Geeky Cinephile Musings…
I don't pontificate, I blather.

The Perils of Prostitution!!

So I’ve just spent a thoroughly enjoyable Sunday with my husband.  We woke up, laid in bed with cats on our tummies and dark coffees in our hands, smelled the fresh autumn breezes coming in through the window, smiled at each other, and decided that today was definitely the day to tackle Beverly Hills Madam, which has been in my Netflix queue for, oh, about two years.  This is not a joke.  TWO. YEARS.  Almost as fascinating as my desire to watch a TV movie starring Faye Dunaway as…can you guess??!?!?!!…that’s right, a Beverly Hills Madam!!!…is the film itself and the star power attached to this rusty, sinking anchor.

Now, I know what you’re thinking.  “But Madame Cinephile, why would you expect anything different? Of COURSE this film is going to suck.  It’s not even a film.  It’s a TV MOVIE.  That automatically qualifies it for worthless melodrama category, complete with soap-operatic style cuts to scenes where commercials are obviously meant to be inserted. ” Or maybe you wouldn’t be that wordy.

But, gentle reader, remind yourself that haphazard discovery and leaps of faith are half the battle when it comes to expanding your film horizons.  It’s how I discovered Pootie Tang.  And by God, Faye Dunaway’s cheekbones deserve every nanosecond of your attention.

So let’s dive right the fuck in here.  I actually WOULD recommend this film to some of you–the cool kids, of course, and I’ll let you figure out if you’re cool or not.  The reasons? Well, oh I dunno, let’s see…for starters…

Seymour Cassel is in this movie as a bartender.  Did you read that slowly enough to absorb this? HE IS A BIT PART, DAY-PLAYER, BARTENDER in this movie.  I met him, by the way.  Told him I LOVED Minnie and Moskowitz.  Man, if I’d have only seen this first!!! I could have really won his respect.  Like when I met David Andrews and told him I loved him in Cherry 2000.  To which he (somewhat angrily, truth be told) choked out, “I HAVE done other films, you know!”

I could stop here.  But I won’t.

Robin Givens plays a hooker trying to be a dancer in this movie.  Oh wait, I am so sorry–an escort.  Escorts apparently got a grand a night in the eighties.  Wait a tic, I am pretty sure they still only get about a grand a night nowadays.  Gasp! Do you know what this means?!? Escorts have had zero room for inflation in their pay grades!! Outrageous, I tell ya!!

The hot chick who Jason falls for in Back to School is in this movie.  I mean, come ON.  A Back to School reference!!!

Dan Aykroyd’s fine-ass wife, otherwise known as Donna Dixon, plays another escort.  No really, her name is Donna Dixon.  Dan Aykroyd’s fine-ass wife is just her stage name.  And in the film she is hooking to put herself through law school.  Cos THAT, my friend, is what you get for judging a trashy book by its cleavage-popping cover.  Law and shit.

And the piece de resistance? Fucking Melody Anderson is an alcoholic wingnut who gets dumped by her rich fiancé when he finds out she’s really Flash Gordon’s girl.  Oh wait.  No, a hooker.  She’s a hooker.

The acting is over-the-top atrocious, and Faye Dunaways’s cheekbones as she inhales Virginia Slim after Virginia Slim with delicate, pale fingers are spell-binding.

Great fun and terrible, all at the same time.  Plus, the added bonus of shrieking out, “SHE’S in this?!?!? HE’S IN THIS?!?!? Wait, she’s going to have that senator’s BABY?!?!? AND NOT take the money?!?!?”  It’s like The Forsyte Saga for chicks who used to listen to WHAM!

I give this piece of shit  film two very enthusiastic Lucite heels in the air.  Do yourself a favor and watch it with a martini and a catty best friend.

 

My God…you mean…you went from Flash Gordon to THIS? You silly fucking twat.

 

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