"Myra Breckinridge" is a self-indulgent, pretentious, disjointed assemblage of narcissistic fluff. Like a degenerate spelunker, it explores the caverns and cavities of novelist Gore Vidal's filth-obsessed mind, and documents its discoveries with the sloppy randomness of a set of poetry refrigerator magnets. Though some of its actors are fecklessly complicit in its banality, others are its game but gotten victims, like Raquel Welch, who displays a variety of talents and an unflagging energy, in addition to her transcendent beauty.
One of the film's most abominable accomplishments is its degradation by association of some bygone stars. And its intercutting of some treasured vintage film clips with its slop of a script is about as palatable as watching Rex Reed nuzzle the beautiful nape of Farrah Fawcett.
Some excellent production values give the film a sheen of professionalism and worthiness, but it's like putting an ascot on an orangutan that likes to flash its ass. Speaking of Rex Reed, his choice of this loser for his acting debut reveals the tasteless judgment that informed his career in film criticism.
I was unfortunate enough to view this piece of polished twaddle in its first release. The intervening years have only served to further ravage this specimen of vacuous excess. It still feels like the diary of a prurient teen.
How dare it invoke the names and images of Marilyn Monroe, Judy Garland, Clark Gable and countless other screen legends? It is the insolent diatribe of a cinema hater, not a cineaste. Its director, who will go unnamed here, shares significantly in the blame.
I remember leaving the theater in 1970 and embracing the summer sunshine, not as a metaphor for life's affirmation but as a disinfecting agent.
One of the film's most abominable accomplishments is its degradation by association of some bygone stars. And its intercutting of some treasured vintage film clips with its slop of a script is about as palatable as watching Rex Reed nuzzle the beautiful nape of Farrah Fawcett.
Some excellent production values give the film a sheen of professionalism and worthiness, but it's like putting an ascot on an orangutan that likes to flash its ass. Speaking of Rex Reed, his choice of this loser for his acting debut reveals the tasteless judgment that informed his career in film criticism.
I was unfortunate enough to view this piece of polished twaddle in its first release. The intervening years have only served to further ravage this specimen of vacuous excess. It still feels like the diary of a prurient teen.
How dare it invoke the names and images of Marilyn Monroe, Judy Garland, Clark Gable and countless other screen legends? It is the insolent diatribe of a cinema hater, not a cineaste. Its director, who will go unnamed here, shares significantly in the blame.
I remember leaving the theater in 1970 and embracing the summer sunshine, not as a metaphor for life's affirmation but as a disinfecting agent.