Dir. Shamim Sarif, UK, 2007, 80 mins
Cast: Sheetal Sheth, Lisa Ray, Antonia Frering
Review by Richard Mellor
First lesbian vampire killers, now lesbian Christians and Muslims. This time there's no Horne and Corden, but just as much neck-nibbling, emphasis on bloodlines and half-baked drama.
I Can't Think Straight (pun, you fear, fully intended) sees Tala (Ray), a Jordanian of Palestinian origin, and Leyla (Sheetah Sheth), a Brit of Indian origin, fall for each other after an agonisingly protracted dalliance. Once they've realised they can't suppress their love etc etc, the film outlines the obstacles they face. We're not talking big ones. You'd think a homosexual relationship across such traditionalist, multi-cultural divides would be vaguely difficult; but here a heated chat with Mum, a hug from Dad, and Bobbie's your aunt.
This despite every effort by director Shamim Sarif — who has previous with an incredibly similar tale of lesbian love also starring Ray and Sheth, only this time set in apartheid-era South Africa — to present the lovers' respective colourful cultures. In fact he's rather patronising in the way he does it: Tala hails from a Stepford Wives-like society of lavish balls and eye-pokingly boring men; Leyla's mum has constant lunches, while her sister rebels against the cloying conservatism of her family's faith. Reproach it like Rooney, you might say.
The girls' own relationship is equally familiar. Sarif strives to present their common intelligence, as though mutually high IQs make lesbian flings more curious. Tala comments bravely on the war in Gaza and adores Oxford 's old buildings, while Leyla precociously writes a book which of course turns out to be brilliant. In between there's some slow-mo coitus with echoey panting and gentle techno music, a few gaping boys and the discovery of Leyla's kd lang CD — the ultimate sign of lesbianism, of course.
Soon enough we're into the will they-won't they phase: this is where the pluckier girl (in this case Leyla) tells everyone she's gay and the timid partner dilly-dallies long enough to allow for a temporary break-up, a minimum of five stares into the distance and one oh-my-god near-miss — where the closet-dweller's about to reveal her BIG SECRET but then an alien lands or Rolf Harris turns up or some such freak occurrence and the moment cruelly passes — until eventually she momentously does spill the beans and then everyone hugs and then someone else comes out and then the whole sorry saga begins all over again...
Worse still, Sarif has pitched I Can't Think Straight as a comedy: i.e. one of those demeaning films which make light out of something really serious, rather than gutsily confronting the issues head-on in a sober (non-Apartheid) drama. Alas, his movie is acutely unfunny, with a clunky script largely content simply to mock the film's uncool, out-of-touch elders. Here's an example — Mum: "Polo? You mean the game?" Daughter (exasperation quickly turning to sarcasm): "No Mum- I mean the mint..." Hahahaha! Oh.
There are bright spots: Sheth is very pretty and likeable as Leyla, even if you're not so sure what she sees in the grumpy, gutless gudgeon that is Tala. And Nina Wadia draws laughs as a maid permanently trying to poison Tala's prim mother. For a while you hope she'll do it, then frame Tala; she'd then go to prison and I Can't Think Straight could morph into an exotic version of Bad Girls — Inside & Prejudice, perhaps? Unfortunately that doesn't happen, and all ends up being painfully predictable, hence Close-Up giving away the ending a few paragraphs ago.
For all its flaws, what's saddest about Sarif's film is how it glorifies westernised society. Despite all the numerous saris and salutations on offer, religion and ethnicity here are treated like a teenager might regard his old granny: a show of humility and devotion masking a secret desire to be elsewhere, free, unfettered. In this case, for the young'uns on show, this Utopia is modern London — a seductive place of short skirts, open homosexuality and Katy Perry. Her I Kissed A Girl plays over the final credits, a suitably derogatory close to depressingly derogatory movie.
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