My Secret Shame
This weekend I slept through a chance to go see My Summer of Love and instead opted later to rent Prozac Nation, the film based on the book by everyone’s favorite privileged whiner Elizabeth Wurtzel. It was a straight-to-video (or DVD) howler starring Christina Ricci, who was once a voluptuous sexpot, playing the tortured and torturously pained narcissist. In the movie, she looks underfed and her acting, which when she’s not in deadpan mode is never that good, is particularly wretched. Jessica Lange channeling Maggie the Cat plays her mother in a performance so bad it wiped away my fond memories of Frances. The best though was Anne Heche as her psychiatrist (maybe Tom Cruise is on to something). I kept expecting her to strip and talk about UFOs and messiahs but no such luck. But it was awful in just the way I had hoped.
Finding the movie was no easy feat. It was checked out everywhere. I went to three different places where I ran into two artists, a curator, and a collector all looking for it and acting embarrassed (well, okay, one of them did have a porn in their stash and it wasn’t Bruce LaBruce or Richard Kern. It was Dirk Yates.) Apparently Christina Ricci is big with the art crowdfor not blowing Vincent Gallo? Or maybe we are all in love with failures.