Cult of the Damned

Fat little rich girl, “untouched by human hands”, mother did stag, father a fag.

Angel, Angel, Down We Go, descending a staircase she hears it sung at her coming-out party in L.A. after Swiss finishing school.

A.H. Weiler of the New York Times, “leaves little impact even on a willing viewer.”

The American Georgy Girl falls in with the singer, a record tycoon (cf. Barry Shear’s Wild in the Streets, from the same screenwriter), “my mother went into labor pains during a Bogart flick, eah-eah-eah-eah-eah-eah-eah-eah, machine gun! Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha, she almost dropped me inna lobby. Born in the back of a Ford! My father was a cop! Delivered me in a parking lot! Now long live Bogart Peter Stuyvesant!” The memorable opening shot, an appreciative POV in childhood, takes in an array of objets d’art and climbs the stairs for something of a surprise.

The splendidly idiotic fatuousness is also a feature of Joseph Cates’ The Fat Spy, as a matter of fact. Russ Meyer’s Beyond the Valley of the Dolls is a useful comparison.

TV Guide, “sick film about Hollywood decadence...”

“Who would—“

“Who would what?”

“Want her.”

“She’s worth a half a billion dollars.”

Hal Erickson (Rovi), “implausible”.

“Fat girls are a remembrance of things past. Twiggy only dates back to Buchenwald.”