of melodrama on your own.
I just don't get it, people. I mean, how can a movie with all this available talent be so incredibly dull and shoddy? Folks, this thing is directed by John Schlesinger. As in Midnight Cowboy John Schlesinger, Marathon Man John Schlesinger, The Falcon and the Snowman John Schlesinger. Now I don't know what happened to ol' John, but there ought to be a shot to cure it, and quickly. But, honestly, you can't fault Schlesinger completely, because, apparently, the entire cast fell into a vat of NyQuil. There's no energy here at all. Not between Everett and Madonna, or Madonna and Bratt, or anybody and the kid, played, appropriately enough, by a child named Malcolm Stumpf. And trust me when I tell you there has not been a more fitting name for a child since the dawn of time. This kid makes Jake Lloyd look like Jim Carrey.
I grant you that this script was written by a first-time writer, Thomas Ropelewski (notice I let the "rope" thing pass), but nobody had to pass this thing on without fixing it, did they? And now for some unknown reason, Everett is suing to get a writing credit on it? Rupe, my boy, why would your want your name associated with this thing more than it already is? You star in it, and you play a gay character, and you are openly gay in real life. How is it, then, that you're the most unconvincing gay character onscreen since Pacino did Cruising? Yet, you want a writing credit for the script that made your performance in My Best Friend's Wedding rival the Boston Red Sox trading Babe Ruth to the Yankees for biggest fluke of all-time. A tip for later reference, Rupe: if the movie stinks, nobody takes credit for it. Nobody took credit for "brushing up" the script for Tank Girl, did they? Or Gone Fishing?
What I honestly want to know, though, above all else, is this -- who is responsible for this mess? I can't believe Schlesinger let this pass into the theaters in this shape. Did someone else have a chance to cut it? Did Madonna have final approval? I hope not, because she comes out of this looking more boring than tapwater. Everett? Same answer. The Studio Suits? If Paramount did this to themselves, please tell them to call me 'cause I know a plane they can jump out of. And, by the way, Miss Julia? A lot was said in the various magazines about you spending a lot of time on the set, making sure Madonna didn't steal your boyfriend Ben. You needn't have worried. If this is the degree of sexuality she was putting out, she couldn't have gotten him away from you with a stick. But Julia, if this is, in turn, as sexy as Ben can be, I'd think seriously about making up with Lyle ... at least he can sing.
Folks, plain and simple. If this is The Next Best Thing in life, then I'm going back to that skydiving plane and jumping out. With an anvil in each hand and an anchor in my teeth.
Image copyright Paramount Pictures.
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dead on arrival