Last night before I decided to go to bed I happened to scroll through my amazingly cool satellite provider to see what was on (I like to leave the tv on to help me fall asleep so I can wake up four hours later, supremely irritated at whatever is now on, turn the television off with a grunt, and flop over to the other side of the bed).
Lo and behold, a movie that I distinctly remember as being one hell of a good watch. I mean, Tom Cruise and Rebecca deMornay banging on a subway train? Pimps? Hooker house?
I am, of course, talking about Risky Business. The premise is simple. Parents go away, straight-A uptight Republican kid goes kinda batshit, has a bunch of parties, turns his house into a brothel, gets into it with a pimp, all that shit. I mean, when my parents went away for vacation, that is so totally the first thing I did, right after building an atomic bomb in the garage.
The following scene is one of the most well-known from the movie:
It also, in retrospect and through the goggles of having been there and done that, one of the gayest things I have ever seen in my entire life that does not involve the insertion of animals into orifices.
Why on God’s Green Earth would a teenage dude, free from his parents, decide to put on a Bob Seger song (don’t get me wrong, it’s one helluva damn fine song and I’ve been known to sing a few bars in the shower), pull his white socks all the way up to his knees (slight exaggeration), wear a pink shirt (no exagerration) and prance around the living room, lip synching like the Spice Girls?
Now, hold on, you say. He’s a young man, given freedom, probably for the first time, you point out, who, in the previous scene, drank nearly 10 ounces of Chivas and proceeded to try and eat a frozen Hungry Man dinner.
What? Are you saying he’s retarded? Can’t be … his grades and the impression he gives off is that of non-retardation. Drunk, possibly. I’ll even allow it, given this: I’ve drank that much (and oh so much more) and have never once been compelled to boogie around the living room in my socks, underwear and a pink shirt.
Nor, and this is the cherry of gayness on an already bright pink gay sundae, have I ever flopped around on the couch, kicking my legs and wiggling my arms. This is not something ‘straight’ teenage boys do. This is how it must’ve come about;
Paul (the director): Ok, Tom, in this scene, you get really fucked up on Chivas and pass out on the dinner table and you wake up in a pile of your own vomit.
Tom (a xenu warrior): Um…
Paul: No, it’s ok, I encourage input. What were you thinking?
Tom: What about if I turn the music up really, really loud? Like, some awesome old hippie song or something?
Paul: Oh, wow, I like it. Annoy the neighbors, that sort of thing. That’s very Animal House, should look great. Good, good. Tom, you got this look on your face…
Tom: Can I … can I lipsynch to it? The song?
Paul: … uh … well, yeah, sure, totally we can work that in. Oh, hey, yeah, we can do a montage of you digging out your well hidden porno magazines while the song is playing. Heh heh, that’s …
Tom: Can I … well, can I dance to the song, too? In the living room, in just socks, a shirt, and my tightie whities? That’s totally what boys do, you know. When they’re alone. They dance. Always … always dancing … so pretty … I’m so … prettyyyyy….
And the director, faced with either making no movie at all or trying to figure out how to make Tom Cruise not appear to be super gay (because he was going to be a huge star), decided to allow the dancefest but insisted on the train-banging scene with Rebecca deMornay and not a shower scene with Curtis Armstrong as initially proposed by Tom.
You watch the scene again. You tell me that’s normal behaviour.