John Waters' Serial Mom was made the same year as Oliver Stone's Natural Born Killers, both films dealing with the glamorisation of mass murderers in the media. However, the films couldn't be more different in terms of style: whereas Stone's film was gritty and brutal, with wild experimental cinematography and an edgy cast of Hollywood rebels, Waters' movie is a satire that takes place in a chintzy, all-American, 50s style suburbia (albeit set in the '90s), with no-less-hip supporting players (the director's usual array of counter-culture icons), but featuring the seemingly less dangerous Kathleen Turner as its serial killer, wife and mother-of-two Beverly Sutphin. It just goes to show that you can't judge a housewife by her twin-set and pearls.
A dark comedy from the 'Pope of Trash', this is aimed squarely at fans of cult cinema and kitsch, who should lap up the twisted concept: Leave It to Beaver/I Love Lucy combined with Henry Portrait of a Serial Killer. I certainly enjoyed myself, but I did feel that, for a film from the director of Pink Flamingoes, one that references sexploitation legends Bettie Page and Chesty Morgan and the work of gore pioneer H. G. Lewis, Serial Mom actually felt rather reserved. Waters had the perfect opportunity to shock and disgust, just like the good old days, but he handles the murder scenes with -- dare I say it -- taste (or at least with enough humour to dilute the horror) while a moment involving masturbation remains well within the realms of decency. I can't help but feel that the film would have benefitted from some old-school Waters panache rather than this more-sanitised, almost Hollywood approach.
5.5/10, rounded up to 6 for female grunge shock rockers L7 as a band called Camel Lips (although I think the name Waters was grasping for was 'Camel Toes').
A dark comedy from the 'Pope of Trash', this is aimed squarely at fans of cult cinema and kitsch, who should lap up the twisted concept: Leave It to Beaver/I Love Lucy combined with Henry Portrait of a Serial Killer. I certainly enjoyed myself, but I did feel that, for a film from the director of Pink Flamingoes, one that references sexploitation legends Bettie Page and Chesty Morgan and the work of gore pioneer H. G. Lewis, Serial Mom actually felt rather reserved. Waters had the perfect opportunity to shock and disgust, just like the good old days, but he handles the murder scenes with -- dare I say it -- taste (or at least with enough humour to dilute the horror) while a moment involving masturbation remains well within the realms of decency. I can't help but feel that the film would have benefitted from some old-school Waters panache rather than this more-sanitised, almost Hollywood approach.
5.5/10, rounded up to 6 for female grunge shock rockers L7 as a band called Camel Lips (although I think the name Waters was grasping for was 'Camel Toes').