But I'm a Cheerleader
review by Cynthia Fuchs, 28 July 2000
Thinking
Pink
Check
the fabulous pictures of Natasha Lyonne and Clea DuVall in the
recent cover story for Out magazine. These hip young film
stars appear to have it all, though not in a traditional sense. To
promote their participation in But I'm a Cheerleader, one of
the few plainly lesbian movies to have even limited mainstream
distribution this year, the magazine's photo spread has them showing
off new glamorous blond hairstyles and tastefully luscious sexy
outfits, posing seductively while chatting openly about their
straightness and whatever deals they've been cutting with Hollywood
in order to make interesting movies at the same time that they're
making a living. Ask anyone in the business: this is no small feat.
So
far, the girls have enjoyed close-to-charmed careers, landing
respectable-yet-attention-getting start-up roles -- Lyonne in The
Slums of Beverly Hills and American Pie and DuVall in The
Faculty and Girl, Interrupted -- and, happily, they're
demonstrating healthy self-confidence and appropriate lack of
respect for ancient industry rules for starlets, like "don't
leave the house without makeup," or "don't play a
lesbian." In fact, they're just fine with their girl-on-girl
action in Cheerleader; though, according to director Jamie
Babbit, she agreed to tone down the sex scene via judicious shadows
and cuts, so they wouldn't have to show too much of their naked
bodies and still create an erotic and emotional few moments in the
midst of a lot of campy excess. But what Babbit and her crew
considered toned down was apparently not so for the MPAA ratings
board, which famously -- at least in indie film circles -- slapped
an NC-17 on the picture for its salaciousness.
Compare
But I'm a Cheerleader to popular R (or even PG-13) rated
films featuring heterosexual teens having fairly explicit sex with
each other -- and apple pies -- and it's clear that the fact that it
was two girls having sex that troubled the ratings people. Truth be
told, it probably didn't help matters that the movie is a broad
satire of anti- and ex-gay proselytizing, or that it suggests
masturbation is a fine thing, that girls not only have desires, but
can also articulate and act on them without men, or that makes
ruthless fun of the rigidity of straight culture all around. In
fact, given ratings troubles endured by other filmmakers, including
Tamara Jenkins, who made Slums of Beverly Hills, the anxiety
can be generalized to sexualized independent-minded young girls more
generally, not only baby dykes. As is illustrated in American Pie's
gender-sex categorizing, boys are still encouraged to engage in
"risky business" and girls are still supposed to wait.
In
addition, the movie features a terrific performance by DuVall and a
refreshing, Citizen Ruth-like fairness in its satirical aim
(the Christian Right gets theirs, but so do those folks who buy everything
Rainbow -- cups, curtains, kitchen accessories -- to decorate their
homes). It's a great thing, then, that But I'm a Cheerleader
challenges such hoary thinking. However, the film -- written by
Brian Wayne Peterson and based on a story by Babbit -- also makes it
points in some graceless, even reductive ways, and so, viewers are
left with a dilemma: do you support a film with its heart in so many
of the right places even though it's not consistently excellent as
art?
Billed
-- rather clumsily -- by Lions Gate (who picked up the film after
New Line dropped it at the last minute) as "A comedy of sexual
disorientation," But I'm a Cheerleader begins by
introducing its titular hero, Megan (Lyonne), a small town high
school cheerleader, whom you first see wearing her short orange
skirt, leaping and splitting above the camera in lovely slow motion.
Her parents (Mink Stole and Bud Cort) have become concerned that
she's not very interested in kissing her boyfriend, eats vegetarian
and keeps a Melissa Etheridge poster on her bedroom wall. And so,
they devise an intervention with the help of camp counselor Mike (RuPaul
playing a man), and send her off to True Directions, an Exodus-style
camp where she will learn how to be straight once and for all. At
the camp, Megan meets Graham (DuVall), also in training to be a good
wifey, but it's clear from jump that they are meant to be together,
at least as a way to end the film.
The
camp is run by Mary Brown (Cathy Moriarty), a clean-and-tidy freak
with a son, Rock (Eddie Cibrian), who spends his time raking leaves
and posing with his chainsaw -- for Jack, who wears a "Straight
is Great" t-shirt, slamming home the joke -- in tiny little
short shorts. Mary believe him to be the bastion of straightness,
and uses him as a model for righteousness when she's teaching her
charges, teens (among them, What Lies Beneath's Katharine
Towne, Heavenly Creatures Melanie Lynskey, Dante Basco, Joel
Michaely, and Richard Moll) whose self-concerned parents have sent
them for a month-long regimen that resembles deprogramming. This
process includes learning to abide by social conventions, like blue
is for boys and pink for girls (production designer Rachel
Kamerman's bright color scheme is cartoonish and, after a while,
pretty ghastly), men chop wood and look at car engines, and girls
make tea and diaper babies. Needless to say, the kids don't want (or
need) to be so "healed," though some have reasons, such as
Graham, whose wealthy dick of a dad threatens (abetted by her silent
mom) to cut her off unless she does the straight thing.
In
order to survive, Graham is learning to do the closeted thing.
During the day, she's a darling diaperer, and at night, she leads
the True Directions inmates on excursions to the local gay bar,
Cocksuckers. Here the lights are low and the music is loud, and
everyone can act out. And here you see what the film might have
been, without the spoofy expansiveness, and that is, a comic
consideration of first love, namely, between Graham and Megan. Their
initial attempts to connect are tender, pleasurable, and awkward,
like any teen romance worth its salt. If only.
But
instead, the film leans too hard on its bubble-gummy look and
non-scary send-ups of homophobes, making everything so huge that no
one who is phobic might recognize himself in the film. Babbit's
previous experience -- directing independent shorts, as well as
episodes of the WB's Popular and MTV's Undressed --
shows that she has a savvy, combinatory sense of style and politics.
But Cheerleader doesn't tap into either of those strengths.
Its most appreciative audience will likely be the converted (the
film has been selected to close the gay and lesbian film festivals
in Philadelphia and San Francisco, and appeals to teen girls,
according to pre-release tests). But the audience who might benefit
most from watching it either won't see the film or won't see the
point. They can come away thinking that Cheerleader is retro
and simplistic, that its concerns don't apply to their
neighborhoods, but instead, those faraway outbacks where depraved
individuals murder gay people (as in the case of Wyoming's Matthew
Shepard or West Virginia's Arthur Warren) or the Boy Scouts win
court cases allowing them to keep out gays out (closeted gays, of
course, have always been part of the Boy Scouts, as they have the
U.S. military, but, well, don't get me started). Sadly, the
caricatures let everyone off the hook, making Megan's and Graham's
emotional development look trivial because it's so couched in camp
(though the film doesn't strike me as John-Waters-ish, several
critics have made the comparison, perhaps because there are so few
models for combining homosexuality and broad comedy in multiplexes).
What gets left out of such criticism of the film is the important
fact that homophobia and strict either-or gendering practices do
prevail in today's "civilized" cultures, liberal and
tolerant as they may seem to those who don't have to worry about
such things.
Click here to read Cynthia Fuch's interview.
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Directed by:
Jamie Babbit
Starring:
Natasha Lyonne
Clea DuVall
Cathy Moriarty
RuPaul Charles
Mink Stole
Bud Cort
Written by:
Jamie Babbit
Brian Wayne Peterson
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