Dir.
Michael Lembeck, 2004, USA, 98 mins
Cast:
Toni Collette, Nia Vardalos, David Duchovny
Does the world need yet another chick flick urging women to follow their dreams, feel good about their bodies, and above all, keep on singing and dancing? And do we need it trussed up in six-inch heels, plastered with glitter and surrounded by a cacophony of campness that makes even the likes of Velvet Goldmine quiver with inadequacy? Yes, this is one for the "girls" - and this time, it's dressed in drag.
As Nia Vardalos undoubtedly knows, it takes the tightest of scripts, the sharpest of directors, and a slice of contextual luck to create a successful comedy. When Rita Wilson saw Vardalos' one woman show My Big Fat Greek Wedding, it struck a chord with her own Greek ancestry, at a time when the cinema going world was embracing ethnic minority family oriented humour (in particular Asian comedies like East is East and Bend it like Beckham), and she propelled it to hit status. But with Connie and Carla, her second foray into scriptwriting, she is unlikely to hit such dizzy heights of success, not least because of the obvious moralising and American dream ethos which, more often than not, need a darker tinge of cynicism before a jaded audience will buy a ticket.
Although the plot premise differs little from any of the standard down-on-their-luck gruesome-twosome-make-good fares we've seen hit the screen countless times in varying comedic disguises (Romy and Michelle and Sister Act spring vividly to mind), this is by no means justifiable grounds for immediate dismissal. When quirky, kooky all-singing, all-dancing showbiz wannabes Connie and Carla find themselves unexpectedly on the run from a mafia hitman, they choose to hide out in LA, and quickly find their niche performing their previously derided act to rapturous applause night after night - in drag. As their notoriety grows, so does their social circle, and the pair are soon embroiled in the gay scene, struggling to keep their own identities whilst maintaining their cover in front of all the other queens.
Slapstick predictability seeps through the cracks at every turn, but the chemistry between Vardalos, and the always fabulous Toni Collette, crackles through a series of sharp one liners and hysteria driven duologues, with Vardalos' Connie constantly seeming on the verge of laughter, and Collette's innocent, neurotic, shrill Carla almost as much of a tour de force as her bumbling Muriel, let down only by the weak plot and even weaker subplot. David Duchovny is surprisingly sympathetic as a sweet younger brother of a dolled up drag queen, struggling with his inbred homophobia, making the dubious friendship between him, and Vardalos' pseudo drag queen, more laughable than much of the intended comedy. There are tears, revelations, tacky gay moments, Debbie Reynolds, a wardrobe Elton would die for, a motley crew of Hollywood's finest gay actors squabbling for screen space (particularly the hilariously named N'Cream, who previously popped up in an episode of Friends as Chandler's creepy houseboy), a cacophony of clichéd gags that pack no punches, but somehow, this still manages to be an enjoyable experience. Vardalos and Collette valiantly belt out classic tune after classic tune as they doublehandedly recreate Los Angeles ' non-existent dinner theatre scene, and both, but particularly the ample-mouthed Colette, make almost worryingly convincing men.
Employing the cultural barrenness of Los Angeles as a metaphor for their own resurgence of self awareness, and that of all women everywhere, may seem a cheap trick in our Botox ridden times, but that shouldn't bother those who truly are just there for the music and the fantastically flamboyant costumes. Stalwart sitcom director Michael Lembeck (Friends, Ellen, Jesse) was perhaps not the best choice - we can see that his strengths lie clearly within the sphere of the crammed half hour when the film starts to drag after precisely that slot. And undoubtedly, the miasma of predictability will leave the more resolutely machismo ridden men groaning in their seats while the unapologetically formulaic, almost forced kookiness of the girls as they whoop their way to Los Angeles through a medley of musicals, would probably cause Sir Andrew to gauge his eyes out with a rusty roller-skate. So unless your idea of heaven is draping yourself in taffeta, thrusting a deodorant bottle under your mouth and belting out "Don't cry for Me Argentina" at the top of your lungs, save your money, because you just won't get it. And you'll spoil it for everyone else who does.
Andrea Hubert
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