William Burroughs' novel was long considered to be unfilmable, a theory that David Cronenberg proved with this '91 adaptation. Riffing through the book, sampling scenes from the author's life, with a generous helping of sci-fi horror and psycho-sexual neurosis, Naked Lunch plunges Peter Weller and Judy Davis into a beatnik junkie netherworld. Flawed Kafka on ketamine and arguably Cronenberg's most ambitious work to date.
David Fincher's homage to Hitchcock (the North By Northwest title sequence, Howard Shore's score, the Rope/Vertigo-like apartment-as-stage conceit) finds Jodie Foster as the beleaguered mum trying to stay one step ahead of Forest Whitaker, Dwight Yoakam and Jared Leto's housebreakers
Cole Porter's lyrical and melodic genius is likely to endure as one of the last century's immortal contributions to culture. Lennon/McCartney, Holland/Dozier/Holland and possibly Bacharach/David may last as long; others currently revered will be forgotten in 50 years. So it's dandy that they're making a biopic about him, and fine that "an extraordinary range of contemporary artists" are performing his music for it. Trouble is, these artists are neither extraordinary nor a range.
Consider what could have been risked here.
After all the talk of paying tribute to original 1970s cops David Soul and Paul Michael Glaser, Ben Stiller and Owen Wilson throw out any genuine resemblance to those freewheeling dudes and simply take the piss for 90 minutes. There are some canny gags and clever pastiches of buddy-movie clichés, but they give up on it halfway through and just cruise camply.
