Pretty Things

I was quite eager to see what had been described as a "documentary" on the burlesque strippers of the second quarter (or so) of the last century. I worked as a live musician behind strippers in the mid 1960s, when the women I worked behind were already an anachronism. Older than I was by 10 or sometimes 20 years, they had an "act" (or a "shtick") with props and a narrative of sorts; they didn't disrobe completely; and there was no possibility of confusing the experience of watching their show with being a non-medical presence at a gynecological examination. They were also (to generalize, certainly) wilder than hell, full of life, and committed to a philosophy of behavioral laissez-faire which was truly mind-expanding to my young suburban self. Nevertheless, I am quite disappointed with the film.

OK, what is this film? First of all, to the degree that it explores the director's (and - should we also call her the female lead?) discomfort with her own sexuality, with her stammering, over-controlled and nearly inarticulate vocabulary of movement, and with her search for a new (and appropriated) vocabulary of movement which she hopes to be self-empowering, it may well be some sort of autobiographical essay, but exactly to that degree, it's not documentary. (By the way, watching her attempt to perfect some bumps, grinds, and shimmies while "en point" in ballet toe shoes is an example of the brittleness of her self-conception, and provides apparently unconscious self-parody. For a person who spends as much time as she does looking at herself in the mirror, she sees remarkably little, and nothing to laugh at.)

Also, in an effort to mold the expression of the strippers (yes, oldish women, but in the context of this film, first and foremost strippers) to cleave to a puerile combination of partly-chewed and regurgitated academic feminist theory and the psycho-babble of sex and power, she robs from the strippers the often formidable authenticity and power of their statements. They lay it out bare (as it were) and she hurries to wrap it up in something that's not so scary. Several times the strippers quite obviously are suffering her as an annoying, uncomprehending tourist to their world. At one point, one of the strippers says "Oh come on, now - you're not THAT naive!" Unfortunately, I think that the stripper may have been incorrect.

Given the inherent interest of the topic (to me, at any rate), and the rich color and authenticity of the old strippers in the film, it saddens me that I think the movie such a dog, but dog it is. A producer with a commitment to excise the egregiously self-indulgent and narcissistic strains from the movie would have resulted in a much stronger work. As it stands, you'll learn more about female burlesque (if not about stripping) from watching old Lucy reruns.

This movie felt very "grad school" to me. Or even a therapy session. Goldwyn has a lot to learn as a documentarian. Why oh why did she feel the need to show herself so much? If she had only focused the camera on the actual dancers, then we would have gotten an even fuller picture of burlesque history. It would have also been really great to see more of a correlation between sexual and government politics of the era. The archival footage of these beautiful proud women was stunning. When the actual dancers spoke, I was amazed, especially by Zorita and her bluntness. When the film-maker spoke, I cringed. With every word she spoke I knew there was that much more time stolen from the dancers' spotlight. For Christ's sake, when this was filmed, the clock was ticking loudly for these poor women. Didn't Goldwyn understand the sense of urgency to tell their stories as thoroughly as possible? These women were so elderly, and a few died before the film even saw the light of day. Instead of an exploration into the full richness of their lives, we got Goldwyn's failed attempts to be sexy. The film wasn't all bad though. It articulated that pseudo-grace cannot be substituted for god-given grace, even when they wear the same clothes.

This is one of the most frustrating and infuriating viewing experiences I've had in years, and a real blown opportunity to do a comprehensive job telling the story of these burlesque queens. The problem is that Liz Goldwyn inserts herself into the story, and takes it over with her misguided attempts to do striptease, something that she has neither the looks nor the body for.

I mean, if you want to strip, it helps if you have actual curves. This woman needed to go on the all-ButterBurger diet for a month. But it's not her anorexic frame that's the problem here. It's her ego-tripping, wrongheaded approach to the subject that torpedoes this project. Despite having one of the Maysles as her cinematographer, she violates all the rules of documentary film-making, and misses the point time and again.

The interviews are great, and funny in spite of the filmmaker, who keeps trying to insert her third wave feminist rhetoric into their life stories. Whereas the strippers themselves are very matter-of-fact about their careers, Goldwyn keeps trying to tell them how they "owned their sexuality." When the women tell her about the raincoat crowd masturbating under newspapers while the dancers did their bump-and-grind, her reaction is priceless: "How dare they!," she says, adding, "That's not what it was about...It was about witticism...Empowerment." No, it was about women taking their clothes off and guys wanking to it. As one of the strippers says, "We were the poor man's brothel." If Goldwyn has a problem with guys beating off to strippers, she needn't worry that anyone will be masturbating to the striptease number she performs at the end of the film.

Zorita, a stripper who often used a snake in her act, has a lot of the best lines. Goldwyn keeps asking Zorita about her lesbianism. When she asks what use Zorita had for men, the response is classic: "A hairy chest and a limp joint. Who needs it?" At another point, when teaching the fan dance to the clueless filmmaker, Zorita tells her, "You're queer for asses." Anyway, there's some worthwhile stuff to be found here, but there could have been so much more if not for the overprivileged and undertalented Goldwyn and her lame, Women's Studies take on classic striptease.

Oh yeah -- she also loses points for using David Bowie's "Oh! You Pretty Things" as the theme song, instead of the Bo Diddley song.

Immediately you are drawn in by the brilliant opening graphics, by the collections of photographs and the history that these women can share. You think "Wow, this is going to be great.. how fascinating!" you put down the clicker and get ready for wonderful entertainment and a new understanding of these women. Then you realize that there is this irritating girl in her own world who keeps appearing in every single scene.. you ask 'who is this idiot?" only to realize that she is the director and you will be forced to see her - and hear her - the whole time. The only way to describe her is .. well, a drippy and passive aggressive self centered bore.. watch as she tries on clothes and/or give lifeless, one dimensional personal comments on what was happening in these women's lives. This 'director' obviously loves herself on film more than her subjects, missing almost every single opportunity to explore and enrich the viewer with what is absolutely interesting and full of potential. This is not a documentary so much as a self serving masturbation. Very Film School. Meanwhile, there are these missed stories.. these women who spent their lives as sex objects during a very weird time in our country's history.. sexuality and independence were both just peeking out from under the oppression and denial of the 50's ... how did these ladies get started, what did they dealt with, how did their families deal with it? .. we lose most of this while we blink in distraction watching this 'director' gratiate herself into every nook possible starting with her childish costume obsession.. Watch the strain on the dancer's faces - now in their 70's - as the 'director' asks to try on their clothing: fragile, precious relics and trophies from their career. Who would even THINK to ask to try this stuff on?! Who? A self centered, clueless, disrespectful ego maniac whose eyes are open only to see herself.. "oh yes that's very interesting.. oooh.. can I try THAT on?" These dresses are sacred to these women, left in zipped hangers for the past 40 years and some twit is going to turn on a camera and ask to try it on?.. Leave them alone - the clothes and the women! These ladies have an amazing life story, they are amazing now..

It turned out to be SO DISAPPOINTING!! You cannot help but ask yourself who this girl knew to get this movie made and presented to HBO.. Meanwhile, Pretty Things could almost be a segment on Saturday Night Live.. But seriously, It's a wonderful film to watch and learn how NOT to make a documentary.. compare this with something like Grey Gardens where the directors allowed their subject to blossom. Not to watch the director plant herself into the subject and kill it all.

1. Too much time spent showing these classic fantasy girls in their caftan and muu muu dotage. They should have been properly introduced, then given voice overs while showing much more old footage and stills. If I want to look at grannies, I'll go to Palm Springs.

2. Classic film student error: making the movie all about the interviewer and her opinions, instead of the subjects. LG has some dance moves, she has the stems, and she could pass for Capucine if she bothered to make an effort. Hint: make up, hair down to shoulder length, and chic clothes. But spare us the awkward rehearsals en pointe, the undergrad feminism, and the ending. And let's face it, without implants LG is out of her league here.

3. Great movie moment: Zorita hands LG a tiny G string and gives her a look that speaks volumes about what she really thinks.

4. Bottom line: less cheese, more cheesecake, please. BC