Hip Chick Flicks

I propose a new category of movie, the Hip Chick Flick. This is a movie that combines Chick Flick sentiment with Art House themes, personnel, and narrative apparatus. Examples might include The Joy Luck Club or Aimée & Jaguar.

I propose two essential tests: 1) Would Terry Gross like this movie? 2) Does the very premise make me want to puke?

Terry Gross kind of annoys me. It's odd to hear a grown-up say "it's fun to watch oral sex being discussed on the evening news," in a society where it's discussed in all media virtually constantly. Deep Throat came out in 1972, for God's sake. Richard Corliss notes that 800 million porn videos are rented in the U.S. each year, and, opines Paul Fishbein of Adult Video News, "I don't think that it's 800 guys renting a million tapes each." And yet Terry's giggling like a Saudi librarian at Chippendale's show.

Which brings us to Brokeback Mountain, the quintessential Hip Chick Flick. I will never, ever, ever, watch it. With a Tomato-ometer rating of 87% and Golden Globe nominations up the, er, wazoo, its critical reputation is assured. But I notice Andrew Sarris cannot bring himself to like it, and watching him work out his feelings is definitely cheaper and probably more entertaining than the movie itself.

Before you make any assumptions about homophobia or repressed homosexuality, or whatever, let me further confuse the issue by pointing out that I watched a special showing of Wilde, at the Castro Theater, with a personal appearance by Stephen Fry. Or, I should say, I tried. I lasted about 20 minutes.

I'm pretty sure Terry Gross sat through the whole thing.


Rasputin's Quote of the Day is excellent.