I don't feel that I need to explain my art to you, Warren.
What a fucking catastrophe of a movie. It does not even attempt to make any semblance of sense or critique. Instead it is a flat attempt at whatever the fuck you think Reality Bites is, an even worse attempt of commercialism to criticize commercialism of the current youth culture. Filled with cliches of personality types, clothing and even what we must be listening to, and floor to ceiling with shit that simply does not make sense. This is the most expensive independent record store I have ever seen. Amoeba Records in Hollywood is a shit stained warehouse in DMZ surrounded by homeless people and filled with overpriced blu rays. It’s also filled with shit tons of ‘45s, laser discs and videotapes. I’ve been to Virgin Music Megastores in the mid 90’s that were smaller than this ‘Indie’ store somewhere in rural New Jersey. Other than the nostalgia of Malcom Young, long boxes, and when short skirts could be worn by smart, feeling women with no irony, this film sucks. Checked sweaters, agora shirts, and yet no vans. Four of every five songs literally sucks, and they throw in Dylan for the fifth because they need it to be legitimate. No one has heard of any of the bands featured on wall posters for specific effect - none of the audience is supposed to be cool enough to know these bands. And even if you do, let me remind you, let me remind everyone, NOBODY LIKES GWAR. FUCKING NO ONE. I had a friend of mine that had them on tape. Yes, I copied it. Yes, I listened to their shit. Once. That’s it. No CD. No iTunes. And ask anyone now, in this Oliva Rodrigo-Dual Lips world we live in, if they’ve heard of such ‘trendy’ and ‘edgy’ 90’s music….and prepare to be underwhelmed. In fact, I’m pretty fucking sure 99.9% of people who are reading this have never heard of GWAR. I’m also way into objectification and sexualization as long as it doesn’t get me in jail. However, the jail bait shit in this film is one step from Blue Lagoon and two steps from Pretty Baby. And what is really upsetting is the seeming okay nature of it all, especially in front of an Endless Summer II poster. And what I really don’t understand, will never understand, is why, after masturbating to a rock star for all of her sexual life, would Liv Tyler’s character walk out when said rock star pulls out his cock? This happened sixty seconds after she was rubbing herself through her skirt. Zero sense. Usually the regret comes after the rock star is done fucking the debutante, not before. This was done solely to move us into the third act with the idea that we were somehow more serious than the bullshit that got us this far. And how the film has women turning on each other over slutshaming is, well, shameful. The only honest person in the whole cast is the worst name a David Cassidy stand-in could have when he was dressed like an Elvis that looks way too good, even for Elvis: and that is the name of a football athlete who got caught getting a BJ from a tight end and offed himself on a freeway after the cops found him. Instead of something mid to shit like FM or Airheads (we must save this “X”) we have instead a series of scenes someone thought would lead somewhere if we staffed them with different type of characters. Exhibit one, the opening at the casino in which the luck runs out after the third call… leads you to the wrong conclusion of luck instead of lunacy. The unlikely scenario that a worker whom everyone knows stole 9K from the register is not immediately turned into the police, but the kid who stole five CD’s totaling a hundred and twenty bucks, well, we have to call the cops. Then, when said person shows up with a .44 and starts letting them shots fly, well, let me tell you what really happens when you fire a .44 ANYWHERE in the world. People get the fuck down, and get the fuck out, not wonder ‘where did that gunshot come from?’ Unfortunately, the thinking seems to be that “if we just shorten the skirts and have different hair styles then everything it will make us think we have a diverse cast, like say, the Breakfast Club” or (should I fathom to reach) High Fidelity. And by the way, I know this is suburbia, but are there absolutely NO minorities here? I went to school in whitie whiteville, and even I had 15 South Vietnamese classmates and knew at least three Jews (maybe more, but they don’t exactly advertise it, do they? They just don’t show up to Saturday meets). The worst lines. The worst. It’s like teenagers don’t know how to talk to each other, or maybe they’re all in drama class and have practiced talking to each other this badly. My favorite worst line is “It’s always about her” which is the only unintentional joke in the movie, because every character is so fucking selfish as to push everyone else away. No one, who hates other people, would choose to stay around those other people, And each person in this store hates at least four other people in the group. Which reminds me…. There are, let’s count seven fucking employees of this music store, and the owner wants to know why he’s bankrupt and has to sell out to a huge chain. The Sam Goody that I used to frequent at the mall: two employees. The huge Hastings Records across the freeway? Two people. The Tower Music on Alabama that had every known media known to man? Four (on weekends, the ‘Gay and Lesbian’ section had an extra staff member, but I don’t think they were paid. The list of frivolities that make you think “why, Jesus, why did I choose this over Liquid Sky?”: The mock funeral, complete with the friend make-up, which happens way too early in the third act. The rock out with your simi-cock out in the middle of the store - to a song that is not even good in its badness. If you’re going to do this, a la, Heathers, do with Teenage Suicide by Big Fun. There’s movies, and there’s movies that give you a suspension of disbelief if even to show you a good time, which is all good and in good fun, and then there’s dogshit like Empire Records. I also understand why there is an impromptu concert - we must save the store. But how exactly does the rest of the fucking rural know to come here to save the store? Yes, it’s aesthetically pleasing. Navels and Anthony LaPaglia certainly are nice to look at. But you know what would have been better? A story.
The one star is for Dolores and The Cranberries, and their B-side presence on this disaster of a soundtrack, which at the very least, deserved to be good, but unfortunately, was just as bad as everything else. And two fucking guys arguing about Primus...YES. GENIUS. Too bad it happened behind the credits on the fade out instead of stretching that magic out during the entire film. Then this would have been more like Clerks with a good soundtrack instead of, well, this steaming pile of shit.