Recap Attack: Bar Girls
We watch these movies so you don't have to
by bad machine, December 6, 2006
A wise person once said, “The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over, and expecting a different result.”
Like most gay women, I don’t go to the latest lesbian movie consciously expecting an exhilarating, Sapphic cinematic experience. I know better, and so do you. We slap down our hard-earned money and just pray it doesn’t suck too much and (Do we dare?) hope for at least one hot girl-on-girl sex scene that pulls back far enough to show us more than a crease in some skin.
But deep down, we dream that this time, this one, this movie actually is going to be good. Admit it.
The Girl does little to break the cycle of insanity known as lesbian cinema. The characters driving us to the edge this time are:
The Artist: OK, she’s pretty cute if you dig that soft butch thing. She narrates the film. She paints. She wanders the streets at all hours. She hangs out in bars. Basically, she’s unemployed.
The Girl: She’s hot in a French way. She’s got long auburn hair and porcelain skin. She’s a European woman who shaves her armpits. She’s a singer. She’s a prostitute. She’s a candy and a gum.
The Man: Who cares?
Bu Savè: She might be the Artist’s ex. They might be friends with benefits. I couldn’t tell at first. Keep reading and find out for yourself.
Paris: The backdrop, so we’re told. Unlike New York City in Sex and the City, Paris is not exactly the fifth character here. There isn’t one shot of the City of Lights where it seems like the actors are actually there. Prove this film was really shot in Paris, and I’ll send you a dollar.
But The Girl isn’t all bad. (Don’t be so shocked. I like some things.) A minimalism piece set in Paris, the production is shot well. The actors are easy on the eye and for once, they can act. What The Girl lacks — in addition to names for its characters — is a story and more than nine pages of dialogue. Rate this film M, for Merde.
The Girl — We open on an empty and damp Parisian street. A pair of shapely legs walks into the frame and strolls away from the camera, revealing a woman in a sparkly, copper-colored cocktail dress. Nice ass start.
Moody, jazzy bass and trumpet music plays under our narrator, the Artist, as she begins her voice-over in a faint French accent, “The Girl has nerve …” Oh, thank God this is in English. The last thing I need is to be annoyed and forced to read subtitles.
The Artist continues: “She lives in a hotel room. She has no brothers, no sisters. No mother, no father. She sings in a nightclub.” Yeah, that Girl has some friggin’ nerve.
Life Is a Cabaret — Girl sashays into a cabaret called the Carrousel de Paris. Artist is hot on her trail, but doesn’t follow her in right away. Instead, she paces back and forth outside. Is she calculating whether she can afford the cover charge and still have enough in the morning for a croissant and a coffee? Perhaps she’s wondering why she’s wearing a man’s suit. Maybe she’s looking for her ID so she can remember her name?
Finally, Artist enters the club just in time to catch the last refrain of the Girl’s song. Girl is now wearing a shimmery, tight, blue dress. I guess that sparkly metallic number she had on a minute ago was her street clothes. Now that’s a femme.
As the patrons applaud, Girl walks over to the bar where Artist is sitting, waiting. Artist tells us that the first time she asked, Girl took her home to her hotel room. “She doesn’t ask my name,” Artist says. It’s not like you have an answer, so it’s just as well.
Artist says, “I call her Agnes D.” If you insist.
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