Shortbus (2006)

Shortbus (John Cameron Mitchell, 2006)

There's no doubt about it, John Cameron Mitchell's sophomore feature, Shortbus is made with good intentions. Although the first ten minutes of the film consists of the most explicit, inventive and shockingly direct sex scenes ever committed in serious celluloid, there's not a tinge of exploitation or pornographic intention that can be felt. We get a sweeping view of New York City (made out of what seems to be a mixture of clay, cardboard and acrylic paint) as the camera flies from the Statue of Liberty to apartment after apartment. In one apartment, Sofia (Lee Sook-yin) and husband Rob (Raphael Barker) are enjoying every form of copulation invented. In another, James (Paul Dawson) a lonely gay man tries to perform self-fellatio while a voyeur (Peter Stickles) watches from an apartment window across the alley. In another apartment (not far from Ground Zero), dominatrix Severin (Lindsay Beamish) whips and sexually satisfies her client.

The aftermath of this celebration of sexual freedom betrays, in an ironically humorous manner, the pulsating energy of the montage. Severin's client ejaculates into a Pollock painting (a bit of visual wit as the drop of semen doesn't seem to make a noticeable dent on the artwork); the absurdity of the situation gives Severin an epiphany. After what seems to be great sex, Sofia kills the mood by discussing her patient's inability to reach female orgasm (which alludes to her life-long quest to experience an orgasm). James' boyfriend Jamie (PJ DeBoy) suddenly comes home, catching James post-ejaculation and embarrassed.

Their lives converge in an underground bar called "Shortbus." Like some sort of sexual Wonderland, Sofia, desperate for that first orgasm, explores the premises with Alice-like curiosity. There are different places for different kinks: a room that never seems to run out of orgies, a concert venue, rooms and hallways for socializing. More interesting are the different men, women, and everybody in between who fill the rooms and hall of the club. A former NYC-mayor, a model in search of his perfect husband, the drag queen host, a horde of lesbians, homosexuals, and plain amorous individuals --- the club is practically the sexual core of the city where lovemaking sees no boundaries and limitations.

Shortbus is like Mitchell's loving ode to New York City. It's a very hopeful film and despite its preoccupation with the needy calls of the flesh, there's something strangely philosophical, and political with each of its characters' quests. But whenever Mitchell's far-reaching attempt to draw out something deep and resonating surfaces, a thick and overt fake-ness permeates. Mitchell's neo-philosophisms and far-out yet sadly inert political awareness (one of the film's most visually witty scenes is when a trio of men suddenly start singing the American national anthem to each men's erogenous body parts --- truly, it should be seen to be believed) are either visually depicted or spoken in embarrassing strides of overwritten dialogue. There's such a weightiness in Mitchell's ambition to be carried over by a film that is about practically nothing. I don't see irreverence or a high-powered rebellious notion in Mitchell's filmmaking, at least none if compared to Pedro Almodovar's early works (which possess a greater deal of eroticism, with a lot less of the shock value).

Mitchell strives for a celebration of love, gay, straight, lesbian, or whatever, yet his viewpoint is clearly queer that the main thread of Sofia's search for her orgasm has none of the realism or the emotional investment that is placed in the other storyline about James and Jamie's failing relationship. It's lopsided and often (especially in the end) sinks in a quagmire of unintended self-importance and gravity. It's also my problem with Mitchell's first feature, the highly enjoyable Hedwig and the Angry Inch (2001). That film drowned with an ending that felt the need to put the entire narrative in a perspective of importance, which just doesn't work. Similarly, Shortbus has something to say and desperately urges to say it (with all its courage and inventiveness) yet unfortunately, most of it gets lost in translation.

Hedwig and the Angry Inch (2001)

Hedwig and the Angry Inch (John Cameron Mitchell, 2001)

Hedwig and the Angry Inch, John Cameron Mitchell's breakout film, is a cinematic translation of his successful off-Broadway musicale. It's hugely helped by the song compositions of Stephen Trask --- from its hyperactive opening song to the more mellow, more emotionally driven slow songs that inhabit the work's core. Trask and Mitchell's collaboration has crossed over to the silver screen with relative ease: the film is independently funded; no studio bickering beneath the translation; thus, the creators manage to keep their intentions intact.

Let's stop kidding ourselves though. True, the melodies, the rhythms, the driving force behind the art are all original but the work won't survive without the centerpoint of everything: Hedwig (as played by Mitchell). He's a cinematic anomaly. You just can't pinpoint what he is: he's had a sex change operation (but without that inner drive that pushes most transgender individuals; he was forced to undergo the operation by his American boyfriend and his mother); the sex change operation is not entirely successful as a bit of his phallus would grow back (thus, the angry inch). Hedwig is a character that uncomfortably sits in a vague middle: fabulous and almost nearly female (yet with signifiers of his male past --- underarm hairs, the prominent Adam's apple); Mitchell casts a female (Miriam Shor) as Hedwig's jealous boyfriend (it connotes another conundrum --- is their relationship homosexual or heterosexual?).

Hedwig's backstory is also wildly interesting. His life is told through the several musical numbers performed by Hedwig and his band in buffet restaurants while trailing rock icon Tommy Gnosis (Michael Pitt), Hedwig's ex-boyfriend and intellectual property-thief. It's an elementary technique that surprisingly works. A decision to record the songs live as sung (it helps that Mitchell and his band has had years of on stage performances to make it work, and work very well). Mitchell's visuals provide a very satisfying range: The song "Origin of Love," about how the Greek gods physically separated men and women as theorized by Plato, is accompanied by crude animation; a dreamy sequence of Hedwig (then, Hansel)'s seduction by his then-husband shows off the uncontrollable tempting power of Gummy Bears and American candies; Hedwig's childhood in Communist East Berlin is treated with nightmarish candor --- Hansel hidingly wiggles to the ditties of American radio or uncomfortably holes up in his mom's oven just to listen to his American inspirations.

Hedwig and the Angry Inch is more of a statement, a very powerful one on sexual and gender ambiguity, than a concrete narrative. This brings me to my serious problem with Mitchell's film: it's unconvincing (or pretentious) and highly open-ended conclusion. It's as if Mitchell couldn't come up with an adequate end to Hedwig's mission of reclaiming fame and intellectual integrity from Tommy Gnosis, that he just settled with something more symbolic (a cheap way out as it will excite and satisfy those watching the film as an activism or a strengthening of one's choices in life, sacrificing narrative competency). It's my same problem with Jonathan Larson's Rent (Chris Columbus, 2005; which appears a lot in the film probably as a symbol for selling out) which conveniently ended with a fantasy sequence and a medley of songs of affirmation.

It's a huge complaint, but one that didn't dent my appreciation for Mitchell's effort. Above everything else, Hedwig and the Angry Inch is bombastic, at time irreverent, always hyperactive, truthful, and most importantly, highly entertaining.