Not the next best thing

Archive: Culture Low and High

Charles and I rented Next Best Thing. I?’d never seen Madonna in a movie before. Now I know why she?’s rarely had success as an actress. She can?’t act. Kind of a surprise that a woman who has been so shrewd and cunning in finding the right producers and in manipulating her surface should sound as though she?’s reading her lines off the teleprompter for the first time. Slipping into a sort of British accent for a phrase or two made it even more uncomfortable to hear.

If I?’d seen this movie I don?’t think I?’d had my baffling dream about having sex with Madonna. My one erotic dream that involved a woman (my favorite sexy dream had a red-haired boy on my lap). At the time I?’d?’ve heard almost none of her music. (I didn?’t listen to any of it until about 1998 and don?’t carry the burden of being annoyed with her long career.)

At the time the only feeling I had for Madonna was respect. That she was always able to find a look and sound that kept her popular struck me mostly as a fascinating pop culture capitalist triumph. And after all the decades of women who were used and quickly disposed of by producers I liked seeing a woman who could retain control and use the ?‘hit makers?’ herself.

I?’d?’ve expected Rupert Everett to save the movie for me. But his loving and later tearful daddy role never won more than the sympathy I felt obliged to give. I might?’ve liked his role better if it were a component of a better movie.

Maybe one of Everett?’s novels will come into the shop one day and I?’ll give it a try. I wouldn?’t burden it with expectations and won?’t feel disobliged if I quickly shut it. (Oddly enough I?’ve never opened one of Stephen Fry?’s comic novels and we?’ve had at least one in the shop.)