★★★
Now here is a film that hits point “D”. Dildos, double crossing, decapitation and… dykes? No. Dolls. Judicious executive censorship undermined the original title. This is Ethan Coen’s long-awaited first feature film without Joel. Joel broke free of the Coen brand with The Tragedy of Macbeth, now Ethan presents Drive-Away Dolls. It’s a nice enough title but of limited value as a progenitor of inner debauchery. Of course, the success of a film is measured less by the size of its silicone penises than by what the director does with them. Coen places her front and center, both sex toy and emasculating symbol. The antics are raucous and casual. Of course, the film desperately wants a tighter, edgier plot, but we can at least count on Joel for that. Suddenly we see how the pairing adds up.
On that note, what a couple Margaret Qualley and Geraldine Viswanathan turn out to be. Individually, the duo has long been on the precipice of stardom. Here, now, together, sparks fly. They play titular dolls; lesbians in love in vibrant, horny Philadelphia, circa 1999. Qualley is the freewheeling, polyamorous Jamie. As cuckolded ex-girlfriend Sukie (Beanie Feldstein) says, “Put her pussy on a meter and we might all retire.” Their breakup scene is historic. Viswanathan, on the other hand, is Marian, an uptight bookworm. Apparently, she’s the opposite of Jamie. One reads Henry James, the other traces the line of road signs. That’s how it appears on the surface, but never judge a book by its cover.
One thing the two have in common, for example, is a desire to leave Pennsylvania. Marian has her eyes set on Tallahassee and Jamie lives a life without a compass or clitoral restrictions. Together they hitch a ride – this is the process of driving a rental car from point A to point B when you need it at B anyway and that’s just where you get direct. What they don’t bargain for is a suspicious briefcase in the trunk. That and three burly gangsters (Colman Domingo, Joey Slotnick and CJ Wilson) very eager to get their hands on it. Whatever the price is.
There’s a lot of bloodshed, but that’s not the case with John Wick. Working from a script by Tricia Cooke, his openly queer and “non-traditional” wife, Coen’s approach is playful as can be. Early editing and psychedelic sidesteps might detract from the flow but show a flair for creative cuckoo. The film’s bloodiest death involves a corkscrew and suit running down an alley holding a saw above his head. This segues into Jamie’s face deep in vaginal fluids, then a horribly lustful open mic night. Miley Cyrus appears from time to time, in bursts of lava lamp color, phallic artist Tiffany Plaster-Caster – a nod to real-life caster Cynthia – while extended flashbacks explore the full-frontal sexual awakening of ‘a young Marian.
Delightful – and delight-filled – depravity aside, it would be a mistake to overlook the very genuine tenderness at the heart of Drive-Away Dolls. Much of this builds on the impressive groundwork of Viswanathan, whose most profound journey Marion undertakes here. Qualley’s Jamie is also capable of surprising, even if his bursts of emotional sincerity can’t contain his rampant libido for long. There’s a delicious payoff when Marion and Jamie finally open the mysterious briefcase they accidentally shipped down the East Coast highway. It’s a typically climatic climactic moment.
T.S.