Wine Country

And Toilet Wine

Welcome to a week of Female Directorial Debuts. Today, we’re actually dovetailing with another massive interest of mine, “Saturday Night Live”. The legendary Amy Poehler directs and stars in “Wine Country”, while also offering ample spotlight to fellow “SNL” stars. Full disclosure – over the course of this site, I will have a couple of “SNL”-themed weeks, as I have always loved the show. Therefore, it is worth acknowledging that I love pretty much every “SNL” castmember, which is to say I love a lot of the performers in this particular film.

Written by “SNL” vets Liz Cackowski and Emily Spivey (who both co-star), “Wine Country” is that noted rarity seemingly only indulged by streaming services: a movie about middle-aged people, specifically centered on a fiftieth birthday celebration. This alone should immediately be a point in the movie’s favor. I recently saw “Kingdom Of The Planet Of The Apes”, maybe the most ape-reliant of the ten movies in that series. What was notable was the camera’s lack of squeamishness in studying the faces of these anthropomorphized simians. There’s a great deal of dramatic heft that comes from these close-ups, particularly in the older apes, to the point where the nuance comes from just how intriguing it is to see human concern and worry on the face of a wizened character. We used to see this with humans, but audiences have become so uninterested in people that they’d rather spend two hours watching a CGI recreation of a compelling face, instead of an actual compelling face. 

In this case, these are interesting, mature faces belonging to some of the funniest women in the world. It is Rachel Dratch here celebrating her fiftieth, which calls for a reunion with old friends played by Poehler, Maya Rudolph, Ana Gasteyer and Emmy-winning “SNL” writer Paula Pell. For good measure, Tina Fey ups the legend tally by showing up in a punchy cameo. The comedic set-up is that these old friends who have grown distant will engage in a wine-tasting trip across Napa Valley while learning, living and loving is on the carefully-worded itinerary by Poehler’s anal-retentive taskmaster.

The group falls into similar types, rarely veering from a list of reliable behaviors. One has a boring husband at home, one is dodging urgent calls from the doctor. These are hoary tropes, but the film merely jokes around them, as opposed to poking holes in these obvious plot devices. The writing falters frequently, introducing set pieces merely to allow for the cast to riff. Many of the quieter moments are dominated by Pell, who, it’s worth reminding, is an Emmy winner for writing, not performing. Her braying, obnoxious turn never lands on a sincere note, as she wrestles with her insecurities by chasing a new lover during the trip, the stakes of which never feel equal to the rest of the narrative.

I wish I could say Poehler manages this well as a director. But this is turgid, flaccid filmmaking. Most of it is style-free point-and-shoot, keeping multiple performers in the frame to maximize jokes. But somehow there are moments where Poehler writes herself out of a jam by allowing the actors to engage in intentionally-unimpressive impromptu dance sequences, This has NEVER been amusing at any moment in movie history. You’re not going to get a laugh from Ana Gasteyer popping and locking, no offense to Ms. Gasteyer. As the film goes on, it’s clear that someone got a good deal about filming on location in Napa Valley, and the flimsy narrative was erected around these savings.

Candid admission: I watched this with my mother and squirmed the entire time. I don’t believe in the right wing meme that movies no longer connect with mainstream America because of loosened morals or destroyed societal mores. But I do think movies like this feed that stupid narrative. It’s a simple story – a vacation getaway where hijinks ensue – but literally every one of these middle-aged professional women has the foulest mouth. F-this and F-that, and constant references to sex and scatology. For all the successes these actresses have had (and the amount of time they spent having to censor themselves on live TV), you’d think they’d know that every day people don’t speak like this. 

It would make sense if they were a bunch of scumbag boys, or unscrupulous criminals, but these are supposed to be professional women, mothers, wives. It would be plausible if one or two of these women had a foul-mouth, but all of them, in the exact same way? It simply strains credulity. And as these women kept finding gross euphemisms for vaginas, I saw my mother sitting stone-faced through a movie I genuinely thought she might enjoy. Or did suburban women suddenly develop potty mouths when I was in prison? Did Donald Trump do this? Am I a prude? I was in prison – it’s not like bad language offends me. But gratuitous bad language? I don’t want to have an ear for that any more. People who know me know I have no problem using foul language, but this is supposed to be a movie about “normal” people who are distinctly different, and instead the characters simultaneously sound abnormal and far-too-similar.

Drunken behavior is a plot point here, so it’s worth mentioning that, yes, you can get plenty lit in prison. In my previous spot, I kept passing by elaborate rope and pulley systems, keeping some bags of wine in either the mop bucket or, yes, in the toilet. These would contrive these concoctions and drink all night, regardless of the brain damage they were causing themselves. Breakfast used to include the occasional orange or peach, but eventually that was discontinued as prison officials found out you could turn those into booze. What they forgot was that you could turn anything into booze, really.

The drugs were the bigger problem. The narcotic of choice was K2, synthetic marijuana. Do not be fooled by the name – it was not at all like pot. In my first institution, K2 ran rampant, and every night felt like a zombie movie. The drug would render your limbs frail, and your mouth subverbal. I would enter rooms, only to find a mindless foot-shuffler, chin against his chest, lips drooling, standing in place and shaking. These men would get each other messed-up, and then watch themselves pass out in the bathrooms in pools of urine. At the time, I learned to treat it as a minor distraction. But I’m still troubled by those nights navigating near-lifeless bodies of babbling addicts, feeding their worst urges in a place where they were long forgotten.