Random Play: “Irreconcilable Differences”

Robin Monica Alexander delves into the psychology of guilty pleasures, and recalls her childhood fascination over the movie “Irreconcilable Differences.”

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Random Play: “Irreconcilable Differences”

What exactly is a “guilty pleasure”? I know it’s supposed to be a movie, TV show, or band that one really enjoys in spite of its dubious value. For whatever reason, even if the thing itself is lame, poorly conceived, or utterly wretched, there’s something about it that pleases or satisfies us, even as it’s eating away at our souls. I have a few such pleasures — the Meg Ryan alcoholism weepie When a Man Loves a Woman (1994), for example, which has been shown approximately 10,000 times on basic cable — but for the most part, I don’t feel guilty about the movies I love, even when no one else seems to appreciate them or even remember that they exist. Case in point: the 1984 Hollywood divorce classic Irreconcilable Differences. Yes, I called it a classic, and here’s why:

idlobby1. Drew Barrymore. Just a year and a half after becoming the breakout star of E.T. (um, Henry Thomas, anyone?), nine-year-old Drew was in demand. In her other film that came out in ‘84, Firestarter, she plays a creepy Carrie White Jr. who’s on the run from evil government agents. Irreconcilable Differences finds her playing a role that was, no doubt, all too familiar to her: a child whose life is ruined by her self-absorbed showbiz parents. A scene in which her character, left unattended at a New Year’s Eve party, chugs a glass of champagne and enjoys it just a tad too much is uncomfortably — and deliciously — prescient. Indeed, this movie may have actually saved Barrymore’s life: it taught her the definition of “emancipated minor,” which she herself became at age 15. (more…)

Random Play: “Robotech”

I barely knew him. Yet here I was, on a cold Tuesday night, at his apartment. We had had a drink or two at the bar/lounge/restaurant down the street from his place. As one would expect of a screenwriter, he had framed classic film posters on the walls, and a big bookshelf full of DVDs dominated the living room. I confess I remember only one, the one that made my breath catch and my heart skip a beat.

“Oh, yeah,” he said as I gently took it down and turned it over in my hands. “I wrote the first draft of the screenplay for that project.”

My face began to get hot. It was a sign. Despite his ponytail and potentially cheesy facial hair, I really was supposed to be here.

“To be honest,” he continued, “I don’t really like the source material much.”

Gentle reader, I wish I could say I walked out upon hearing this. But I didn’t. He did have excellent taste in literature, and despite the hair choices, he was definitely my type. Still, I should have taken a stand…in the name of the SDF-1. (more…)

Random Play: V.C. Andrews, “Flowers in the Attic”

All in the family

When does a girl become a woman? Is it a biological or a psychological phenomenon? Likely a combination. Important signposts along the road: First bra. Actually needing one’s first bra. Menstruation. First love. Starting to shave one’s legs and…other things. First sex. First orgasm. (Note that those last two don’t necessarily go together.) Personally, I feel that I reached such a milestone on my thirteenth birthday, but not because of my age – because of a book.

I remember opening my presents that spring morning. There may have been some now-forgotten items of clothing among them, but the other stuff is still vivid in my mind. First, Whitney Houston’s debut album (on vinyl). Then I unwrapped a paperback, thick, with a spooky cover: a girl’s face, looking like she was holding a flashlight under her chin in a dark room. Flowers in the Attic by V.C. Andrews. Thanks, Mom and Dad. They wouldn’t let me go to R-rated movies but I could read anything I wanted. I knew I would start reading on the bus on the way to school. Soon, I would be sucked into a literary obsession, lost in a world of Southern gothic psychodrama from which I would never completely return.

In a nutshell (a sick, sick nutshell), Flowers in the Attic is a late-’70s bestseller about a newly pubescent girl who, along with her three siblings, is hidden in the attic of her grandparents’ mansion so her mother can collect an inheritance. For three years, these extremely blond children are tortured by their bat-shit crazy grandma, who whips them, starves them and poisons them while telling them they are the spawn of Satan. Deprived of sunshine and fresh air, the youngest two fail to thrive, leaving them with little kid bodies and big kid heads. Meanwhile, the oldest girl and boy get super horny and…well, you can imagine where that goes. After tearing through the entire 400 pages in about three days, it was off to the bookstore to buy the next one in the series.

Oh yeah, it’s a series.

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