Misunderstood Masterpieces: Rhinestone

Posted by Will Helm on 03.28.2006

… or, I Wish I Knew How to Quit This Movie

More than a year ago, I covered, in these very pages, two entries from the film oeuvre of the aging action star Sylvester Stallone; more specifically, these two films were aberrations in the course of Stallone's career, because they were comedies. I know it's hard to believe that a man – a manly man – like Sylvester Stallone can perform in laugh-inducing situations . . . and, well, he really can't. Any humor, if any, from Stallone's performances in these films can be gleaned from the novelty of Sylvester Stallone trying to be funny . . . with an emphasis on the word "trying."

Of course, I initially wanted to make my foray into the comedic stylings of Sylvester Stallone a trilogy, but the third film was not to be found . . . until now. Just imagine, if you would, a film so horrible, so unfunny, and so ill-conceived that it makes Oscar and Stop! Or My Mom Will Shoot look like Some Like It Hot and Young Frankenstein in comparison. Consider that, in 1984, someone had the brash notion, the madcap idea, and the unbridled chutzpah to combine the antics of Sylvester Stallone, singer/actress Dolly Parton – who was, admittedly, decent in the odd women's-lib flick 9 to 5 from the early ‘80s – and Parton's forte, country music, in one film. Unbelievably, this film was shot, released, and – to the surprise of all except perhaps the producers – is remembered as one of the worst films of its era, a critical and box-office bomb of spectacular proportions. The film is titled Rhinestone and we're going to find out if it is, indeed, a Misunderstood Masterpiece.

Apparently, if the very opening of this picture is true, there's a honky-tonk at the Statue of Liberty. It's probably in the torch; that's why they don't let anyone up there anymore. Oh . . . and, surprisingly, there's also yodeling. Somehow, Jewel must be involved. Maybe the torch of the Statue of Liberty is her secret lair, from where she can release her milquetoast folk-pop and bad poetry upon unsuspecting citizens. She must be stopped at all costs!

Anyway, this yodeling is audible throughout New York City, finally centering on some ritzy, glitzy cowboy club in an indistinct part of town. Let's just say it's in Harlem. Outside of some honky-tonk, a lame white Rolls Royce pulls up and some sleazy guy (Ron Leibman) walks out, dressed like he just took second place in a Tony Manero look-alike contest. The loveably sleazy guy -- who also happens to be the club's owner, Freddie Ugo – surveys his vast cowboy kingdom and finally, after cutting a swath of sexual harassment through the club, centers on his star performer Jake (Parton). She doesn't have any last name, apparently . . . she's just "Jake." While Freddie drools at the bar, Jake leaves the stage after a raucous performance – OK, it was dull . . . I'm just trying to be kind here – with a few bad jokes.

Meanwhile, over at one of the many airports in Manhattan – that's a joke, for those of you in the know – psycho cab driver Nick Martinelli (Stallone) picks up a demure Japanese family. On the way to nowhere in particular, Nick – like any stereotypical Italian would – puts down sushi in favor of good old American Italian cuisine. Back at the cowboy club, Jake blows off Freddie's advances; doesn't she know that giving in is the only way to get ahead? While Freddie attempts to ply Jake's affections with his comically sleazy shtick, Jake counteracts his attraction by confusing him with very bizarre analogies, angering Freddie to no end. I guess his system is a bit backed up causing testosterone to leach into his brain. Barry Bonds would be proud.

Back on the streets of New York, crazy cabbie Nick freaks out the Japanese tourists in his back seat with his driving skills and his preferred method of stress relief: screaming at the top of his lungs. The Japanese family, perhaps nearing seppuku to end their suffering, orders Nick to drop them off – where else? – at the cowboy bar. Speaking of the cowboy club, Freddie, in all his ‘70s regalia, brags about a new prodigy of his taking the stage in the near future to some bored crony. Then, logically, Freddie introduces his new find to the crowd . . . and it's Dwight Yoakum with a ‘roid-rage problem! He's also a bit of a sorcerer as he can make microphones reappear after he destroys them. It's a miracle! Not quite as divine is his performance as fake Dwight sings a touching song about his one-time bride's horrific combine accident . . . much to the crowd's amusement. Ah, those jaded New York fans. Next thing you know, they're going to start chanting "This is boring! This is boring!"

Or maybe even competing chants of "Flyers suck!" and "Devils suck!"

Anyway, ersatz Yoakum's failure greatly increases Freddie's consternation, so he is less than pleased when Jake strides up to him asking to talk about her contract. Oh no . . . I'm having flashbacks! In response to Jake's entreaty, Freddie gives her a bargain she easily refuses: she can get out of her contract if she gets with him. As a counterpoint, Jake then proposes a Henry Higgins-esque wager to her boss: in two weeks, she can make anyone into a country singer. Freddie, perhaps unwisely – since this is a comedy and not a drama and, hence, it will have a happy ending – takes that wager and then, moments later, he auditions a bum and Charles Manson out on the street. After Jake refuses Freddie's two burgeoning ingénues, who should pull up but this film's requisite Eliza Doolittle: taxi-driver Nick!

After Nick yells at Freddie and Jake for distracting him and causing an accident – his terrible driving be damned – they all share a drink in the club. I'm thinking that a bit of conversation was cut out between the first meeting and the commiseration, but that's just a hunch. Either that or Nick has wild mood swings. Anyway, while Freddie lays out the terms of the experiment to Nick, he – unsurprisingly – hits on Jake and her giant . . . hairstyle. Jake, not wanting the touch of either man near her, spurns Nick's advances by mocking his accent; Nick responds by making fun of Jake's bizarre metaphors and then packing up and leaving in a huff. Freddie, believing the wager to now be forfeit, requests that Jake pay up and strip down, but she contends that she still has two weeks to win over and train Nick. Damned technicalities!

The next day, Jake tracks down Nick at the home office of his taxi company. Sadly, neither Mr. T nor Louie De Palma is anywhere to be found. Instead, the only thing Nick finds is a pink slip as his angry, bald supervisor fires him for his vehicular transgressions. Nick, put out with Jake's "helpful" intercession, yells at her, but she piques his interest by telling him that he can get a new job . . . if he goes along with her and Freddie's bet. Nick finally acquiesces, especially when Freddie, as payment for Nick's involvement, agrees to pay for the repairs to Nick's cab if he makes good on the wager; Nick, up to this point just a lovable buffoon, shrewdly holds out for a new cab altogether, much to Freddie's chagrin.

After the negotiations, Nick, perhaps growing interested in Jake, invites her back home to see his big organ. No, really . . . his big organ. Although it's odd that he would brag about it; from what I've heard, it's not necessarily the size of the organ but how you play it that matters. Of course, Nick's pride in his organ is just a wacky pun as he lives at his family's funeral home and, once there, he shows off his instrument to Jake . . . by playing a terrible rendition of a Little Richard song. For some reason, I think there's an inherent joke in playing Little Richard on a big organ, but I just can't figure out what it is. Unfortunately for Nick, this raises the ire of his stereotypical Italian father (Stephen Apostle Pec) as there is a funeral going on downstairs at the same time! Well, the deceased could have been a rock-n'-roll fan; I guess we'll never know. Nick's stereotypical Italian father, greatly enraged, goes upstairs to scold his stereotypical Italian son but, after spying the bounteously configured Jake, they share a lascivious stereotypical Italian moment. Either that, or Nick's stereotypical Italian father proposed a three-way with his son. Ick.

After the vague sexual innuendoes conclude, Nick, Nick's stereotypical Italian father, and Jake all share a stereotypical Italian lunch together . . . while Nick and his stereotypical Italian father both ogle Jake's voluptuousness, much to Nick's stereotypical Italian mother's (Penny Santon) chagrin. Ah, there's nothing like a dessert of cannoli and marital resentment. After lunch, Jake reveals that she's taking Nick back home with her to Tennessee in order to teach him how to be a country singer; of course, Nick's stereotypically Italian family reacts in a stereotypically Italian way: with much guilt involved. Stereotypical Italian mamas, don't let your babies grow up to be stereotypical Italian cowboys. Unless Sergio Leone is involved.

Down in Tennessee, Nick, fresh of the bus and dressed like Huey Lewis, is attacked by a roving herd of sheep. Who knew sheep knew well enough to comment on fashion in such a way? Maybe Nick was wearing one of their cousins. After fending off the flock of wooly terror, Nick then ingratiates himself to the locals, who believe him to be an idiot. Note to self: don't ever patronize Tennesseans. After being rescued by Jake's father (Richard Farnsworth), Nick has to sit idly by while Jake and her dad talk about hog testicles on the way back to her house. Oh how delightfully rural!

Once at Jake's family homestead, Nick is treated to a terrible porch concert featuring Jake's dad's band. I have a feeling this is going to degrade into one of those awkward moments where Nick has to insincerely compliment the festivities just because he's into the guy's daughter. I hate it when that happens. Actually, that doesn't happen; instead, Jake's dad invites Nick to take the stage and, once there, Nick makes a mockery of rock-n'-roll, frightening all farm animals in a three county radius. Luckily, before Nick can break into an encore and bust up the band's instruments in the process, Jake's dad schools him in the ways of country over a stirring rendition of "Old McDonald." No, really. Later, Nick rides a calf and, in the process, learns all about the intricacies of animal husbandry. Good to know.

That evening, Jake, Jake's dad, and Nick all come together for a good, old-fashioned, down-home dinner. Unfortunately for Nick, he's not quite indoctrinated to the down-home lifestyle, so Jake lectures him on everything from the proper combination of mashed potatoes and peas to the use of the biscuit in Southern cuisine. Note: it's used to sop up gravy and not as a vehicle for a pat of butter. That's a little tip from Jake to me to you. Anyway, Nick, not one to be told what to do with his biscuit, walks out on the fine meal and then wanders into a bleak wasteland outside. Whoa . . . who knew the apocalypse would happen while Nick was in Tennessee? And, straight out of The Omega Man comes some creepy local offering Nick a ride . . . to his doom! Well, he's offering a ride, at least; the doom may be optional.

Instead of hitching a ride with a frightening Southern stereotype, Nick somehow makes his way to the local tavern which comes complete with a cheesy country lounge singer (Tim Thomerson). Nick, perhaps not one to tolerate the melodic stylings of the one and only Barnett Kale – the cheesy country lounge singer – drowns his sorrows in a frosty mug full of beer. Unfortunately for Nick, Barnett decides to buddy up to him, so he entertains Nick by recounting every single New York stereotype known to humanity. Nick, strangely, keeps himself from murdering Barnett and, instead, they just get drunk together. Ah . . . beer! Fueling diplomacy for time immemorial!

The next morning, the farm animals – perhaps remembering Nick's horrid musical performance from the day previous – exact their REVENGE when some ducks attack an unconscious Nick. Jake, perhaps in a forgiving mood, consoles Nick . . . until he confides that, the night before, he turned country just for fun with JAKE'S EX-BOYFRIEND! Dum-dum-DUM! Jake, unsurprisingly, freaks out at this revelation and bolts for her room, where she later consoles herself with a terrible country song. Nick, perhaps sensing – through his dense skull – that he didn't do something very bright, later joins Jake in her bedroom but, instead of getting it on – it's still too early in the movie for that – they just argue because Nick resents Jake calling him a "bum." Gee . . . isn't he a bit touchy? After the conflict, Nick and Jake come to a state of détente, mainly just so that they can get the wager won.

Later that afternoon, Nick, now once again on the same page with Jake, dresses like a gay, glam cowboy in order to sing a song about Budweiser with the band. After the impromptu musical number, Jake, not happy with Nick's adherence to the country lifestyle, teaches her charge how to walk like a proper cowboy. Unfortunately, before she can teach him anything more involving husbandry, Barnett shows up to crash the party and hit on Jake. Instead of Nick learning how to walk, he instead joins Barnett for another lesson on how to drink. Much to Barnett and his buddies' frustration, Nick knows his limits and refuses to partake with them; before any fisticuffs can break out, Jake and her giant . . . dress show up to defuse the situation and dance with Nick.

While Nick and Jake – wow, this sounds like Brokeback Mountain if you didn't know that Jake was a woman – trip the country fantastic, Barnett stews and then, fueled by inebriation, he tries to cut in. Nick, emulating Bill Russell, denies him. While Barnett plans his next move with his henchmen by his side, Nick's id takes over control of his mind and he confesses that he may be – just maybe – falling for Jake. Barnett, not one to let his ex-squeeze be sullied by a brash city-boy, causes trouble, so Jake picks a fight with him. Hmm . . . something tells me her mouth is writing checks that Nick's going to have to cash. And, unsurprisingly, my hunch is correct as Nick takes up Barnett's challenge and is punched to the ground for his troubles. While Nick desires some stereotypical Italian REVENGE – I bet you thought that particular joke was done, eh? – Jake instead makes him walk out with his dignity, his teeth, and his life intact. I guess she can't win her bet if he dies . . . even though you can't get more country than being killed in a bar brawl.

In a truck on the way home from the bar, Nick and Jake – big shock here – argue, but they decide to remain friends. Oh yeah . . . that never works. Or perhaps it does, as they have a training montage together and then, at the end of it, they nearly make out. This all leads to Jake acting as Nick's opening act down at the local tavern, which is a pretty decent lead-in to his debut performance. Nick, even with Jake's great introduction, takes the stage to the crowd's jeers – Barnett and his cronies present, of course – so he wins over the audience by making fun of his persecutor and nemesis . . . and the crowd goes wild! After the lounge routine – and the tipping of the waitress and trying of the veal – Nick starts singing his very first song . . . badly. Luckily for him, Jake is on hand to pick up the slack with her giant . . . voice. The crowd, since she's a hometown hero, likes that, so they approve of Nick's neophyte stage presence. Perhaps endearing Nick further to the locals is that, after the show, he finally punches out Barnett . . . and then there's an encore performance!

Back at chez Jake, Jake's dad and Nick bond over the evening's proceedings and Jake's dad offers to give Nick the gay cowboy outfit from earlier in the film as a token of his esteem. Instead of taking such a wonderful gift, Nick instead tells Jake's dad to burn it in his honor. Wow . . . it's like a sacrifice! While Jake's dad is off probably dousing the outfit in gasoline to prepare for the conflagration, Nick visits Jake in her room where, like earlier in the film, she's consoling herself by playing guitar and mumbling in lieu of actually singing. Nick, who probably is just doing it so Jake stops with her incessant warbling, makes out with her . . . and then they probably get it on. Unfortunately – or, perhaps, fortunately – we never know for sure as the screen fades to black, ending our sojourn in Tennessee.

Once more in New York, Nick returns to his ancestral abode and, more significantly, straight into a stereotypical Italian party to welcome him back. While Nick's family watches amused, Nick's stereotypical Italian father claims a microphone and, in a drunken stupor, he gives a speech regaling his son's adventures in America's heartland. After his little tribute concludes, Nick's stereotypical Italian father hands off the microphone to Jake . . . and then he just stands behind her and smells her hair. Um . . . weird. Jake thanks Nick for being so cooperative and tells him that his new taxi is only a short time away; the only problem is that now Nick has other ideas. Instead of a cab driver, Nick now has the harebrained idea that he's going to be a singer. Because when I think melodic song stylings, I think "Sylvester Stallone." Somewhere, Frank Stallone is weeping and repeating "That could've been me! That could've been me!" incessantly.

Jake, perhaps the film's folksy voice of reason, bursts Nick's bubble and brings him back down to Earth as she believes that his true destiny lies behind the wheel of a taxi. Either that or it's gunning down Harvey Keitel to rescue Jodie Foster. Or something like that. Nick, not one to take criticism lightly – whether it's warranted or not – responds by insinuating that Jake is jealous of Nick's newfound talents and she doesn't want to lose her spot as the cowboy club's top draw. Even though this may actually be a viable theory – if Nick were a far more talented singer, that is – Jake dismisses it by calling Nick a robotic mud pie . . . or words to that effect. Methinks it's one of those bizarre Southern analogies that make no sense to a majority of the population. Anyway, right there in the middle of the stereotypical Italian party, Jake and Nick have an impromptu lovers' tiff and then Jake reveals accidentally that one of the terms of her bet with Freddie was that he'd get a piece of Jake's giant . . . lovin'. OK, I'll admit that makes no sense, but I really don't know or don't want to know about the state of Jake's vagina.

Later, Jake, once again alone and faced with the possibility of Freddie's greasy groping in the very near future, consoles herself – oh no . . . not again! – with more singing. I know that some of the best songs ever written stem from heartache, but this is just ridiculous. Later, Jake has a heart-to-heart chat with one of the waitresses down at the club and Jake reveals that she blames herself for putting Nick in this situation. Geez . . . what is it with women always blaming themselves in these films? Now I really am having a Glitter flashback. Honestly, ladies; if some dumb guy elects to go along with an ill-conceived wager you have going with your boss that will either result in you getting your contract or him getting some nookie . . . it's not your fault! The guy could've said "no," you know.

That night, Nick readies himself for his fast-approaching performance, bedecked in regalia reminiscent of Bud Davis. Speaking of which, I wonder if this whole film, this entire Rhinestone endeavor, isn't just a giant rib on John Travolta. Not only was Freddie, in the very beginning of the film, dressed almost exactly like the lead character of Saturday Night Fever, but the subject matter of the film seems like a play on the term "urban cowboy" and, of course, John Travolta was in Urban Cowboy. Maybe there was a bit of TENSION on the set of Staying Alive, eh? Further study may be required in the near future.

Anyway, while Jim Cornette apparently opens for Nick at the club, Jake visits with Freddie at his cheesy, sleazy bachelor pad. Nick, wondering where his inspiration, his muse, is, inquires about Jake's whereabouts from one of the waitresses and then, after learning of her location, he's overcome with jealousy! Meanwhile, back at Freddie's, he puts the moves on Jake with a remote control. It's kind of hard to describe; needless to say, it isn't as perverted as it sounds. Back at the club, Nick, fueled by the fires of rage, commandeers a horse and rides through the streets of New York to Freddie's apartment, where the security is oddly understanding. Amorality is hilarious!

Nick, looking to protect Jake's honor in the face of overwhelming sleaze, busts into Freddie's apartment in time to find Jake punching out Freddie. Well isn't that wonderfully hilarious! Emasculation always gets the laughs. While Freddie calls the police or something, Nick and Jake chat and – without any involvement from the local constabulary – they head back to the club where Nick FINALLY takes the stage. Once there, he tells a few awkward jokes in a lame attempt to win over the unruly crowd and then he bombs while doing a meek version of one of Jake's slow, depressing songs. Oh well, Jake loses the bet; movie's over! Or not, as Nick, perhaps fearing failure more than he ever has in his life, elects to loosen up and rock out, winning over the crowd's affection as if they were all Russian bureaucrats tired of supporting Ivan Drago. Jake, when all is said and done, wins the bet, so she and Nick rock into the closing credits and film infamy.

This is a rare movie. While I've watched and written about one hundred forty-eight films previous, there have been very few that have made me say what I am about to utter. NEVER AGAIN. Without a doubt, Rhinestone is one of the worst films I have ever seen, most significantly because not only is it bad . . . it's also boring. Extremely boring. A vanity project/comedy/musical should not be nearly two hours long. Especially when there's really nothing funny about anything that happens in Tennessee. To be honest, the only thing remotely humorous about Rhinestone is stereotypically Italian . . . and only because it is stereotypically Italian. When the best you can do is manage some ethnic humor for the majority of your laughs – and especially when that's a minority of the film – that is certainly and without question a Misunderstood Masterpiece.

Join me next week where – if you were doing the math I insinuated above – I unveil my one hundred fiftieth column! I assure you, there will be Samuel Taylor Coleridge jokes in honor of it.