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Valet Girls
(Rafal Zielinski, 1987)
Three chicks -- a spunky, wannabe Pat Benatar with bad eyesight, a brainy British chick who pretends to read Playgirl while instead reading Freud, and an airheaded aspiring actress who's never head of a dildo -- park cars at a Hollywood bigshot's house party in an attempt to attract the attention of influential higher-ups who can help launch their careers in the entertainment industry . . . but instead of achieving their dreams, the girls achieve unwanted erections of lecherous, predatory old men. In other words, Valet Girls is essentially an 80's party version of Harvey Weinstein: The Movie. Spread your legs and I'll make you a star, baby. Those shoulder pads really turn me on.
By all objective standards, Valet Girls is a terrible movie. Many in the cast never had another acting credit, which is no surprise given the flat performances. The script is lazy and formulaic. The plot is threadbare. Jokes don't come within a hundred feet of landing. The aimless direction makes the movie feel longer than its 82-minute runtime. There's an annoying subplot involving three former valets and their repeated attempts to sabotage the Hollywood party by dressing up as chickens. A waiter serves and samples from his own platter of Quaaludes. Partygoers pitch their movie ideas to an unexplained corpse. Lots of cocaine is snorted. Lots of bad 80's music is played. The midget from Bad Santa is the only cast member I recognized. Apparently Ron Jeremy also made an appearance but I guess I didn't recognize him without his d*ck hanging out.
Going into Valet Girls, I expected a typical 80's T&A comedy, but the only nudity occurs in the background as a few topless babes lounge by the pool. The lack of skin initially soured me on the movie, but as I watched the girls repeatedly ward off unwanted sexual advances and fight off fat old men trying to constantly grope them or trick them into sliding between the sheets, I started to feel like the movie was holding up a judgmental mirror to myself as a viewer, lotion in one hand, tissue in the other, eager to bust a cheap nut at seeing attractive young women exploited. In a genre and era when such films regularly reduced female roles to sexual trophies as horny men are championed in their pursuit to pound as much p*ssy as possible, Valet Girls feels like a refreshing, feminist change of pace as the women have agency of their own and eventually gain the upper hand. After all, this is a film where the men are so despicable that in comparison a crazy ex-boyfriend who threatens his gal with a rifle if she doesn't return with him to their melon patch is seen as some sort of tone-deaf Redneck Romeo.
Valet Girls may be a forgotten comedy, but with today's flood of sexual misconduct accusations, the movie feels more relevant than ever before. Think of it as a glittery, neon, 1987 version of #MeToo. The movie is still terrible, quality-wise, but it also provides a scathing, premonitory attack toward the Hollywood elite.
Valet Girls
(Rafal Zielinski, 1987)
Three chicks -- a spunky, wannabe Pat Benatar with bad eyesight, a brainy British chick who pretends to read Playgirl while instead reading Freud, and an airheaded aspiring actress who's never head of a dildo -- park cars at a Hollywood bigshot's house party in an attempt to attract the attention of influential higher-ups who can help launch their careers in the entertainment industry . . . but instead of achieving their dreams, the girls achieve unwanted erections of lecherous, predatory old men. In other words, Valet Girls is essentially an 80's party version of Harvey Weinstein: The Movie. Spread your legs and I'll make you a star, baby. Those shoulder pads really turn me on.
By all objective standards, Valet Girls is a terrible movie. Many in the cast never had another acting credit, which is no surprise given the flat performances. The script is lazy and formulaic. The plot is threadbare. Jokes don't come within a hundred feet of landing. The aimless direction makes the movie feel longer than its 82-minute runtime. There's an annoying subplot involving three former valets and their repeated attempts to sabotage the Hollywood party by dressing up as chickens. A waiter serves and samples from his own platter of Quaaludes. Partygoers pitch their movie ideas to an unexplained corpse. Lots of cocaine is snorted. Lots of bad 80's music is played. The midget from Bad Santa is the only cast member I recognized. Apparently Ron Jeremy also made an appearance but I guess I didn't recognize him without his d*ck hanging out.
Going into Valet Girls, I expected a typical 80's T&A comedy, but the only nudity occurs in the background as a few topless babes lounge by the pool. The lack of skin initially soured me on the movie, but as I watched the girls repeatedly ward off unwanted sexual advances and fight off fat old men trying to constantly grope them or trick them into sliding between the sheets, I started to feel like the movie was holding up a judgmental mirror to myself as a viewer, lotion in one hand, tissue in the other, eager to bust a cheap nut at seeing attractive young women exploited. In a genre and era when such films regularly reduced female roles to sexual trophies as horny men are championed in their pursuit to pound as much p*ssy as possible, Valet Girls feels like a refreshing, feminist change of pace as the women have agency of their own and eventually gain the upper hand. After all, this is a film where the men are so despicable that in comparison a crazy ex-boyfriend who threatens his gal with a rifle if she doesn't return with him to their melon patch is seen as some sort of tone-deaf Redneck Romeo.
Valet Girls may be a forgotten comedy, but with today's flood of sexual misconduct accusations, the movie feels more relevant than ever before. Think of it as a glittery, neon, 1987 version of #MeToo. The movie is still terrible, quality-wise, but it also provides a scathing, premonitory attack toward the Hollywood elite.