The Rake Magazine

by Ann Bauer

There are hundreds of movies that have informed, moved, touched, piqued, or entertained me, but only a handful that have filled me with unmitigated joy: Bringing Up Baby, an off-the-wall 1938 Katharine Hepburn/Cary Grant comedy; Bagdad Cafe, a film from 1988 that got mixed reviews but has one of the most haunting soundtracks I've ever heard; and strangely, last year's biopic about Leonard Cohen, I'm Your Man, which caused me to leave the theater weeping and grateful for reasons I couldn't even name.

Add to these the current release of Hairspray.

I'll admit, I haven't seen the original John Waters version. (I know, I know, this is an egregious omission in my own personal film education.) But I've been told that it's "campy." Come to think of it, that's the only adjective I've heard applied to it. And the truth is that I'm not a big fan of camp. In my experience, life is odd and dissonant and colorful and wonderfully inconsistent all on its own; you don't need to heighten these elements in order to make a point.

The 2007 release of Hairspray, still in theaters today, is not particularly campy. It's remarkably sweet -- so sweet, in fact, that I was leery at first. When the film opened with a robust, stiff-haired teenager bounding out of bed and dashing into the streets of Kennedy-era Baltimore to sing, I steeled myself for treacle. Somehow, though, despite scads of bouffy-haired young people crooning ballads, the film managed to avoid this. And halfway through, I realized it had become a tract on everything that is wholesome, righteous, moral, and good, while raising real issues about human dignity and cultural standards of beauty.

I'm not saying Hairspray is realistic -- it isn't. But that's what's so great about it. Sit down to watch this movie and you get to enter a world where black and white DO become equal, where the fat girl dances to wild applause, and where family means everything.

Also, there's Queen Latifah, without a doubt that most fabulous female icon since Mae West, walking with golden hair and a flickering candle, singing in that scorching voice. And the tenderest, most romantic scene of the last decade played out between Christopher Walken and John Travolta -- proving, at least to this mostly jaded viewer, that a great movie can open up and show you something new and unexpected. What a joy that is.

by Peter Schilling

Disney's long-hidden classic Song of the South hasn't been seen in theaters (or on DVD) since its theatrical rerelease in 1986. If you'll recall, this is the simple tale of a white boy who goes to visit his grandma's plantation in the post-Civil War South while his folks consider splitting up. There, he is watched over by the lovable Uncle Remus and a covey of annoying little songbirds singing "Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah." Part animated, part live action, arguably racist, and definitely patronizing, Song is filled with fabulous animation and crack storytelling -- especially in the Tar Baby sequence. Disney's suppression of the film raises myriad questions, not the least of which is the fact that the film's African-American stars have, in the ensuing controversy, seen their hard work vanish from the cinematic landscape.

Tonight's Cinema Slop show at the Dinkytowner Café has been canceled, but you can rent it. (There's always Netflix.)

by Cristina Córdova

This Douglas Sirk movie, playing in Loring Park on Monday evening, is easily the original Lifetime movie; yet it manages not to make my life feel insignificant simply by my watching it. It's the original. How can that be bad? This is old school, baby. It's the love triangle, the deep dark side of alcohol, neglect and abuse, unrequited love, best friends in love with the same woman, the evil hand of jealousy, the damsel in distress -- and none other than Lauren Bacall, of course. No wonder they're both in love with her. You'd have to be crazy not to be in love with her. And yet her charms aren't nearly exploited or explored in this film. I'll take her with Bogie any day. Rock Hudson just doesn't seem to make her shine. Actually, it's the bad guys in this movie that actually make it worthwhile -- which is actually pretty amusing considering they're not the big names on the marquee. Robert Stack's drunken Kyle and Dorothy Malone's portrayal of the spurned vixen are enough to keep me entertained. (Of course, I'm a sucker for the classics.)