By Juan Barquin
By Amy Nicholson
By Alan Scherstuhl
By Travis Cohen
By Juan Barquin
By Stephanie Zacharek
By Amy Nicholson
By Juan Barquin
I live in South Miami. The Fort Lauderdale International Film Festival has always bugged me because it presents a nasty dilemma: I love movies, but I hate to drive. In the past, my I-95 aversion has usually won out. And I'm fairly comfortable making the assumption that I'm not the only Miamian who feels this way.
But in this, its tenth year (can it really be ten years?), the Fort Lauderdale festival folks have taken pains to ensure that even a Dade-centric recluse such as yours truly will partake of their cinematic feast. To wit: They've worked out an agreement to exhibit fourteen of their films at UM's newly renovated Cosford Cinema.
The Cosford has always been a sentimental favorite of mine, and not just because I attended classes and watched literally hundreds of films there as a UM undergraduate (back in the prehistoric, pre-Schnellenberger era when the football team sucked and the university had to depend upon its sterling reputation as a party school, rather than its renown as a gridiron powerhouse, to attract students). It was called Beaumont Cinema back then, and it was roomy and musty and full of seats that creaked and occasionally collapsed when you sat in them. But since it reopened back in January of this year following extensive renovations financed in large part by the family of late Miami Herald film critic Bill Cosford, the mustiness has vanished, comfortable new seats have replaced the dilapidated old ones, and the screen, sound system, and projection equipment have all been upgraded. I no longer have to bore people with tales of my collegiate shenanigans to justify my affection for the on-campus movie palace. It's big, it's new, it's comfy, it makes the movies that play there look and sound great. And it's five minutes from my house. I can ride my bike.
Pillar of the film criticism community though I am, I doubt that the organizers of the Fort Lauderdale fete had my personal convenience foremost in mind when they reached the agreement with UM. They were probably a bit more concerned about trying to tap Dade's vast but fickle art film market.
The tenth annual Fort Lauderdale International Film Festival officially kicks off with a screening of Live Nude Girls on Friday, November 3, at the Parker Playhouse in Fort Lauderdale. Had truth in advertising outweighed titillation in the choice of a title, this film would have been called Five Women Get Drunk and Talk About Sex. The occasion is a bachelorette slumber party for Jamie (Kim Cattrall), a B-movie actress about to marry for the third time. Georgina (Lora Zane), a chef, hosts the shindig at her handsomely appointed suburban home. Georgina's lesbian lover Chris (Olivia D'Abo) is not thrilled with the idea of all these giggly breeders monopolizing her lover's attention, and spends most of the film sulking in her bed. One by one the guests arrive and commence to dishing: Jill (Dana Delany), a bored housewife and mother who couldn't keep a secret if her life depended upon it and who has recently discovered she is pregnant again; Jill's sister Rachel (Laila Robins), who envies her sibling's marriage and kid; and Marcy (Cynthia Stevenson), an accountant whose housepainter is stalking her because she broke up with him after a brief sexual relationship.
They eat, they drink, they argue, they laugh, they cry, they skinny-dip. Despite her lesbianism, Georgina reveals she has developed a crush on a male coworker; Marcy's latent bisexuality surfaces when she finds herself alone with Chris; Jamie imagines the worst about her groom-to-be and the bachelor party his friends are throwing for him; Rachel and Jill do the acrimonious sibling-rivalry thing. It's all far tamer than the title implies, although to be fair there are live nude girls on display at times; there's also much raunchy talk and even a simulated sex act or two. Ironically enough, this "illuminating look at female sexuality" (according to the press release) plays out more like a soft-core male fantasy than a female one -- two gorgeous lesbian babes doing it here, five sexy chicks skinny-dipping there. A woman named Julianna Lavin directed Live Nude Girls, but it could just as easily be Russ Meyer's handiwork.
Despite a few good one-liners and a poignant observation or two, the film ultimately leaves you feeling like the only sober person at a party where everyone else is drunk. You keep wondering when they're going to realize how pointless and unfunny the conversations are, but they just keep yakking and giggling.
Cosmo (Jason Priestly), on the other hand, doesn't talk much. The taciturn protagonist of M. Wallace Wolodarsky's Coldblooded works as a mob bookmaker and lives alone in the basement of a senior citizens' center. His only forms of recreation are watching TV and occasionally trysting with his hooker pal Honey (Janeane Garofalo). Then one day his boss gets bumped off, and Gordon (Robert Loggia), his new chief, promotes Cosmo to hit man (which occasions the following exchange: "Congratulations! You're getting a promotion!" "Thank you." "Have you ever fired a gun?"). Cosmo receives a crash course in the fine art of murder from veteran hit man Steve (Peter Riegert). To the surprise of both of them, Cosmo displays an uncanny aptitude for his new line of work.
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