Saturday, 19 August 2000
.....
I am ashamed to admit that I find a certain amount of drool funny. I count this trait as the main source of my delight in the opening scene of But I'm a Cheerleader. Megan, the title cheerleader, is stuck in a dreadfully slobbery clash of the tongues with her football boyfriend. I adored the charmingly expressive little frown creases crinkling her forehead as the tongue-that-could-bathe-New-York made its relentless assult on her tonsils. The shots of her saliva facial are interspersed with Megan's compensating visualizations of various in-motion cheerleaders body parts in all their scantily clad, sun burnished, taut flexibility.
After the tongue tide recedes, Megan indiscreetly wipes her face. She does so again after a lick and run over by her locker, and then asks her locker mate witness if she, too, hates "when they do that." Upon her locker mate's denial, Megan (rightly) speculates that her mound of lubricated masculinity just might be doing it wrong.
Megan's troubles with the talentless tongue reminded me of a story a college buddy used to tell of a particularly torturous tongue thruster that she'd dated. An older gent, his technique was to turn toward her, close his eyes, put his tongue at full extension, and thrust forward with all the subtlety of a docking battleship. Yuck. Tongues, like genitals, easily shift from being intriguing to being invasive, and conflating these two properties is a standard pillar of patriarchy.
Of course, that Megan doesn't like kissing the tongue with legs is taken as confirming evidence of her lesbianism, rather than of his grotesque ineptitude. Interestingly, when Megan finally admits to her homosexuality (what? didn't everyone have those thoughts!?) her own drool flows in long streamers of sorrow.
Even aside from the scenes targeting my special spittle soft spot, I did enjoy this rather ham-fisted film. Yes, yes, one must bash its low budget not-quite-trashy-enough trash, I suppose, though I find it almost as difficult to agree with the harsher critics as to disagree with them. Yes, it's clear upon modest reflection that But I'm a Cheerleader doesn't have the most inspired script, nor is it excessively witty, nor does it delve where delving would be fruitful, etc., etc.
Boo! I laughed enough. I had fun watching it. That "gay" behavior was as exaggerated and stereotypical as het behavior I took as a sign of lighthearted dissatisfaction with the interlocking set of stereotypes, not bigotry. So it was funny not because it invited me to mock gays or straights, but because it invited me to laugh at the fact of the stereotypes.
If I have to think of it as a cross-over film, then I become much more disappointed. It felt a bit like a friend's film school final project: something to enjoy with warm, acritical feelings. I hope this is not condescension toward the film, but charity for myself. If I start critically analyzing the film, I not only ruin my enjoyment of it, but I move into a state of depressed horror toward so many things. The film was silly enough, and fun enough, to make for a pleasant evening. I firmly intend to leave it at that.
See also Just out: post-Dykes To Watch Out For <http://monkeyfist.com/articles/613>
This is But I'm a Cheerleader <http://monkeyfist.com/articles/632>