*/**** Image B Sound B Extras D+
starring Sally Field, Dolly Parton, Shirley MacLaine, Daryl Hannah
screenplay by Robert Harling, based on his play
directed by Herbert Ross
by Walter Chaw Submitted for your
approval, shrill, neo-Tennessee Williams actress-posturing from the pantheon of
late-'80s harpies, featuring a special martyr performance from a Julia Roberts just months away from achieving sociopathic superstardom as a high-priced whore in Pretty
Woman. Not being able to relate to Herbert Ross's demographically-precise Steel Magnolias in any way, I nevertheless see in its popularity an opportunity for introspection about how little I actually understand other peoples' tastes. From my vantage, Steel Magnolias is two hours of
nattering and bon mots set in a home-salon run by Truvy (Dolly Parton, the
very definition of down-home warmth and genuineness), assisted by dizzy Arnelle
(Daryl Hannah), and frequented by diabetic Shelby (Roberts), her mother M'Lynn
(Sally Field), happy widow Clairee (Olympia Dukakis), and cranky widow Ouiser
(Shirley MacLaine). Ouiser basically stalks around swearing like a sailor and
getting shat on by birds, Clairee floats on momentum won (and fast flagging)
from Moonstruck, and M'Lynn turns into MacLaine
from Terms of Endearment. My favourite is when she force-feeds Shelby a
glass of orange juice in a vision of Hell I'd like to one day mash-up with the
brainwashing sequence from A Clockwork Orange. Along the way, the young
ones become pregnant, a stray man wanders through now and again, and each of the
grey old iron ladies gets a moment to demonstrate her humanity and humour in
the face of life's little, and big, tragedies.
|
The performances are
huge but not good; the script by first-time screenwriter Robert Harling, adapting his
own autobiographical stage play, isn't good; and all of it plods along on a
melodramatic metronome, humming in time to the episodic dictates of female ritual
and ritual births. "Don't worry, honey, women have babies every day!"
assures Truvy, and it comes off as more than a bit menacing to the perplexed
outsider perspective. (I wouldn't have batted an eye if she'd promised they'd burn Tom Skerritt in a Wicker Man after she finished this he'ah
mani-pedi, or at least would've batted the same eye.) The central concern–the
demon needing to be exorcised for playwright Harling–is Shelby's escalating
illness and her fanatical devotion to having a child, even though there's a good
chance–really good chance, trust me on this–that having a baby will cause her
kidneys to fail. And they do. Spectacularly. Roberts received a Best
Supporting Actress nod for a performance composed entirely of crying, having
seizures, and coma acting. If anything, it bolsters the idea that Hollywood
is run by a cabal of Jews and gay men. The real tragedy is that Shelby is given
the option of adopting a kid instead of killing herself by extruding the fruit
of her womb, but chooses to leave the rearing of her moppet to Dylan McDermott…or Dermot Mulroney. Doesn't matter.
The movie is either
about how sad it is when people die young or how sad it is when people grow
old, I think. Or maybe it's about how anything is possible with friends and
good humour. Yes, that's it. Steel Magnolias is two interminable,
inscrutable hours of awful jokes and histrionics that lead to the inevitable
graveside monologue where Field launches full-bore into an Oscar-ready lament about the
unfeelingness of God. This is topped by Clairee offering up Ouiser as a
punching bag in what amounts in the film to a literal, hardy-har punchline.
That Parton's native, unquenchable warmth and Dukakis and MacLaine's obvious
chemistry manage to shine through the Queer Cult Cinema fabulousness to land
with something like insight into women's relationships (I guess) is borderline
miraculous. That it simultaneously spawned a genre of crap in a
devolution chart from its already low bar to the bonding-over-cannibalism flick Fried
Green Tomatoes to the bonding-over-coprophagia flick The Help functions
as a cautionary tale about what happens when you, Titanic-like, find
a new field to strip-mine. Steel Magnolias is a good teaching text for
what the Victorian novel looked like, and for what audience it was generally
written, before form and function evolved into the modern. It's the muck.
That's its appeal.
THE BLU-RAY DISC
Twilight Time brings Steel Magnolias to Blu-ray in a limited run of 3000 copies. The 1.85:1, 1080p presentation preserves the late-'80s feel of the piece. (Check out that
first scene with Daryl Hannah's arrival into Dagwood–it instantly places the
picture.) Essentially, the movie looks like a watercolour left in
a damp climate–not runny, exactly, but with the colours just off. Ross was
never known as a technical director (Pennies from Heaven notwithstanding), and it shows. That being
said, the outdoor scenes are pleasantly Southern–green, leafy, hot as a
motherfucker–and the image is fairly filmic. The 5.1 DTS-HD MA track is kept busy by the antic
activity of the thing as a half-dozen overwritten lady characters struggle for
dominance. It's fine for what it needs to do.
The late Ross offers up a feature-length
yakker–originally recorded for DVD, I assume–that is surprisingly engaging for the first half-hour as the director
talks about adapting and "opening up" the play and skirts around the purported friction on set between him and a few of the actors. Nobody puts Dolly in the corner. What would have been nice is to hear from the cast on this yakker–after the initial volley of soft-spoken
insight, Ross runs out of things to say and sits quietly as his flamboyant
baby goes flouncing by. If you wish, you can also listen to Georges Delerue's isolated score,
which, while restful, would kind of defeat the purpose of the film, I
think–unless you're wanting to insert your own dialogue. Let's face it, the reason Steel Magnolias has legs is that it's so unapologetic in its tackiness. So be it. Follow Walter Chaw on Twitter
