Movies: August 2002 Archives

In which The Surfer Girl quests after The Big Wave, in order that she might have The Great Sponsorhip and live out a happy life with The Quarterback. OK, OK, so I’m not predisposed to enjoy surfer movies ("How many times," I wondered, "can we watch someone almost catch a wave?"), and the splashy cinematography didn’t knock my socks off (thought it looked kind of dingy, actually, but maybe that was just my screen). I like the fact that the three female protagonists aren’t anybody’s idea of role models — but does the lead character have to be so damned shallow? Sure, Kate Bosworth looks good in tiny shorts and does a reasonably fine job of fleshing out her material, but screenwriter Lizzy Weiss and writer/director John Stockwell ambush her by declining to do anything with her character but yank her to and fro from passion to passion. She must surf! But first she must make love to the football player! And yet she longs for the waves! But she nearly died, just two years ago, in this very spot, when she conked her noggin hard on a reef and nearly drowned. Can she conquer her demons?

There’s some mildly amusing material on the way to the inevitable high-stakes competition, mainly taking place in the hotel rooms occupied by the insufferably rich that the surfing trio clean up for a living. (O-ho, the class struggle!) There’s some really dopey stuff, too. In the end, of course, she returns to the surf at the last possible minute, and the real surfer chicks who show up for multiple cameos in the final reels show just how unlikely that somebody with Kate Bosworth’s Hollywood-pretty looks would get involved in this kind of wrong-side-of-the-tracks scenario. Michelle Rodriguez is more credible in that department, but is here reduced to snarling at her friend from the sidelines about how righteous she used to be before she fell in love and got all girly. She deserves better than this. All of these quibbles would be minor and forgivable if the story held a surprise or two, or the characters threw off any sparks. Sure, you could do a lot worse — but this one shoulda been a real kick.

The interesting thing about Teenage Caveman is that it yokes a Z-grade post-apocalyptic sci-fi screenplay of no real distinction to the naked-teenaged-orgy sensibility of Larry Clark, the director of Kids and Bully. The resulting film would have been quite something to stumble across on pay cable in the middle of the night.

I'll be damned if, for the first 45 minutes or so, Clark doesn't actually make something of this mess, which has to do with some kids who've been forbidden from having sex by a self-styled Messiah who really wants the nubile young girls all to himself. An old dude's been impaled on a "No Skateboarding" sign before the credits finished rolling, and the centerpiece of the film is a tour de force that begins with all of the characters stripping off their clothes and getting into a hot tub and culminates in one of the most disgusting (and terribly funny) sequences I've seen lately. It could best be described as "explosive." If this sounds like the sort of thing you'd enjoy, then it probably is (you sick little twist, you).

The main problem is that Teenage Caveman shoots its wad fairly early and then goes straight downhill, falling into that trap of no-budget SF-horror outings -- it becomes a gabfest, with characters standing around talking about their dastardly histories and their nefarious plans for the future. Like a real trouper, Tara Subkoff gets naked again in an attempt to save the final reel, but despite some special effects that probably chewed up half the film's budget, it just dies on the screen.