By Cynthia W. Gentry, © 2000 by Cynthia W. Gentry, published on Dailygossip.com, March 2000.
Darlings, let me start off by saying that I love Madonna. Frankly, the woman rocks. Ive listened to Ray of Light oh, about a trillion times over the last few years. Madonna has gotten me through a divorce, a couple of breakups, long commutes and more than a few workouts. So Madonna, I think I can say this to you:
Please, please dont try to act.
If you do, it should be in something where you can be the leading lady you arelike in Evita, where you get to run a country. But The Next Best Thing does not display your copious talents to good effect, to make a colossal understatement. Darlings, if I hadnt been reviewing this movie for my loyal readers, I would have walked out, if only to stop causing pain to my dear friend Kyle Irish, who still hasnt forgiven me for dragging him to this mess on his recent visit from Hollywood.
By now, everyone knows the plot of The Next Best Thing. Madonna plays Abbie Reynolds and Rupert Everett is her best friend, Robert Whittaker, the worlds most gorgeous landscape architect. Abbie is a yoga instructor who, despite whats probably a $10-an-hour salary, lives in a beautiful multimillion-dollar-home in the Hollywood Hills. In the first of many times were asked to suspend our disbelief, the movie opens with Abbie getting dumped by her live-in boyfriend Kevin (hunky Michael Vartan from Never Been Kissed). Kevin is such a slimeball he even refers to Robert as a faggot that its hard not to cheer when he drives away, and we think less of Abbie for begging him to stay. The real Madonna, of course, would have kicked this guy in the nuts.
Abbie runs to Robert for solace. Staring at Rupert Everetts bare chest would have been plenty of solace for moi, but Abbie whines on and on about her biological time clock and advancing age. And believe you me, the cinematography by Eliott Davis does not encourage one to disagree with her.
After the funeral of a friend whos died from AIDS, Abbie and Robert get drunk and do the nasty (without protection, I might add), although all we get to see is a kiss. The morning-after scene is so badly written that were not even sure that they have done it (apparently Robert wasnt so drunk not to put his underwear on afterwards). Abbie incomprehensibly moons around like a lovestruck teen (what, she thinks now hes straight?) and Robert rushes around vacuuming broken pottery. They have a lovers quarrel (huh?), but everythings fine once Abbie glides into Roberts greenhouse and announces that shes pregnant. Without pause, Robert agrees to join Abbie in raising the child.
So far, weve got the makings of a nice romantic comedy, but The Next Best Thing is neither romantic nor comic. It even misses the chance to be a hip sex romp. Everett struggles against the script to enliven each scene with his trademark sly wit, but hes up against an insurmountable obstacle: Madonnas acting. The woman who is so charismatic in front of a microphone manages to drain the life from every scene shes in, reducing whatever on-screen chemistry there could have been between her and Everett to zero. The preachy, on-the-nose script by Thomas Ropelewski doesnt help much. Characters dont talk; they lecture and pontificate.
The scene where Abbie has the baby we only see Madonna screaming Give me all the drugs youve got is another missed opportunity. How powerful it would have been to show Robert witnessing the birth, and the two friends struggling through sleep deprivation, dirty diapers and the terrible twos. Instead, we fast-forward five years. Their son Sam (Malcolm Stumpf) is a happy, well-adjusted kid who teaches yoga to his friends at his birthday party. Uh huh. The only note of discord is that Abbie hasnt had a date since Sams birth, and theres a hint of jealousy as Robert gets ready for to visit Eric, a hunky cardiologist, while Abbie stays home and feels sorry for herself. (Kyle later told me that he wasnt sure whether he was squirming more at the sight of Erics incredible pecs or the horrid dialogue. He was only able to resolve the cognitive dissonance by getting loaded on multiple Cutty-and-sodas in First Class on the way back to L.A.)
But the movie cant even let Robert enjoy himself (and it certainly cant show a kiss between two men). The sleepless Robert pushes Eric away by telling him that he cant stop worrying over Sams first day of school. This only made me lose sympathy for Robert: the movie seems to be saying that even gay men can use their children as an excuse for not being present in an adult relationship, a tactic perfected by my ex-b.f. Beelzebub, who perhaps served as script adviser.
When Abbie finally does begin dating the oh-so-perfect Ben (Benjamin Bratt), the movie takes a surreal turn, asking us to believe Abbie and Robert, two supposedly caring, sensitive people, would suddenly begin behaving like complete jerks. Abbie then does something so unbelievable for her character that it caused Kyle to call me in hysterics from the airphone in First Class, screaming that hed seen Bunuel films with a stronger grip on reality. As The Next Best Thing devolves into bad Movie-of-the-Week territory, Everett alternates between hanging his head, curling his lip and engaging in progressively wilder histrionics (perhaps as a reaction to the script), and Madonna mopes around with fake tears.
Perhaps relieved that the movie is about to end, both principals manage to finally convey a tiny bit of connection in the final scene. By then, we feel like cheering, too. Darlings, I had a headache after this movie that took my personal assistant Troy three hours to massage out of my temples. Its hard to believe that the brilliant and versatile John Schlesinger, who gave us the searing drama of Midnight Cowboy and Marathon Man and the witty Cold Comfort Farm, directed this ill-fated jumble. Kyle and I have been calling each other each night to pray that Madonna and Rupert both find roles worthy of their talents and that maybe well one day get a movie that shows that gay people can be good parents and sexual beings. Until then, lets hope all of us are able to put this little incident behind us. For now, Ill have to give The Next Best Thing a big CREDIT CARD DENIED rating. Madonna, girlfriend, Im sorry.