Babe on Film: Behind the Candelabra

It’s one of the world’s greatest mysteries how exactly Steven Soderbergh manages to capture in his movies exactly what I need at any given moment.  What middle schooler doesn’t need the funhouse mirror bitchslap of Erika Christensen in Traffic?

Now, his latest movie just came out at Cannes (or HBO, if you don’t get festival screeners) and he’s done it again.  Behind the Candelabra is my new favorite horror movie.  There I was, watching Matt Damon fall in love with cocktail rings of various sizes, convinced the film was going to end in a pile of feathers and fur after forty satisfying, if quick, minutes.

Then in walked Rob Lowe.

I’ve had a deep abiding love for Rob Lowe since I was born (if not earlier), but this was not the man I knew and loved.  This was a monster, sent into my screening room by Steven S. himself to remind me of the evils of 1970’s and 1980’s plastic surgery, of liquid silicone and primitive facelifts.  I screamed, I cried, I booked an appointment with my dermatologist, and when it was all over the decadence seemed far more sinister than glorious.

Everything extravagant I own is being replaced with something from the short lived “trashbag couture” designer moment, I’ll never look at rings the same way again, and thank fucking GOD we have cold gel lasers and facials in this modern era.  Also, cocaine?  Not that chic.

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