FFWD Weekly
Copyright © 1997. All Rights Reserved.
Son of American Graffiti
Nothing new in Eszterhas' coming of age tale
by Robert TarryTelling Lies In America
starring Kevin Bacon, Brad Renfro, Maximilian Schell, Calista Flockhart
directed by Guy Ferland
Runs until Thursday, January 1
Uptown ScreenThere are two, count them, two interesting things about Telling Lies in America. One, Kevin Bacon's fine, understated performance as slick, slimy disk jockey Billy Magic, and two, it was written by Joe Eszterhas, the guy responsible for such motel pay-per-view classics as Basic Instinct, Sliver, Jade, and Showgirls.
And instead of his usual schtick about leggy lesbians and ice picks, with Telling Lies In America Eszterhas gives us a semi-autobiographical account of growing up in America, late '50s / early '60s style.
Personally, I can never get enough of these nostalgic, dewy-eyed American Graffiti, Diner, Back to the Future, Stand By Me, Wonder Years, Bronx Tale, Porky's, School Ties, Dead Poet's Society, Grease, Grease II, This Boy's Life, Inventing the Abbots, The Sandlot, A Night In The Life Of Jimmy Reardon, Sleepers, Forrest Gump type movies.
Another soundtrack cobbled together with standard issue doo-wop and Motown classics? Bring it on, I say. And don't forget the Ventures.
Another scene of sexual discovery mixing Spanish Fly and The Platters "Magic Touch"? The more the merrier. After all, why make a loss of innocence tale set in modern day? Everyone knows America hasn't had a single innocent teenager since the Nixon administration.
Seriously, there are some nice things about Telling Lies In America. Brad Renfro does an admirable, though stiff, job of playing a character older than he really is, and Calista Flockhart's (TV's lovable Ally McSomething) Diney is an interesting mix of world weary compassion, even if she is scripted in broad strokes as Karchy Jonas' (young Eszterhas) mature sexual infatuation. (Clever foreshadowing: "You're going to make a hell of a man someday, Karchy Jonas.")
Yeah, maybe someday he'll even grow up to write Flashdance!
But from the cafeteria wrestling matches to the kvetching, suffering father to the time Jonas slips into the confession booth and impersonates a priest, a numbing sense of deja vu hangs over the film. And the deus ex machina (Latin for "cop out") ending with the twinkly-eyed, sympathetic judge is just plain dumb.
Who wrote this thing anyway?
Oh yeah, right.
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