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The Idolatry of Innocence
I do not disagree that Al Green possesses supernatural powers,
but I was still disheartened to see the good Reverend belt
out "Let's Stay Together" while Lance Bass made
out with Emmanuelle Chriqui. A more sublime musical moment
is Joey Fatone's coverband slashing through "Pour Some
Sugar On Me" while Fatone indeed dumps a flip-top container
of sugar all over himself. Better yet is Richie Sambora's
glorious turn as a floppy-banged, craggily rock curmudgeon
named "The Mick," who fields questions from Fatone
like, "Where's the passion, man?!" and "What's
happened to the music industry?!" Truth be told,
On the Line is a predictably terrible movie, but not
one that prevented me from having a good time. Dave Foley,
of "Kids in the Hall" fame, pulls a Will Ferrell
and conjures magic from a nothing role as an uptight ad exec
with a religious devotion to foie grass smoothies. And Sammy
Sosa challenges Charlie Sheen as the Filmsnobs King of the
Weird Cameo when he knocks a foul ball into a peanut vendor's
crotch.
Still, my trip to the new 'N Sync vehicle was an educational
experience. Last weekend, I mentioned my intention to see
this movie to a few Gen X women, each time incurring a venomous
wrath: "Don't you make fun of them!" "You leave
them alone!" So I settled into the theater with six other
late-twenties to early-thirties females, a few of them moms.
A curious thing: I had planned on a few moms and their giggling
offspring, but this excursion did not require little Ashley
and Jennifer. These voracious champions of Boy Band-dom are
not Trapper Keeper-wielding pubescents—clearly, more
powerful forces are at play.
My only previous experience with the Boy Band phenomena is
a brief but intense hatred of Joey McIntyre after my eighth
grade girlfriend sat in the third row of a New Kids on the
Block concert. Every day for two weeks she wore that godforsaken
"Hangin' Tough" tee-shirt, and every day I wanted
to smash Joey's pouty lips and pearly smile with a cinder
block. I remember the freckles dancing on her skin when she
discussed, in pointillist detail, the moves Joey performed
during "Girl, Didn't I Blow Your Mind." As I looked
around the theater and recalled the young adult women's vehement
defenses of 'N Sync, I concluded that even a decade later
the perfume of teen idols still lingers—and it's even
more pungent than mere nostalgia, I think. This scent drifts
across the celluloid of On the Line.
Lance Bass is a model of the androgynous sex appeal of teen
idols dating back to David Cassidy. Lance is absolutely non-threatening—in
fact, his features resemble a sea nymph from a Waterhouse
painting: moonfaced with lively blue eyes. Lance is a mythological
embodiment of purity and virginity in a safe, painless package—as
with Britney Spears' glorious proclamation of "Saving
Herself." For most of us mere mortals, the First Time
can be a sloppy, embarrassing, even painful experience. This
is not as we imagined it, but it just couldn't be that
way with the gentle Lance. So we think back to what should
have been, not how it was, and we see Lance and Britney.
And then there's Joey Fatone and his friends. They live in
a bachelors apartment in which Lance is an alien visitor from
the planet "Scrubbed." Fatone himself is a disturbing
union of Matthew Lillard and a defensive lineman from Varsity
Blues, spending most of the film as the butt of weight
jokes and body odor gags. He farts into the cushions of the
couch, scratches his ass a lot, and watches gobs of "Sportscenter"—I
get the feeling that the juxtaposition of Joey and Lance is
also that of a typical Gen X husband now and what he was imagined
to be in college. But Joey gets his redemption in the end
because, despite his flatulent fog and beer gut, he's really
a romantic guy who'll battle to protect his passion, even
if it means making a total ass of himself—a real Gen
X husband.
That brings us to the paradox of the Boy Band phenomena:
their artificiality illicits real, irrefutable passions. Just
try to stop the screams of a zit-faced Lance devotee, or worse
yet, face the wrath of an adult 'N Sync fan, and girl, you'll
know it's true. Boy Bands are facsimiles of passion, and On
the Line presents us with a clever scene of Lance at a
copy machine making posters seeking his true love. The copy
light shines across his face as the camera ascends overhead,
and we see the photo light shining through her image as the
smooth rhythm of the machine melds into a generic 'N Sync
love song. The scene would have played better if Cameron Crowe
had directed it, but I understand the question it begs: What's
the difference between the origin of our desire and the replication
of it?
On the Line itself is an essay on the nature of Boy
Bands. Lance Bass is a commodity of virginity; his appeal
is his unabashed innocence. Lance has a Meeting of Fate with
a soft, perfumy lass whose boyfriend is a clichéd yuppie
who skips the Al Green concert for a business meeting. Lance's
Dream Girl isn't given a name until the final minute of the
film, freeing the other eighty-nine for you to insert your
own fantasy. The whole thing is CUTE!, but Lance can't "Finish
the Deal." He decides to put up posters, like he's looking
for a lost puppy dog, but we know it's he who is the real
puppy dog. The virgin innuendo peaks after his story hits
the papers: Lance shows up at the office to muffled laughter
and knowing stares, but the women think he's downright adorable.
Lance's character is an ad man; his job is selling and designing
images. Which is precisely what he does in real life: Boy
Bands are living advertisements for the image of themselves.
He blankets the town with his image as he pines For Her, and
finally she succumbs to his media onslaught. In the serendipity
scene, the media bulbs flash as Lance stands forlorn, waiting
to be rescued. The scene is played so gently and fluffily
that a gust of venilation might blow it right off the screen.
Which is precisely the point: She sees through all the hype
to see the real Lance, a puppy dog in need of her rescue,
an ad man advertising his innocence to her.
But it all makes sense now. I'm fully aware that I've excavated
far too much from On the Line, but I don't care. I
think I understand the motherly passion for 'N Sync, and I've
made my peace with Joey McIntyre. Damn—I can still remember
that "Hangin' Tough" shirt tucked into her stone-washed
Levi's, tight-rolled to mid-calf, purple and white layers
of socks emerging form her white canvas Keds. When she got
the purple and white rubber bands on her braces, I seriously
considered stepping in front of my school bus.
Our sexuality is confusing and frightening when it's new,
and true to the American spirit, there's an industry to capitalize
on our need for comfort in a time of crisis. Middle school
is a crisis for most, and it makes sense to blanket ourselves
in stickers and tee-shirts and the danceable rhythms of commoditized
idols rather than face the awkward, tangible, all-too-real
fumblings of youth. Apparently, these images are also comforting
as we face the life that's not turning out how we expected.
On the Line and the whole Boy Band phenomena isn't
art—it's too bland to be beautiful, and it's too trapped
in cliché to be free, so it doesn't articulate anything
profound about love. It does, however, contain some superficial
truths in its projection of our fears and desires. It's hard
for me to get too upset at On the Line. The young moms
giggled joyfully throughout, and they could barely contain
their glee when I spoke with them after: "He's soooo
hot!" they chortled. I didn't sense that their nostalgic
idol worship would cross over into idolatry, so I guess it's
OK by me. And if any of you know where I can get a bootlegged
copy of Debbie Gibson's Broadway performance in Les Miserables,
please email me immediately, no screwing around, at filmsnobs@lycos.com
And Hurry! Please!
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