Dir.
John Cameron Mitchell, US, 2006, 102 mins
Cast: Sook-Yin Lee, Paul Dawson, Lindsay Beamish
Review by Richard Mellor
Until Shortbus came along, having sex in
a film tended to be bad news. Be it an awkward, embarrassing
comedic romp; a brief, blurry bout of bonking on carefully-placed
sheets; or the all-out explicit 'fuck', usually about as
realistic as the dialogue that has initiated it, sex has
rarely been taken seriously by cinema.
Shortbus – director John Cameron Mitchell's long-awaited
follow-up to the all-singing, all-bitching Hedwig and the
Angry Inch – proffers another alternative. In Mitchell’s
New York City, sex is inherent and human connections revolve
around the circumstance and contentment of a climax.
And it’s the high quantities of brash, unflinching
sex that will sign Shortbus’ entry card into many dinner-party
conversations. Within the first five minutes, we have seen
a penis penetrate a vagina, bondage, a Jackson Pollock painting
covered in ejaculate and a man in a Lotus position doing
the unbelievable with his mouth and erection.
During the press screening, quality newspaper reviewers
were undoing top buttons, loosening ties and tutting in utter
terror. The remaining minutes hardly provided relief, gleefully
showcasing populous orgies and adventurous public masturbation.
Is the sex identifiable? While it's a struggle to empathise
with mass orgies and the defecation of modern art, some of
the more regular lovemaking on show here rings a bell. We've
all had less than perfect intercourse, and in truth, the
sight of genitalia getting up to mischief on screen is not
too shocking.
Two chief characters are at the heart of Shortbus' sexual
somersaults. Sofia (Sook-Yin Lee) is a relationship counsellor
who has never had an orgasm (she has truly found the right
film) and feverishly desires one. Meanwhile James (Dawson)
is simultaneously dating another James, partaking in threesomes
and making a video for an artistic suicide note.
Sofia and James, along with a motley
crew including drag queens, a dominatrix and a lonely ex-Mayor,
meet and share woes in Shortbus -– a libertarian
salon promoting literature, film, honesty and, yes, sex.
Together and separately, each screws, discusses and self-pleasures
themselves, in pursuit of a happier emotional state.
Herein lies the one criticism of Mitchell's
melodrama: for all the energy, vigour and hormones on show,
not a lot happens. Sofia, James and the rest meet at Shortbus.
They return to their lives. They meet at Shortbus. And
so on…
While there are definitely mental voyages being undertaken
by our heroes, physical progress is less apparent. At Shortbus,
the same characters do the same things: sit, bemoan, screw.
Once the dust has settled on its outrageous opening, Mitchell's
film suffers through this lack of palpable, unexpected drama.
For all that, this a director is full of quirks. Using unproven,
often local actors, he elicits incredibly introspective performances.
From an amateur band he gets a rousing, plaintively original
score. His camera uses a Papier Mache model of NYC to reflect
a city-wide scope and that is rewarded with a patent sense
of community.
But despite its swagger, coarse language
and the surfeit of sex, Shortbus has a surprise up its
sleeve: it’s
actually the sweetest, most tender film you will see this
year. As beautifully shot as it is furiously funny, Mitchell’s
movie offers up a vulgar but virtuous vision of New York
that Woody Allen can only wet dream about.
And it's this delicious inbalance between emotional delicacy
and acerbic outrageousness that truly elevates Shortbus.
Both charming and louche, Mitchell's film somehow manages
to be comic, tragic and euphoric in equal, merciless measures.
And, just like the most positive sex of all, it leaves you
utterly breathless.
|
