Eight Two

I enjoyed this bleary-eyed melodrama, with a title as tabloidy as any 1950s science fiction B-picture (which this is most certainly not) and a pair of lead performances that hold you through the sometimes dull predictabilities of the story. Wronged, made-for-television women don't come any more emotionally vulnerable than Michele Greene, who, after learning of a mysterious pregnancy, accuses her dentist of raping her while she lay under sedation. Looking like Paige Davis just out of rehab, Ms. Greene doles out her character's screaming and crying judiciously, as if she were rebelling against the teleplay's original directives. With eyes that can gaze wistfully past the grey Toronto horizon as well as stare down various male tormentors (be it the villanous doctor Joe Penny or her disloyal, mistrustful husband William R. Moses) with equal woundedness, Ms. Greene offers the audience a veritable graduate-school course in Lifetime histrionics, without ever succumbing to silliness. As the bad doctor who just can't keep his hands to himself (notably so in the third act!), personification of evil Mr. Penny represents yuppie scum in its most rabid left-wing perception: not only is he a cocky, middle-aged, physically imposing rapist with a comb-over and a dated sports car, but he occupies a profession as bland and emasculating as dentist. One gets the subtextual impression that he's still resentful that he's not a "real" doctor, and with this rage, Mr. Penny icily delivers lines like "You can't beat me" or "You'll never prove anything, because I'm the man and you're the woman" and sends moderate shivers up your spine, if only for the actor's bracing commitment to such a throwaway movie.

As it grows more and more plausible that the final 50 pages of the script were written in a pizza & cocaine-fueled hurry (with Ms. Greene's character musing like Adam West on how to attain a young, beautiful undercover policewoman who also needs a great deal of dental work for a sting operation), one can begin to ask themselves honestly how much better this film would have been starring Ashley Judd and Alec Baldwin, and then, inevitably, one may begin to wonder about what's stopping those actors' careers from being completely replaced, like pod people, with the more obscure but equally competent talents of She Woke Up Pregnant's leads.

With a grin that might be mistaken for intoxication, Jimmy Kimmel spends most of Jimmy Kimmel Live seemingly bemused by all the corporate fuss made over his silly ideas (the now-prohibited open bar for the studio audience, his proposal to have a TV monitor on the desk so that he could flip over to competing shows should things become at all dull), and he hosts this talk show much the same way Al Pacino's suicidal ex-navy colonel waltzes through "Scent of a Woman": aware of his own encroaching demise, and free to be himself. The mortality rate of talk show hosts is not comforting to any young upstart, for every Leno and Letterman, there are Chevy Chases, Pat Sajaks, Lauren Huttons, Rick Deeses, Whoopi Goldbergs, Magic Johnsons, Keenan Ivory Wayanses, Chris Spencers, etc., but Kimmel seems to be downright tickled pink. Although defanged considerably since The Man Show and lacking an intrinsically hilarious writing team, he maintains (and relies on) a likeability that patches the often awkward holes well, like early Letterman without the memorable bits.

Opening Night is *such* a fun movie to watch. John Cassavetes was smack dab in the middle of his stride as a director, having completed A Woman Under The Influence (his watershed picture, a hugely intense, absolutely fantastic movie that manages to zone almost completely on nothing but individual human emotions - fear, love, self-doubt) and The Killing of a Chinese Bookie (an awesome awesome awesome movie with Ben Gazzara where he's working for and running from the mafia around Los Angeles, incredible, resonant, mostly handheld cinematography that places emphasis on human faces and a script that is full of realistic dialogue - probably because the film is heavily improvised) just before this. What it's all about is a middle-aged actress whose overriding insecurities as a human being are drawn to the surface by a single incident: the accidental death of an adoring, enigmatic fan. As she muddles her way through previews of her upcoming Broadway play 'Second Woman' (of which she is the star), her health -- mental and otherwise -- begins to deteriorate. She just can't get it together, and an unsympathetic (and when they feign sympathy and support, they're unbelievable) cast of supporters doesn't help matters. She drinks and drinks and drinks and falls down some and messes up a lot. Will she get it together in time for Opening Night?

Underneath this, John Cassavetes stages and films various scenes of the fictitious play in front of an actual audience, aware of the film cameras filming a movie or not. In that sense, these bits of the film are incredibly interesting. John Cassavetes and Gena Rowlands share unmatched chemistry on stage, being that they were one of the most in-love couples in the annals of film history, and it shows. Cassavetes reminds me you of his dynamite ability as a nuanced, fun-to-watch character actor, and Gena Rowlands reminds you of why she's believable as an adored, successful stage actress. These are somewhat arcane stage performances, but are delightful.

What is wrong with Opening Night? It's a movie for people who love movies, with long takes, memorable camera moves, first rate acting, high-concept ideas, a solid beginning middle and end, a great score, and a central theme that is very compelling. Some of Cassavetes' best work, a real brawny film, tall and beautiful, heavily recommended to people who are sick of cotton candy movies, sick of feature-length trailers, sick of all the crap. If you want a thick, expansive thing, Opening Night sits on the shelf, waiting.