Although Demi Moore is currently experiencing a meta renaissance thanks to The Substance, she has often had career ups and downs over the decades. After the success of Ghost, Moore starred in three 1991 films varying from excellence to misfire and absurdity. It’s intriguing to revisit this now relatively obscure trio – a microcosm of the highs and lows in Moore’s oeuvre.
The Butcher’s Wife
Blonde psychic Demi Moore, hepcat psychiatrist Jeff Daniels (Speed), and more familiar faces intersect in this fantasy romance that admittedly warns you it’s going to be unusual with a silly opening narration, coastal quaint, comets heralding love, and snow globes in the sand. Barefoot and naive Moore – with a wavering Southern accent and a magical family clock – is waiting for a husband to wash ashore and whisk her away to New York. The cute score tells us it’s so charming when her husband puts his shoeless wife of one day to work in his butcher shop! Marina’s like a child tearing the wrapping paper, putting on all the aprons at once, and ringing the counter bell as her Carolina simple contrasts the initially harsh city. Everyone smokes in almost every scene – shocked this beautiful, magical woman is the eponymous bride yet spontaneously telling her their problems. Marina tells them destiny will find a way, and even with the bad accent, it’s best when she is able to share her insights, compassion, and understanding rather than being dimwitted with her wispy white dresses, flowers, and wind chimes. The skylines, rooftops, and retro street look like old mid-century sets, and the audience has to shut off today’s red flags to accept these conflicts of interest and fears of commitment as sweet and innocent.
After humorously paying $3.50 for $350 shoes, Marina continually intrudes and oversteps her bounds, but it’s supposed to be okay because she knows deliveries will be late and can predict customers’ dinner needs. People never remember her exact words but know what feels right – leading to what Marina says are mistaken interpretations that people want to hear. Naturally, the men drink and argue that she can’t rule everyone’s lives based on primitive female intuition while women insist she never change who she is. Couples that are meant-to-be, meet amid the crisscross swanky and roller skating, bewitchment contrasting the rational therapy demanding the id remain in check. Marina’s aware people think she is touched in the head, admitting she is simple but not stupid yet can’t help her clairvoyance and may have made a mistake. Moore doesn’t seem comfortable on top of the distracted direction, but it’s great when Marina is able to explain her visions– using the clairvoyance for character insights rather than just contrived confusion and stubborn arguments. Of course, not utilizing the lesbian couple to amplify the loving who you are meant to love when our split souls unite themes is unfortunately expected in the post-Reagan era. Viewers are also ready to wrap up the star crossed romances before the ninety minute mark, yet the destined reunions are rushed in the final ten minutes. This could be a pleasant watch with what if whimsy, but the execution is imperfect and the innocuous screwball charm is fifty years too late.
Mortal Thoughts
Glenne Headly (Mr. Holland’s Opus) and detective Harvey Keitel (The Piano) join then-real life couple Bruce Willis (Die Hard) and Demi Moore in this unconventional murder mystery told in flashback. It’s best to go into this cold, and viewers must pay attention to the witness testimony recounting the crime – especially when it doesn’t quite match what we see. Retro camera equipment recording the interrogation accents the Bayonne-specific tackiness and attitudes with big hair, bad fashions, and acid denim. Macho arguments and casual misogyny disrupt the wedding fanfare, and secondhand accounts of the tumultuous marriage include abuse, drugs, and nonchalant comments about wanting to get rid of the handsy husband. Nobody’s really going to put rat poison in the sugar bowl though, right? Beauty parlor humiliations layer the men versus women good cop/bad cop interview and Keitel’s probing Honeymooners quips. Willis is despicably sleazy alongside the on form Headly and Moore as the tension between the forever friends escalates. Well done editing balances the van perils, carnival fun, and violence both seen and hesitantly told. Who’s going to dump the body and get their story straight? The camera pans as hectic events are recalled and dialogue from the past crime bleeds into the interrogation scenes. A woman has to look after herself amid bloody knives, chicken races, and criminal bungling at every turn. Slip ups and funeral hysterics make others suspicious amid claustrophobic family interference, cursing in Italian, and Catholic touches. Babies cry while their mother scrubs away the blood and burns the evidence. Cops dissect the holes in the story, husbands distrust wives, and a woman will choose to talk or keep her mouth shut to keep the peace as necessary. The vintage Christmas is ruined by paranoia and gunshots, and what happens outside of our point of view casts doubt thanks to subtle slow motion and ambiguous up close shots. This could have been awards worthy if not for such a packed year, and it remains a compelling thriller that doesn’t deserve to be forgotten as one of Moore’s finest films.
Nothing but Trouble
Writer/director/producer Dan Aykroyd (Ghostbusters) wears every hat possible including not one but two prosthetic performances for this notorious lark starring mogul Chevy Chase (National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation) and lawyer Demi Moore. The vintage New York City swanky and sweet Beemer give way to road trip detours and backwoods circumstances in a well paced start with simple sight gags and sinkholes. Our yuppies complain about the smelly scenery of American industry – abandoned factories, landfills, burned out towns – before not pausing at a stop sign. They laugh at the local constable’s high speed pursuit despite the off road dangers and rural trigger happy. Unfortunately, the Brazilian stereotypes, mock Spanish, and hammy performances are already over the top. Straight man Chase also makes all the wisecracks and never takes the insular implications seriously. We leave the yuppie point of view for demented roller coasters chewing up other jerky traffic violators, and these superfluous scenes reveal the village peril too soon.
Aykroyd’s grotesque, self-righteous Judge dispenses justice on his whim when not passing the can of Hawaiian Punch at the suspect hot dog dinner, for his family was betrayed in a worthless deal decades ago and he’ll make everyone else pay for it. Silly set pieces, shootouts, and more tangents detract from the bemusing idea that everything will be alright once they’re back on the freeway. Our rich folks think money can make the scrap metal heaps and piles of accumulated Americana trash go away, and the leads lack chemistry – awkwardly kissing but caring little for each other as they fall for every booby trap behind each fun house door. Dumb gags and mixed motivations make little sense, and John Candy’s (Spaceballs) dual role as the sensible constable and his mute sister is inspired but underutilized. Dirty as her little white outfit gets, Moore’s pearls remain demure, and the Digital Underground hip hop interlude is surprisingly fun. However, everyone splits up for time wasting junkyard chases littered with confusing overlapping dialogue and flat punchlines. Social statements on the elite getting what they deserve are ruined by the pointless farce – lost in the Valkenvania title change, delayed release, and PG-13 cutting. Our tycoon feigns prayer while never asking what’s happened to his friends despite explosions and slimy, deformed man babies, and but wait there’s more twists. The symbolic coal fire avalanche and any warning of the hellish collapse of American infrastructure culminates in a cartoonish mess ultimately best known for The Judge’s penis shaped fake nose.
