Mae West was, and still is, an icon. She had a swagger and a gift for naughty double entendres that both titillated and outraged the American public. She was a person who was not above using her feminine wiles to her advantage and she did all of this in her early forties at a time when Hollywood was even more unforgiving to middle-aged actresses. Even now, nearly a century after she burst onto the scene, her influence can still be seen in the likes of Madonna, Gwen Stefani and Cristina Aguilera.
However, by the time she made "Sextette," she was well over eighty and still trying so hard to be "Mae West" that she had devolved into a parody of herself. Decked out in a giant platinum blonde wig, slathered with enough makeup to attend her own funeral and long, bodice-covering dresses obviously meant to hide the ravages of time on her body and her increasing waistline, this was not Mae West. This wasn't even the same Mae West who appeared in "Myra Breckenridge" eight years earlier. This was some two-bit drag queen's impersonation of Mae West. Apparently, even the director for this film knew it too, as he bathed her in enough soft white light to make Barbara Walters envious.
You can argue all day long about whether a woman of such advanced age has a right to think of herself as sexy or whether or not the rumors about her using earpieces or being wheeled around the set are true, but the fact is, she just doesn't have it anymore in this film and it is just painful to watch. She has noticeable trouble moving, some of her lines seem off, and all of her songs are either obviously lip-synched or spoken-word numbers where she doesn't have to exert herself trying to sing. The fact that she has men young enough to be her grandchildren fawning over her only highlights the cognitive dissonance between who Mae West thinks she is and who she actually is.
The plot for this movie is ridiculous and doesn't pretend to be serious, so I won't go into much detail, just that Marlo Manners' (Mae West's character, as if it really matters) honeymoon night with her sixth husband (Timothy Dalton, would you believe) is mercifully interrupted by a parade of past ex-husbands, movie shoots, and world peace talks that have stalled because one of the ex-husbands is involved and wants one more night of passion with our geriatric sexpot before he'll make nice with the rest of the world's leaders.
Also there's a missing cassette tape that Marlo doesn't want anyone to get their hands on despite the fact that she was using it to record her autobiography. If you don't want people knowing about your past exploits, why would you record an autobiography? Why would you record them period? The plot only exists to build up Mae West as a memetic sex goddess anyway, so who cares?
I won't go into the acting too much either, except that Timothy Dalton does a surprisingly good job considering he's playing a man who's anxious to get into an octogenarian's pants. West herself seems to have lost her comedic timing in her old age which does lend some plausibility to the earpiece urban legend. Other standouts include a cardboard Russian stereotype played by Tony Curtis, a cardboard mobster played by George Hamilton and a cardboard camp gay fashion designer played by Keith Moon? Other bizarre casting choices include Ringo Starr as a prima donna film director and yet another ex-husband and Alice Cooper as a singing bellboy in a horrible wig that makes Mae West look good by comparison.
And that brings us to the next point: this movie is a musical even better, a DISCO musical! This just wouldn't be a 70's period piece without bad musical numbers, now would it? The musical selection ranges from bad to hilariously bad from the opening number where Mae West's ego is massaged by a choir who declare her to be a "living dream" and compare her to Venus de Milo to Miss West mumbling her way through a disco-fied update of "Baby Face." The bellboys pay tribute to Marlo as she arrives to her hotel with a song-and-dance rendition of "Hooray for Hollywood" that comes off as a big lipped alligator moment due to how poorly set up it is and finally, we have the "duet" between West and Dalton of "Love Will Keep Us Together". I use the term "duet" loosely as Dalton caterwauls through most of the song while West occasionally wakes up just long enough to mumble a few words here and here.
Mae West wanted so badly to prove that she still had it by making "Sextette," but proved just the opposite instead. She was already in such bad shape that she would only live for two more years. However, despite the horrifying train wreck that this movie is, a part of me can't help but admire having the chutzpah to declare oneself sexually desirable at an age when most people are wiling away their days in a nursing home. I can't decide whether to be appalled or inspired when watching this movie.
Maybe it's both.
However, by the time she made "Sextette," she was well over eighty and still trying so hard to be "Mae West" that she had devolved into a parody of herself. Decked out in a giant platinum blonde wig, slathered with enough makeup to attend her own funeral and long, bodice-covering dresses obviously meant to hide the ravages of time on her body and her increasing waistline, this was not Mae West. This wasn't even the same Mae West who appeared in "Myra Breckenridge" eight years earlier. This was some two-bit drag queen's impersonation of Mae West. Apparently, even the director for this film knew it too, as he bathed her in enough soft white light to make Barbara Walters envious.
You can argue all day long about whether a woman of such advanced age has a right to think of herself as sexy or whether or not the rumors about her using earpieces or being wheeled around the set are true, but the fact is, she just doesn't have it anymore in this film and it is just painful to watch. She has noticeable trouble moving, some of her lines seem off, and all of her songs are either obviously lip-synched or spoken-word numbers where she doesn't have to exert herself trying to sing. The fact that she has men young enough to be her grandchildren fawning over her only highlights the cognitive dissonance between who Mae West thinks she is and who she actually is.
The plot for this movie is ridiculous and doesn't pretend to be serious, so I won't go into much detail, just that Marlo Manners' (Mae West's character, as if it really matters) honeymoon night with her sixth husband (Timothy Dalton, would you believe) is mercifully interrupted by a parade of past ex-husbands, movie shoots, and world peace talks that have stalled because one of the ex-husbands is involved and wants one more night of passion with our geriatric sexpot before he'll make nice with the rest of the world's leaders.
Also there's a missing cassette tape that Marlo doesn't want anyone to get their hands on despite the fact that she was using it to record her autobiography. If you don't want people knowing about your past exploits, why would you record an autobiography? Why would you record them period? The plot only exists to build up Mae West as a memetic sex goddess anyway, so who cares?
I won't go into the acting too much either, except that Timothy Dalton does a surprisingly good job considering he's playing a man who's anxious to get into an octogenarian's pants. West herself seems to have lost her comedic timing in her old age which does lend some plausibility to the earpiece urban legend. Other standouts include a cardboard Russian stereotype played by Tony Curtis, a cardboard mobster played by George Hamilton and a cardboard camp gay fashion designer played by Keith Moon? Other bizarre casting choices include Ringo Starr as a prima donna film director and yet another ex-husband and Alice Cooper as a singing bellboy in a horrible wig that makes Mae West look good by comparison.
And that brings us to the next point: this movie is a musical even better, a DISCO musical! This just wouldn't be a 70's period piece without bad musical numbers, now would it? The musical selection ranges from bad to hilariously bad from the opening number where Mae West's ego is massaged by a choir who declare her to be a "living dream" and compare her to Venus de Milo to Miss West mumbling her way through a disco-fied update of "Baby Face." The bellboys pay tribute to Marlo as she arrives to her hotel with a song-and-dance rendition of "Hooray for Hollywood" that comes off as a big lipped alligator moment due to how poorly set up it is and finally, we have the "duet" between West and Dalton of "Love Will Keep Us Together". I use the term "duet" loosely as Dalton caterwauls through most of the song while West occasionally wakes up just long enough to mumble a few words here and here.
Mae West wanted so badly to prove that she still had it by making "Sextette," but proved just the opposite instead. She was already in such bad shape that she would only live for two more years. However, despite the horrifying train wreck that this movie is, a part of me can't help but admire having the chutzpah to declare oneself sexually desirable at an age when most people are wiling away their days in a nursing home. I can't decide whether to be appalled or inspired when watching this movie.
Maybe it's both.