Flesh Guitar

MORE FILM FUN

So the film got made. They kept changing the title. It went from Pluck! to Twang! to Valley of the Plank-Spankers, compromising with the rather dour title Plec. They did a lot of test screenings, messed around with the ending, unable to decide whether the climax should be the heat death of the universe or a song-and-dance number, finally choosing the latter.

Responses were surprisingly good. ‘Cool to the max,’ was the most frequent comment from white middle-class youth in the cineplexes. A review on the Internet said it was a ‘string-driven masterpiece’. The London Daily Telegraph called it a ‘spirited, youth-orientated extravaganza’. None of these sources said anything at all about the way the actors held their plectrums.

But these were amateur opinions; for a more specialized and authoritative opinion one would naturally have to turn to the Journal of Sladean Studies.

Review of Plec by Bob Arnold

The opening scene says it all. We’re in a plectrum factory, a sweatshop, somewhere in the Third World, somewhere cheap, clean and super-efficient. White-coated workers stand by as gigantic, soulless machines stamp out plectrums by the million. The camera moves along the production line and we see the little plastic suckers being sorted, separated, boxed, despatched. This is a far more significant sequence than the film-makers know. It sets exactly the right tone for a movie that is mechanical, soulless and far too neatly packaged.

Wiser critics than I have raised doubts about the wisdom of selecting the plectrum as a suitable subject for a high-budget three-hour mass-entertainment movie. If the idea sounds tired and jejune, then in Howie Howardson the producers have found a director who was perfectly in tune with the material.

Following the factory sequence we’re immediately plunged into Greek antiquity, Lesbos year zero to be precise. Classical scholars may find much to intrigue them here, but for the rest of us it’s the nude swimming and dancing sequences that are more likely to grab the attention. Those ancient babes sure knew how to do a lot with a little.

The casting of Sappho was always going to be tricky, and Helen Mirren battles gamely with the role without being utterly convincing. Similarly Eddie Murphy does his best with Henry VIII, but his best just isn’t good enough. Some of the cast wrestle bravely with their roles, but they all find themselves pinned to the canvas by a lame, witless, anachronistic script. Other members of the cast don’t even seem to be trying. Robert De Niro’s depiction of Johnny ‘Guitar’ Watson suggests that he knows nothing about guitar playing, the blues, or indeed human life on earth.

Strange as it seems, however, especially to me, the one performance that’s oddly affecting is that of Trixie Picasso as the young Joan Jett. The scene when her vicious music teacher (edgily played by Dennis Hopper) makes her turn out her pockets and then mocks the presence of the plectrum sent several tears running down my usually poker face. It’s a moment that’s almost worth the price of admission on its own, but not quite.

As for Jenny Slade’s involvement, well, the actors’ plectrum technique is fine, certainly better than their acting technique. If anything Megan Floss looks more at home with a plectrum than Patti Smith ever did. On the other hand, Michael Cutlass’s macho posturings with a jumbo acoustic suggest that his real instrument is probably the claw hammer.

But you don’t have to be Jenny Slade’s number one fan to feel that her talents are utterly wasted on this farrago. Why oh why didn’t they ask her to write the music, or even have her appear in the film?

Such music as there is comes courtesy of Tom Scorn. His soundtrack is a mess of bass and drum loops, samples, treated vocals and dodgy retro synths. To add insult to injury, acute listeners will be able to spot a sample from Jenny Slade herself (way back in the mix, uncredited, and no doubt unpaid for), which is used in the Link Wray, speaker-piercing sequence. I hope she sues Scorn and the film’s producers for everything they’ve got, although having made this piss poor movie one suspects and indeed hopes that they’ve got very little.

Journal of Sladean Studies

Volume 9 Issue 2