Kelly WandMyra Breckinridge
October 21st 2006 03:43
To be fair, I should begin this review with a quote from Time magazine.
“So tasteless that it represents some sort of nadir in American cinema. Myra Breckinridge is an insult to intelligence, an affront to sensibility and an abomination to the eye.”
With that kind of a review, I just knew I had to see this one. Let’s wheel out those puppies.
This film often tops worst of lists the world over. It really is that good… or not. I certainly enjoyed it but I am a sick and twisted fellow whose opinion should not be trusted by man, beast of fluffy toy animal.
It begins in an operating room and Myron is looking for a gender reassignment. Enter John Carradine, looking for a pay check. He’ll be your surgeon for today but that whisky breath is about as method as it comes, baby. This could, in fact, be a fantasy sequence rather than a castration; a metaphor for the creation of the titular Myra. This is, after all, based on a novel by Gore Vidal but I suspect he wouldn’t be admitting that except under contractual obligation. As co-producer, I heard he flew to Italy to escape.
Myra is played by Raquel Welch but talks like a gay writer from New York. She goes to Hollywood to destroy all residual vestiges of masculinity in America because after the films of the nineteen thirties and forties, masculinity became redundant. To accomplish this goal, she takes Myron with her. Wait a minute. Didn’t I tell you that Myra was Myron without a dick? Yes I did. But Myra needs an occasional dance partner and someone to talk to so that the film won’t be a continual monologue. She also needs someone to fellate. You heard me.
Don’t blame me. I didn’t write the thing. I’m just telling you how it goes or, more to the point, how I think it goes. I could, however, be very wrong in my interpretation. Clarity does not seem to be one of director Michael Sarne’s major vices.
Myra goes to Uncle Buck’s acting school to teach a bunch of talentless losers how to be stars. Uncle Buck is played by John Huston in “slumming it” mode. Whilst Uncle Buck spends the day being sexually pleasured by the female hired help, there seems to be only one heterosexual male student. Myra will not be happy until she sodimises him with a dildo and then fucks his girlfriend. Said girlfriend will only go with Myra if she has a dick – which I suppose is lucky for Myron who runs Myra over. Myron wakes up in hospital asking what happened to his tits.
You got that? Not going to fast for you? I haven’t even mentioned Mae West. Given the fact that this film was made in 1970, she would have to have been in her seventies. Her late seventies. Her very late seventies. She runs a casting couch. Men line up to “see” her. “How tall are you?” “Six foot, seven inches.” “Never mind the six feet, let’s talk about the seven inches.”
Some say that her make-up reminds them of the work of a good mortician. Well, good on her I say. It is a small comfort to know we at least have the option to grow old disgracefully.
All this sleaze is intercut with clips of old movies, audiences clapping and nuclear bombs going off. It is genuinely unwholesome and un-American. I enjoyed it but – then again – I would.
“So tasteless that it represents some sort of nadir in American cinema. Myra Breckinridge is an insult to intelligence, an affront to sensibility and an abomination to the eye.”
With that kind of a review, I just knew I had to see this one. Let’s wheel out those puppies.
This film often tops worst of lists the world over. It really is that good… or not. I certainly enjoyed it but I am a sick and twisted fellow whose opinion should not be trusted by man, beast of fluffy toy animal.
It begins in an operating room and Myron is looking for a gender reassignment. Enter John Carradine, looking for a pay check. He’ll be your surgeon for today but that whisky breath is about as method as it comes, baby. This could, in fact, be a fantasy sequence rather than a castration; a metaphor for the creation of the titular Myra. This is, after all, based on a novel by Gore Vidal but I suspect he wouldn’t be admitting that except under contractual obligation. As co-producer, I heard he flew to Italy to escape.
Myra is played by Raquel Welch but talks like a gay writer from New York. She goes to Hollywood to destroy all residual vestiges of masculinity in America because after the films of the nineteen thirties and forties, masculinity became redundant. To accomplish this goal, she takes Myron with her. Wait a minute. Didn’t I tell you that Myra was Myron without a dick? Yes I did. But Myra needs an occasional dance partner and someone to talk to so that the film won’t be a continual monologue. She also needs someone to fellate. You heard me.
Don’t blame me. I didn’t write the thing. I’m just telling you how it goes or, more to the point, how I think it goes. I could, however, be very wrong in my interpretation. Clarity does not seem to be one of director Michael Sarne’s major vices.
Myra goes to Uncle Buck’s acting school to teach a bunch of talentless losers how to be stars. Uncle Buck is played by John Huston in “slumming it” mode. Whilst Uncle Buck spends the day being sexually pleasured by the female hired help, there seems to be only one heterosexual male student. Myra will not be happy until she sodimises him with a dildo and then fucks his girlfriend. Said girlfriend will only go with Myra if she has a dick – which I suppose is lucky for Myron who runs Myra over. Myron wakes up in hospital asking what happened to his tits.
You got that? Not going to fast for you? I haven’t even mentioned Mae West. Given the fact that this film was made in 1970, she would have to have been in her seventies. Her late seventies. Her very late seventies. She runs a casting couch. Men line up to “see” her. “How tall are you?” “Six foot, seven inches.” “Never mind the six feet, let’s talk about the seven inches.”
Some say that her make-up reminds them of the work of a good mortician. Well, good on her I say. It is a small comfort to know we at least have the option to grow old disgracefully.
All this sleaze is intercut with clips of old movies, audiences clapping and nuclear bombs going off. It is genuinely unwholesome and un-American. I enjoyed it but – then again – I would.
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