# Cecil B. DeMented (2000)

### reviewed by
Scott Renshaw

CECIL B. DEMENTED (Artisan) Starring: Stephen Dorff, Melanie Griffith, Alicia Witt. Screenplay: John Waters. Producers: John Fiedler, Joe Caracciolo Jr. and Mark Tarlov. Director: John Waters. MPAA Rating: R (sexual situations, violence, profanity, adult themes) Running Time: 88 minutes. Reviewed by Scott Renshaw.

There is something so petulant and defensive about the tone of CECIL B. DEMENTED that it's almost enough to make you cry for John Waters. Once upon a time, he _was_ underground cinema. He made the movies he wanted to make, and damn the sensibilities of anyone else. But times have changed since Waters' early '70s heyday. Independent film-making came into its own, and while "mainstream" comedy has grown more gratuitously daring in recent years, Waters has drifted to the ideological center with campy-yet-tame movies like CRY-BABY, HAIRSPRAY and SERIAL MOM. In CECIL B. DEMENTED, Waters seems engaged in a desperate attempt to be recognized for his edge once again. He'd show us where his sympathies were; he'd give it to mainstream Hollywood big time.

This is what it has come to for the man who introduced coprophagy into the contemporary cinema: crafting a toothless, uninspired satire of Hollywood, and using Melanie Griffith to do it. Griffith stars as Honey Whitlock, a raging bitch of an A-list Hollywood actress appearing at a fund-raiser premiere in Baltimore for her latest mediocrity. At the event, she's kidnapped by guerrilla director Cecil B. DeMented (Stephen Dorff), who has big plans for his big star. Along with his cast and crew of similarly dedicated underground cinema enthusiasts, DeMented plans to make a film about a frustrated art theater owner declaring war on the multiplexes and bloated studio films of America. It will be shot in actual theaters and movie sets, recording actual acts of anti-Hollywood terrorism. And Honey Whitlock is going to be the reluctant leading lady.

Subtlety has never exactly been John Waters' strongest suit as a film-maker, so it may be unfair to expect anything different from CECIL. Nevertheless, it's wearying to sit through a satire that takes such broad, trite shots at its target. Waters aims for guffaws from such predictable subjects as the cost of theater concessions, PATCH ADAMS: THE DIRECTOR'S CUT and unnecessary sequels, then gets even more insider by railing against fines for film set transgressions. Even when it seems like he's preparing to let loose with his gloriously bad taste -- a scene in a porn theater where onanistic patrons appear on the verge of defending Cecil and company from pursuers with a hail of bodily fluids -- Waters backs off to something silly and subdued. CECIL's 88 minute, non-stop assault on the obvious may not include a single honest belly laugh.

And the sad part is, there are a couple of decent ideas floating around here. Griffith's Honey isn't really a character -- Waters probably hasn't written a real character in his life -- but the charge she gets out of the underground cachet of working with Cecil could have made for some sharp jabs at other big-time actors who work on low-budget projects. Waters also comes up with an insightful line when Cecil notes that there's nowhere for renegade film-makers to go but to the extreme after Hollywood has co-opted sex and violence. In neither case does Waters take the idea anywhere interesting. Griffith's performance is high camp in the grand Waters tradition, but there's nothing funny or clever about the way her conversion to Cecil's way of thinking is handled. And for an ambush, pseudo-snuff production, Cecil's film itself doesn't demonstrate nearly enough creativity or outrage.

The way Waters approaches his protagonist and his dream project ultimately doom CECIL as much as its limp humor. It's certainly clear that Waters disdains the vapid product shoveled into American theaters, a sentiment in which he has plenty of company. But it also appears that he has no concern for whether or not Cecil's film is going to be any good; to Waters, the simple act of fighting the movie establishment power is enough to make him a hero. It may have been true 25 years ago that a film could be exhilarating just because its creator was daring and thrifty. Today, it helps if the film itself is more than an exercise in self-indulgence. CECIL B. DEMENTED finds John Waters insisting that his brand of underground film-making is still the way to go. The bitter irony is that he's made something just as disposable as PATCH ADAMS: THE DIRECTOR'S CUT.

         On the Renshaw scale of 0 to 10 muddy Waters:  4.

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