| HOMEPAGE Risky Business There are movies one wants to see, and then there are those movies that one must see! What is the difference? Content. Let’s take a trip down memory lane. There I am, roughly 20 years ago on a ferry heading to Ireland. 20 years? Ferry? Ireland? What the? Reality check; I am getting old. The year is 1984, destination a boating trip on the river Shannon. A river which criss-crosses the Emerald Isle offering the traveler picturesque imagery of landscapes by the water… and many fishing lures. While dad was loading the car onto the ferry, and my mom was doing that which moms do, my brothers and I were exploring our temporary home on the sea. Turned out that ferries offered a lot of interesting things to those looking for some kind of entertainment; one could hang over the side of the boat while North Sea waves made your stomach heave, play poker machines and get poor fast, lose yourself in the maze that are the interiors of these ships, eat, sleep, wine or dine or both. Instead I opted to check out the less active entertainment aspect of this fine “cruiser”. During my quest I never did bump into Gopher offering me a nice cocktail and some sideline wisdom on how to catch me a chick-y-babe. I did found 2 porno mags in my cabin courtesy of the previous inhabitant. If this isn’t a good start to a vacation then I don’t know what is. The ferry had a couple of bars which were already nice and packed with surly brigands drinking away their last pennies, hoping that soon their feet would touch the shores they called home. It had a discotheque which that evening was hosting a “teenage-fest” and two (count them with me, one, two) movie theaters. The disco was out of the question as I hadn’t bothered packing any suave clothing to impress the ladies. And the bars were off-limits to one so wet behind the ears. This left me the movies as my only option for entertainment. Well, that and the porno mags. Movies scheduled for that night; one rated all ages, the other restricted to those at or above the noble age of 16. I had counted 15 candles on my last cake. The law controlled my entertainment that night. Age is ruthless in its ways to discriminate, especially when applied to movie admissions. By the standards held up today the rated 16 ( R ) movie would be an “all ages” (PG-13) movie, no questions asked—with the showing of 2 breasts a total of 2 minutes, what are we talking about? Back then I was fighting a losing battle I so desperately wanted to win. Rated R is a USP for acne battling teens, drawn likes moths to a flame in the prospect of seeing something illuminating, the moment you reach the sage age of 16 there is no turning back. Not until you reach that other pinnacle in age discrimination, 21, will you voluntarily go and see a PG-13 movie. It’s just not done. As I left the movie theater later the night I wasn’t thinking about the enjoyment I got from Police Academy, instead I found other business on my mind; Risky Business (the movie, not the porno mag). A couple of nights ago, trusted tv-guide in my hands, I became again that acne battling teen. I saw myself traveling on a ferry whilst waves crashed against the hull, people getting pissed in the bar, others leaving behind porno mags in cabins… Opening shot, smoke and voice over: -There's one thing I've learned in all my years: sometimes you gotta say "what the fuck," make your move Right you are Tommy my boy, make your move, take your chances… but first give us your best impersonation of a teenager play backing to “Old Time Rock & Roll”. Premise of the story is simple enough: high school student is presented with the opportunity of a lifetime when his parents leave him home alone. Oh the mischief one can come up with. Get the girlyfriend to come on over for a little sum’ing sum’íng, throw the bash to rival Animal House, keggers, all-nighters, anything and everything but school related stuff. Not our Tom Cruise. Not our Joel Goodson. Good son that he is he spends his first night wining and dining himself. The food is ruined, his Chivas is spiked with a dash of Coke, and to top it off the underwear sequence which proved beyond the shadow of a doubt that white men can’t dance. Joel is a role-model son/student/teenager/future entrepreneur of America/gardener/epileptic dancer/bonne vivant. He has 3 lack luster friends, all hailing from different corners of the socio-economic gap, who share an affinity for poker and cigars (how original). It is one of these friends, Miles (played craftily by Curtis Armstrong who has better comedic timing in his little pinky then Cruise does in his whole body) who introduces Joel to his new credo “Fuck it”. Simultaneously Curtis has made it his personal quest to rid Joel from of cherry by trying to arrange an escort rendezvous later that night. Did I mention Joel is a virgo? Cause he is, a virgin. Very awkward around the ladies. Come nightfall, while Joel is busy hitting the books, the doorbell rings and he finds a monstrosity on the doorstep. Turns out our call-girl was a call-boy in drag and uh well; game’s up. Before leaving with $50 (you know, to pay cab fare and for time wasted that could have been spend in the arms of a man who appreciates another man with high heels and garter belt) our he-woman gives Joel the 411 of a lady who is sure to leave a better impression. Enter Lana (fine job by Rebecca De Mornay, who I might add did not use a stand in to show off the boobies which gave this movie the rating it had at the time thus preventing me from seeing them at a moment in my life when boobs were all that mattered), enter trouble, enter main body of movie. Cause really, what is this movie all about; adolescent mischief one can have while parents vacate the building, age old struggle of man trying to lose his cherry before reaching the noble age of 18, a study in ‘80s dancing patterns? Your guess is as good as mine. That is, until the thought hit me; Logistics! After Joel and Lana have the most ancient exchange of resources for services rendered, they decide to take daddies 928 for a spin to the lake. Question: how many people can you comfortably load up in a 928? It seems four; Joel and one of his poker buddies, Lana and one of her poke-men-and-get-money-in-exchange buddies. They are all happy, and getting even happier when the herbal cigarette is lit up. While Joel is enjoying his “higher” education of life, he all of a sudden sees the 928 making a dash for the jetty. Splash. Enter tow truck and one of the funniest lines in the movie “Who is the U-boat captain?”. I don’t recall if we are told what the repairs will cost, but it is a Porsche so we will leave it at that. Having spend all his money on frozen tv dinners, a failed rendezvous with a he-woman, a successful one with Lana, we find our good son in a tight spot. But Joel wouldn’t be a member of “Future Entrepreneurs of America” if he didn’t put one and one together and come up with a master plan. He has one house, one master bedroom, a couple of beds, one Porsche 928 in need of flood-repair, 4 packs of cigarettes, three bottles of hard liquor, 3 horny friends, 7-8 “professional” dates, 50 odd even more horny friends, 1 Princeton man coming over for an college admissions interview, one pimp named Guido and a crystal egg. Your mission, should you accept it, is to have all these factors blend in nicely to create for a one night brothel which should yield enough cashola to fix the 928 and leave you with some money on the side in case you decide he-woman is what you want. Like so many ‘80s flicks, this one is not to be taken seriously. There are so many problems in this movie that listing them alone would mean you peeps having to read 23 pages of drivel. I am going to stick to one scene so as to satiate my appetite for bitching and moaning; I give you the “buying back the furniture scene”. Who ever said you could trust hookers? Hookers are there to get rich, though most of them fail miserably while living the pipe dream. So, anytime an opportunity comes knocking for a quick buck that doesn’t include sex… One of Lana’s friends, we shall call her Miss Money-grabbing-whore, manages to inform Guido the supper pimp that “the brothel” will be unsupervised while Joel sweats it out during his final-final exam. By the time Joel shows up home, parking a clean and dry 928 on the driveway, he is feeling good about his future. He successfully managed a brothel for the night garnering enough profit to pay-off the Porsche dealer for fixing the U-boat. He’s not only gotten nookie once, but twice (not having to pay for the second time adds 30 bonus points, the second time taking part in public adds another 40, and the fact that this public location is moving brings the total bonus points to 87.3!). Most importantly he has come to the realization that even though Princeton is a fine institution he will be happy heading to Illinois State instead. His future is looking bright, he’s gotta wear shades. Till he finds the house devoid of furniture, and we find out his parents have landed and are awaiting their Goodson to pick them up. Meanwhile the phone rings in Lana’s apartment and a hairy arm reaches for the receiver. Could this be the return of he-woman? No. It is I. Guido, the super pimp. He is downtown, Joel is freaking, and the parents are heading home. Tick tock, you don’t stop… Guido, being the good Samaritan he is, shows up driving a U-haul filled to the rim with sofas, chandeliers, a concert piano, plates dishes pottery and glasses, napkins, the wetbar and a years supply of toilet paper. Oh, and of course Miss Money-grabbing-whore. Piece by piece Joel haggles for the items which are placed on the front lawn as if it is the living room. Goodbye profit, hello crystal egg. Out of nowhere the friends, who lined Joel’s pockets the night before, show up and put everything back where it belongs (without even oner Polaroid being used to verify the original decoration of the interior), including the egg on the mantle piece. Door opens and closes. “Hi mom, hi dad,” says laidback son pretending nothing is wrong, “home already?” Instantly mom realizes something is wrong. What? Did Joel in all haste put the sofa in the wrong corner? Are the magazines not stacked properly? I know, he shouldn’t have vacuumed the floor. Turn out there is a hairline fracture in the precious egg. I wonder were Joel is going to get the money? Sometimes you just got to say what the fuck. What the fuck indeed. In retrospect I can assure you that the porno mag I found in my cabin had more “content”. … |