I have mixed feelings about "The Assassination of Gianni Versace." On the one hand, you wonder, what the hell is Ryan Murphy doing? Responding to Murphy's OJ Simpson saga, Lorrie Moore asked, "Why serve this up--distressingly--as entertainment?" And people don't like being Ryan Murphy's subjects. They tend to produce lawsuits. Think of Olivia de Havilland, or of the actual Versace family. (Though, apparently, Donatella is happy to have been played by Penelope Cruz. Take this with a grain of salt.)
One good idea in the intermittently compelling, tacky carnival that is Murphy's "Versace" is: focusing on the victims. Surely the least-engaging player is Andrew Cunanan--unaided, here, by a flashy, shallow performance (from Darren Criss). The victims provide a kind of "theme and variations": the perils of being gay in the nineties. You have the closeted, married architect (with Judith Light making a feast of the wife role, the speeches for the smart-lady-in-semi-denial). You have the good boy who waits until he wins an architecture award before outing himself to his father ("Good news! Bad news!") You have the particularly juicy role--the sailor who tries to carve a tattoo out of his own body, when he hears there's a gay-tattoo-identification hunt on his ship, and who later tries to hang himself with a shiny white belt. (Who among us doesn't enjoy melodrama?)
Gianni Versace himself is at the center of this web of gay men. Versace's self-respect issues strike familiar cords: Should he out himself in a media interview? Should he allow his pseudo-husband to pursue "just-sex" opportunities? Should he express his ebullience in his work, or should he follow somber trends in "the industry"? (Curiously, in each of these internal debates, Donatella appears; her role is that of the misinformed angel on Gianni's shoulder. She is like a Laura Linney character on the phone, urging Gianni not to do the brave thing he is about to do. "Do not come out on camera! Do not resist fashion-industry trends! Do not take a broad-minded approach to your romantic relationship!" Donatella really takes a beating in Ryan Murphy's imagination. One wonders if there is a hint of authorial misogyny here. Murphy is--after all--the man who gave us "Nip/Tuck.")
People win awards for roles, not for performances. So, for example, Darren Criss dances around in briefs, and makes violent use of a hammer, and thus he earns the favor of the Golden Globes. Finn Whitrock bleeds in a sailor uniform--and generates buzz at the Golden Globes. You can accuse Ryan Murphy of lapses in taste; you can suggest that his grasp of the mechanics of storytelling is sometimes tenuous. You can wonder if it's really respectful to film an actual real-world murder (Jeff Trail's) as if it were a scene from a horror movie--as if, in fact, it were borrowed from "Saw." You can go down all of these roads. But you can't assert that Murphy fails to serve up garish, glittery bits of spectacle--on a regular basis. Even a trainwreck produces interesting noises and some bright and colorful lights.
On a semi-related note, I'm reading "Lost Girls," and I can't recommend it highly enough. This is a true-crime account of the lives of the prostitutes murdered by the Long Island Serial Killer. Other writers might not think to spend months and months with the mothers--and sisters--and business associates--of the dead prostitutes. But that's what happens here. The work is like "Random Family." It's that good. One of the most gripping sections concerns the behavioral code that prostitutes develop. If your instinct says, Leave, then you leave. You try to reach climax within the first ten minutes of the hour; then, you're out the door. Or, you try to prolong the encounter for extra hours (and extra cash) via a phenomenon called "coke dick." When your john encourages you yourself to snort coke, you turn your back, so that you can pretend, and then sweep the coke into the trash can. If your john is adequately "messed up" by drugs, you can simply make use of your hand, and still insist that you are providing full-on intercourse. ("My hand is there just to be sure the condom stays on!")
"Lost Girls" is lurid, but it's also profound: It asks, what do you do if you're smart and ambitious and female, and you're born with every disadvantage? (One teen in Buffalo is scolded by her mother: "Finish your high school diploma!" The teen correctly asks: "Even if I finished the diploma, what kind of job would I get around here?") Questions about power and race and duplicitousness surface. Do prostitute-victims get the same attention that other victims get? If not, why not? Is there--seriously--any real argument to be made in favor of the legalization of prostitution? What is the difference (beyond age) between a young john and an old john? What can you infer about a person before that person has opened his mouth?
Best book I've read in a long while. I only wish I weren't terrified to turn the pages!
One good idea in the intermittently compelling, tacky carnival that is Murphy's "Versace" is: focusing on the victims. Surely the least-engaging player is Andrew Cunanan--unaided, here, by a flashy, shallow performance (from Darren Criss). The victims provide a kind of "theme and variations": the perils of being gay in the nineties. You have the closeted, married architect (with Judith Light making a feast of the wife role, the speeches for the smart-lady-in-semi-denial). You have the good boy who waits until he wins an architecture award before outing himself to his father ("Good news! Bad news!") You have the particularly juicy role--the sailor who tries to carve a tattoo out of his own body, when he hears there's a gay-tattoo-identification hunt on his ship, and who later tries to hang himself with a shiny white belt. (Who among us doesn't enjoy melodrama?)
Gianni Versace himself is at the center of this web of gay men. Versace's self-respect issues strike familiar cords: Should he out himself in a media interview? Should he allow his pseudo-husband to pursue "just-sex" opportunities? Should he express his ebullience in his work, or should he follow somber trends in "the industry"? (Curiously, in each of these internal debates, Donatella appears; her role is that of the misinformed angel on Gianni's shoulder. She is like a Laura Linney character on the phone, urging Gianni not to do the brave thing he is about to do. "Do not come out on camera! Do not resist fashion-industry trends! Do not take a broad-minded approach to your romantic relationship!" Donatella really takes a beating in Ryan Murphy's imagination. One wonders if there is a hint of authorial misogyny here. Murphy is--after all--the man who gave us "Nip/Tuck.")
People win awards for roles, not for performances. So, for example, Darren Criss dances around in briefs, and makes violent use of a hammer, and thus he earns the favor of the Golden Globes. Finn Whitrock bleeds in a sailor uniform--and generates buzz at the Golden Globes. You can accuse Ryan Murphy of lapses in taste; you can suggest that his grasp of the mechanics of storytelling is sometimes tenuous. You can wonder if it's really respectful to film an actual real-world murder (Jeff Trail's) as if it were a scene from a horror movie--as if, in fact, it were borrowed from "Saw." You can go down all of these roads. But you can't assert that Murphy fails to serve up garish, glittery bits of spectacle--on a regular basis. Even a trainwreck produces interesting noises and some bright and colorful lights.
On a semi-related note, I'm reading "Lost Girls," and I can't recommend it highly enough. This is a true-crime account of the lives of the prostitutes murdered by the Long Island Serial Killer. Other writers might not think to spend months and months with the mothers--and sisters--and business associates--of the dead prostitutes. But that's what happens here. The work is like "Random Family." It's that good. One of the most gripping sections concerns the behavioral code that prostitutes develop. If your instinct says, Leave, then you leave. You try to reach climax within the first ten minutes of the hour; then, you're out the door. Or, you try to prolong the encounter for extra hours (and extra cash) via a phenomenon called "coke dick." When your john encourages you yourself to snort coke, you turn your back, so that you can pretend, and then sweep the coke into the trash can. If your john is adequately "messed up" by drugs, you can simply make use of your hand, and still insist that you are providing full-on intercourse. ("My hand is there just to be sure the condom stays on!")
"Lost Girls" is lurid, but it's also profound: It asks, what do you do if you're smart and ambitious and female, and you're born with every disadvantage? (One teen in Buffalo is scolded by her mother: "Finish your high school diploma!" The teen correctly asks: "Even if I finished the diploma, what kind of job would I get around here?") Questions about power and race and duplicitousness surface. Do prostitute-victims get the same attention that other victims get? If not, why not? Is there--seriously--any real argument to be made in favor of the legalization of prostitution? What is the difference (beyond age) between a young john and an old john? What can you infer about a person before that person has opened his mouth?
Best book I've read in a long while. I only wish I weren't terrified to turn the pages!
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