By Ciara LaVelle
By Calum Marsh
By Voice Media Group
By Peter Gerstenzang
By Sherilyn Connelly
By Inkoo Kang
By Carolina del Busto
By Alan Scherstuhl
Howard and Emily's marriage is the talk of Greenleaf, Indiana, a small town idyllic enough to repel Norman Rockwell. The town has waited three years for the couple to make it official, and slimmed-down Emily (Joan Cusack) has waited three long years for Howard (Kevin Kline) to consummate their relationship. She's so pent-up from fasting and abstinence that she looks as though her head's about to explode. She likes Howard's mind but desperately needs his body. And Howard's mother Beatrice (Debbie Reynolds) looks toward the couple's wedding as the fulfillment of her own fantasy: "I need some beauty, some music, place cards," she says, her sweet purr turning into a growl. "It's like heroin."
Howard had vowed he wouldn't marry Emily till his former student Cameron Drake (Matt Dillon) was nominated for an Oscar. Wouldn't you know, he gets the nod for his second film, a war epic in which he portrays a gay soldier kicked out of the army for loving a comrade -- and "not like a brother." When Cameron picks up his award he thanks Howard, the man who taught him Shakespeare and sensitivity. "And he's gay!" Cameron announces in a triumphant gush, much to the surprise of everyone in Greenleaf, including Howard.
The trailer for In & Out is a tease, a come-on that asks but doesn't tell if Kline is a closet case or merely a breeder in touch with his feminine side. And throughout the film's first half, we're left to wonder the same thing: Will Howard go through with his marriage, or will he finally admit he didn't hold all those Barbra Streisand film festivals for nothing. In & Out is constructed almost like a thriller, a pile of hints that build toward the surprise ending. In the process, director Frank Oz and gay screenwriter Paul Rudnick (so brilliantly bitchy as Premiere columnist Libby Gelman-Waxner and the writer of Jeffrey, a whimsical comedy about a gay man struggling with dating in the era of AIDS) have created a movie that sneakily turns prejudice on its head. But there are also lots of yuks: At the Oscar ceremony, Cameron beats out Paul Newman (nominated for Coot) and Michael Douglas (for Primary Urges); his supermodel girlfriend (Shalom Harlow), shallower than a kiddie pool, complains she has to "shower and vomit" before a fashion show; and Howard's father (Wilford Brimley) asks his son if "Barbra Streisand did something to ya."
Oz, once Jim Henson's right-hand man, treats human characters as though they were Muppets, most of them some variation on Oscar the Grouch. They've always been selfish, ornery bastards -- the con men in Dirty Rotten Scoundrels, Goldie Hawn and Steve Martin in Housesitter, Bill Murray's nut-job patient and Richard Dreyfuss's psychiatrist in What About Bob? -- who think the sun shines only for them; they're out to screw everyone, get what they want, then slink back into the muck. They aren't well-rounded people but rather shadows defined by their faults and quirks, and they never do the right thing unless it's by accident, or until it's too late. In In & Out even Reynolds is a bitch till the very end, chastising a little girl by telling her, "Your mother's an alcoholic."
Tom Selleck's Peter Malloy initially fits the mold too. An openly gay TV "reporter" who takes being called sleazy as a compliment, he sets out to discover if Howard is gay by interviewing his postman and students. Peter sees Howard as the human-interest story that will take him to the network and legitimize his vapid career, and he'll do whatever it takes to prove Howard belongs to his team. He'll even kiss him gay, if that's what it takes.
Kline's the perfect actor to play Howard, a man so actory he probably signs his checks in that thin movie-poster type. When he plays it straight -- Cry Freedom, Sophie's Choice, Grand Canyon -- he's a ham trapped inside a straitjacket; he seems to confuse humor with humanity, draining his characters of all life in order to keep them from cracking a smile. He's so brittle he's likely to break. But he's a great comic actor because he looks like a guy who shouldn't be one: The only thing exaggerated about him is his bland exterior, the superwhite-and-uptight facade that masks the maniac within.
When Kline gets hold of a great part, like the masochistic idiot in A Fish Called Wanda or the romantic thief in French Kiss, he becomes a carnival of goofy mannerisms and grotesque accents, Groucho and Harpo and Chico trapped in the body of a Juilliard-trained ac-tor. He doesn't just act; he adapts his malleable mug until even his blinks seem hyperbolic. As Howard, Kline revels in playing a man confused by his sexuality, a man trying to prove to everyone -- his fiancee, his parents, the town, most of all himself -- he's not gay. He plays it both ways, doing butch and sissy man with such abandon that he might as well be bisexual (an option the film never offers). He'd love sonnets even if he were straight. Or is that gay?
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