Bastardizing Seventeenth Century Poetry at the Mall

If there’s one thing I assert on a regular basis that nearly everyone disagrees with, it’s that Mallrats (1995) is a contender for best Kevin Smith movie ever. And I don’t say that just because it’s the only thing ever made where Claire Forlani and Shannen Doherty actually look good. I say that because it’s a funny but somewhat accurate reflection of what I found it to be like to grow up in suburbia, and because it’s appealing in its capacity as a mid-1990s period piece.

Clearly, the humor comes first. The film opens with a Brodie (Jason Lee) voice over where he tells the story of how his cousin Walter got two cats stuck in his ass. When asked why this kept happening, the cousin replied, “How else am I supposed to get the gerbil out?” This voice over plays while the viewer sees various shots around the mall including the Burning Flesh Tanning Salon and, the crown jewel, Rug Munchers Carpet Outlet. One of the few things that made suburbia an alright place to grow up is that it’s filled with these kinds of bizarre stories and businesses with faux pas phrases or words in their names. The best such business I can think of from my own part of suburbia is the Dick Corporation, a large general contractor. Every time a new TGI Friday’s or Best Buy is erected in the South Hills, there’s a big, long, hard trailer that says “Dick” in big green letters. And I have to say, even now, I chuckle every time I see one. Suburbia plays host to some funny shit, and it’s great to see that characteristic displayed at its most absurd in Mallrats.

But in addition to the comedy, Mallrats nails the accurate reflection part too, even though it can’t be divorced completely from the funny stuff. Early in the film, Brodie’s girlfriend Rene (Shannen Doherty) breaks up with him. This occurs when she wakes him up at 9:30 in the morning, clearly wanting to say something to him, and all he can do is gripe about being roused from his slumber. Then, Brodie searches franticly around his nightstand and bed, without getting up, and pulls out the controller for his Sega Genesis. As he begins to play the hockey game he had paused overnight, Rene dumps him. Afterward, he tells T.S. (Jeremy London), his best friend, about the breakup and says, “Hell hath no fury like a woman’s scorn for Sega.” This memorable quote captures something fundamental about suburbia. The appropriation of such a quote from the late seventeenth century demonstrates the quasi-educated nature of many suburbanites. Many had decent high school and college educations, where they experienced a brief and cursory exposure to the cannon of western literature. While they might not understand it, I sometimes find their attempts at using that exposure in daily life rather endearing. Those attempts indicate that some suburbanites find at least a little value in such things as seventeenth century literature, and the modification of “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned” to “Hell hath no fury like a woman’s scorn for Sega” demonstrates creativity as well as some thought about how history and literature affect our present. I find this refreshing as hell. But of course, like most things in suburbia, the use of the quote is half-assed. The quote is not “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,” and it doesn’t come from Shakespeare as most people would guess. It comes from “The Mourning Bride,” a poem William Congreve wrote and then published in 1697, and the two lines are, “Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned / Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned.” In this little microcosm of quote appropriation, Mallrats manages to evoke the way in which suburbia misunderstands the world and its affect on the world. It’s funny and serious in its sadness simultaneously and on different levels; this is a sign of a great film.

And as if this weren’t enough, Mallrats is an appealing mid-1990s period piece in that it dates the film in ways that are fun to remember but don’t color the film so much that it falls apart when someone watches it all these years later. Of course, the post-grunge alternative rock/pop that fills the soundtrack sets the film in the 1990s very precisely. Artists like Everclear, Belly, and Bush share all the characteristics of this sort of music. Another example came up recently, when my law school friend and tennis buddy Brooke, who is four years younger than I am and thus across something of a generational line due to the rapid cultural change that happened in the 1990s, asked me what a Henley was. I showed her the pictures from Mallrats that I’ve posted here as an illustration. T.S. is wearing a Helney in classic 1990s style: under a flannel, plaid shirt, something, again quasi-misappropriated, from the grunge era that came and went only a few years before. The Henley adds a neat and preppy, suburban look to the plaid that nobody grunge would have contemplated. And it’s even more preppy when someone ties the flannel plaid shirt around his/her waist. While the Henley is one of several elements that add to the mid-1990s period piece nature of the film, Brodie’s manner of dress serves as a more timeless anchor. I’m sure I could still walk around South Hills Village Mall at the right time and see someone dressed like Brodie. The t-shirt and the casual blazer always seem to have some place in dress, whatever that place may be.























But all of this, Mallrats’s humor combined with its absurdly accurate portrayal of suburbia in the mid-1990s, makes me think that Mallrats is great because that’s the time and place of my coming of age. I believe that each of us most often garners meaning from the world by comparing it to the time and place of our coming of age. Only when I become aware of my own culture can I truly live alongside and appreciate other cultures. Sadly, so many never come to enough awareness of their own culture to reach this end. I guess I like Mallrats so much because it makes me remember the wonderfully powerful and inseparable sadness and enlightenment of coming of age, becoming aware of the world, and becoming educated.

The Disappearance of Home

During the middle weeks of August 1997, I lived well. My friends had copious amounts of fun simply by sitting around someone's house and, in the parlance of those times, "enjoying each other's company." This might have involved capture the flag in Carolyn's back yard, listening to Joe narrate the muted Discovery Channel documentary on the wildebeest, or even deciding to go out and get the "weggie patch pizza" at Applebee's. And I had Janelle, that girl I loved madly and could just look at for hours without ever becoming bored. So things were pretty good in those last days of my seventeenth year, but then everything essentially vanished. It's that period of change that I'm interested in right now, that period which takes place many times over the course of an average American's life. Everyone moves, meets different people, loses touch with some, acquires entirely new sensibilities with which to relate to the world, and can never go back on any of these changes. In Anywhere But Here, Natalie Portman does a tremendous job of capturing that period in her role as Ann August. Although many people don't like that film because of the liberties it takes with the adaptation of Mona Simpson's fabulous novel, I think it's a pretty decent movie.

Ann's mother Adele (Susan Sarandon) decides that the two of them need to move to California to escape the "nothing town" of Bay City, Wisconsin. Of course, the irony is that Bay City, in an early flashback where Adele buys the Mercedes to take to California, is portrayed as something of a lush, green dreamland while Adele and Ann drive through dry, uninhabited scrubland in Utah. In Bay City, the original owner walks out of his cozy-looking home and over his soft lawn with a beer in his hand to show the car to Adele and Ann. A sprinkler is audible in the background. One thinks, during that flashback, of the so-called "American Dream," and Natalie Portman does dejection extraordinarily well to convey how upset she is over her mother's constant ramblings about leaving town. In Utah, Ann says to Adele, "This is like being kidnapped; you don't understand that, do you?" She's left her entire life behind in Bay City. She has friends, family, and familiar surroundings there, but is forced to leave.

I suppose, in retrospect, that I wasn't forced to leave Bethel Park or the Pittsburgh area as Ann was forced to leave Bay City, but I chose to go to school nearly 2100 miles from home in part because I wanted to save the image I had of that place and that time. I knew that if I stuck around, others would move away, and everything would change around me and leave me behind. By leaving for Missoula, an entirely new place in which I knew no one, I could maintain that home in my head. That's the quintessential part of the period of change I'm talking about: preservation of the image of home. While that image was inevitably depressing in my new location because of its inaccessibility, I felt as though I'd die without it. Similarly, Ann tries to maintain the image in her head on numerous occasions in Anywhere But Here, and is quite upset at her failure.

In the California diner where Adele fortuitously meets her real estate agent friend, Ann calls her grandmother's house in Bay City, but Adele interrupts her before anyone picks up. Ann leaves the diner for the impersonal, uncaring street outside and can't prevent herself from crying. Later in the film, she makes an illicit phone call to her cousin from a house she visits with her mother as a potential homebuyer. These types of incidents lead to an increasingly successful image of home in Ann's head, though inevitably that fight for preservation is a no-win kind of deal. Those incidents do remind me of the ridiculous phone bills I ran up calling Janelle in her Michigan Tech dorm room and the crazy amount of time I spent emailing everyone else, but like the movie suggests, no one can ever really "go home" after this kind of period of change.

Ann's cousin Benny dies late in the film, so Ann and Adele head back to Bay City for the funeral. In those scenes, the houses in Bay City don't look cozy; they look cramped and dull. The lighting isn't as bright, and it's raining. Ann's extended family is fighting. Nothing is the same. Similarly, when I go back to the South Hills these days, the place just doesn't look like it used to. Now, instead of the sprinklers and the nice-looking lawns, I notice all the Republican campaign signs in the yards, the gratuitous SUVs in every driveway, and the complete lack of sidewalks so that no one can safely walk anywhere. And just like Benny vanishes from Ann's Bay City, if you Google Janelle, you won't find anything, and no one I know has heard from her in years.

"You can never go home, Oatman. But I guess you can shop there."

One of my favorite films of all time is Grosse Pointe Blank, a movie in which the male protagonist "goes home" for his ten-year high school reunion. For those of you who haven't seen the film in a while, John Cusack's character Martin Blank returns to his affluent suburban hometown outside of Detroit. His old girlfriend still lives there, as do a number of the people who seem to have figured prominently into the social world of his high school. Of course, he hasn't seen or heard from any of them in ten years and he vanished mysteriously on prom night. Plus, Blank gets to tell everyone that he's a professional killer at the reunion. What could be better?

Of course, it's impossible to "go home" like Cusack's character does, especially if one's "hometown" is an affluent suburb. For instance, if I were to "go home" to Bethel Park, I would find only one of my friends who figured prominently into my high school social world still living there. I would find that, in some cases, even people's parents have moved away. While I would still be able to drive around using all the back roads and recognize the landmarks, the place would not be anything like the home that Martin Blank finds ten years later in Grosse Pointe because I would know hardly anyone besides my parents and my lone friend who still lives there.

But Grosse Pointe Blank at least makes a nod to this by locating the ill-fated Ultimart on the lot where Blank's childhood home once stood. And his mother has gone senile. That, at least, is something. In addition to the line that is the title of this post, there's also the scene in which Blank tells Oatman, his shrink, that he doesn't know what he has in common with "those people" anymore and that he thinks the reunion would be depressing. "They've all made themselves a part of something and they can talk about what they do," he says, "and what am I going to say? I killed the president of Paraguay with a fork. How have you been?" So while the film certainly acknowledges the idea of change making a homecoming impossible, that homecoming still takes place and is still meaningful because Blank does end up re-uniting with his old girlfriend and seeing some people he used to know.

Perhaps the filmmakers can get away with this precisely because of the 10-year reunion, an event that could explain the lingering presence of so many old-school "pointers." There's Paul, who still lives in town and now sells real estate, Bob, who owns a BMW dealership, Ken, who seems to be some kind of lawyer, and of course Debi, who works at a local radio station. So even the people in the reunion seem all to have stayed in town. But it's with Debi that the most convenient "going home" twist takes place. Since a fire took place in her apartment, she's now living at home with her father, in her old bedroom which looks pretty much the same as it did in high school. So Martin Blank gets to visit her there, in that museum of personal history. Then he gets to pick her up at her father's house for the reunion to make up for standing her up on prom night to join the army. And to top it all off, he gets to save her father's life in that very home. Talk about "going home" and being able to sort things out. I wonder how things might have been different if she'd still been living in her own apartment when Martin returned to town.

Still, I'm left with one thought. Of course I love Grosse Point Blank because it's so absurd and funny yet still true on some kind of base level. But where's the movie in which some guy goes home to his affluent suburban town and finds that no one he knows is there and that the place means absolutely nothing to him now? Isn't that, after all, the fate of most of those kind of places for the people who grow up there?

Lines of coke? In Jersey? Never...

My friend Jeff claims that Method Man saved Garden State when, in the motel hallway for voyeurs where his patrons watch the motel's guests having sex, he says, "Who here just saw some titties? Raise your hand if you just saw some titties!" While this is clearly a pivotal scene in the film, I propse that it is but one in that film's long line of similar absurd yet somehow enlightening moments. Of course, since this is a blog and I don't want to bore all of you, I'm only going to talk about one.

The one I'm thinking about occurs just after Andrew Largeman takes out his old motorbike with the sidecar that his grandfather left him for the first time in the film. He's speeding down the road when a policeman pulls him over. The cop takes a hard-ass attitude the moment he steps out of his cruiser, and when Largeman attemps to respond to his initial question, the cop says "Shut up!" and Largeman turns around. The cop then says, "Put your motherfucking hands on your head...please." As the cop approaches, Largeman does a double-take when he realizes that it's his old high school friend Kenny. Largeman says, sounding a bit indignantly shocked, "You're a cop now, Kenny? Last time I saw you, you were doing lines of coke off a urinal." Then Kenny puts his fingers in his ears, says, "Lalalalala," and then makes some remark about having to move on and grow up because he wasn't making shit at "that fish market" and because he was having trouble getting laid.

This cop scene, I think, does a wonderful job of expressing the sort of bizarre, post-Generation X vocational wandering around that seems to be going on these days. While I can admit something of the scene's absurdity, I think it does illustrate how good people of our age seem to lose their authentic selves for the sake of gainful employment. If Kenny was a party animal who liked to do lines of coke off urinals and had a job working for a fishmonger, so what? Why isn't that a valid lifestyle? Why should such a guy have trouble getting laid? Poor Kenny. Here's to hoping he gets shot in the line of duty so he can collect that fat workman's comp check about which he seems so excited.