Rhinestonei is not a very good film. This is a little disappointing, seeing how a heapin' helpin' o' Dolly "Dollop'o'titties, Smatterin'o'waistline" Parton plus Sylvester Stallone in drag would seem, on the promisory face of things, to promise some quality entertainment.
The promise falls flat ; pretty much the only entertaining items in the indistinct messii are on one hand the sad situation of a forceps case dumbass with facial paralysis stuck reading through a script in which some other guy got lizzard lips an' the girls dun wanna do the deed with, while Dolly Parton won't actually kiss him for love or moneyiii ; and on the other hand a pair of putdowns. They went "you know when Stallone's been by your house, the toilet's always unflushed and the cat's pregnant" and "you can tell he's got some problems peeing by the rusted zipper and the yellow boots" respectively. I guess this much is still better than literal nothing.
Not by very much, however, and the mess is almost two hours long.———
- 1984, by Bob Clark, with Dolly Parton, Sylvester Stallone, writen by imbecile hacks. [↩]
- I suppose it its dreams it'd be flattering itself as being some kind of "satire", of either the Western atmosphere or else Country, or I guess Italian traditional famblies in New York, or something.
As the man said, satire's not there for cancerous fags to try and hide their cancer behind. As it happens there could be hardly imagined worse case of writer's cancer than what's evidently afflicting Phil Alden Robinson. [↩]
- I naively inquired the present company if they thought the two fucked. They pointed out to me this isn't Romanian highschool, not everyone fucks everyone. I asked why the fuck not, they're stuck there on the set, might as fucking well. They retorted that I'm not supposed to appeal to their logic.
Then the wreck progressed, and Dolly wouldn't fucking kiss "Sly" no matter what, it's painfully transparent she couldn't fucking stand him for some reason. Maybe it's because he's Italian ? That must be it, right ? [↩]