Secretary: Review By B. Alan Orange

B. ALAN ORANGE'S Late-SUMMER (Fall) ROAD TRIP PART III: "The Inevitable Conclusion"

with a Gyllenhaal Double-Feature: Secretary & Moonlight Mile

I punched the radio today, splitting the skin between my knuckles. It was that stupid Linkin Park song that threw me into a fit of rage, "I tried so hard, and got so far, but in the end it doesn't really matter." Yeah, that about sums up these last three awful months, traipsing about the high desert in a last ditch effort to see Maggie Gyllenhaal perform live, like in the flesh, right there in front of me, on some small, out of the way stage, propped up on books stolen from the New York public library. My two middle names are Complete Failure. I sure didn't need some goofy alt-rock song tapping me on the shoulder, reminding me of my bankrupt quest.

It seems like only yesterday that I opened up my mailbox to find a postcard with David Shwimmer's face on it, painted like an orangutan. Next to him stood an untested Toby Stephins in the Clint Eastwood role. And off to the side; that lovely Cinema smack-down, Miss Gyllenhaal, resting on a cane in a reincarnated Ruth Gordon stance that promised an uncanny genius not seen since Joi Lansing replaced Mamie Van Doren as Boots Malone. In bold letters across the front of it; 'Any Which Way You Can: The Off-Broadway Musical.'

The producers wanted B. Alan Orange to come out and review their little show. Ah, but it was a joke the webmasters played on me. Fearing I'd blow any potential interaction with Maggie, they had to get me out of town during Secretary's Press Junket run. So, they sent me across the United States on some half-assed crusade that nearly saw me killed. Without a car, using that left thumb as my only means of transportation, I never made it further than Nevada. I lost my only friend in Bag, who took off with some Russian kooze nursing a melanin deficiency. And this crazy cult enthusiast, bootleg hustler using the pseudonym Billy Dooku still wants me dead. All this because they feared my unpredictable personality. How could MovieWeb possibly set me in front of Gyllenhaal with a tape recorder and retain a positive, clear conscience about it? They couldn't. Those bastards. I was going to bring that girl a pie from Marie Calendar's, too. Well, she can forget that sweet gesture of appreciation now.

From what I understand, any and all press conducted in favor of Secretary was held out of state, so their efforts came as a moot point. Everything breezed by on a warm wave of cool calm. As far as everyone else in the world was concerned, things couldn't have been better. Not for me. I missed my chance at standing in the perfect ray of light that is Maggie Gyllenhaal. Now, it's all over. Every publication is praising her as a find. They're all enamored with her mind-blowing talent, calling her the next big thing. Entertainment Weekly gave her an A-. Well, hey...I've been panegyrizing her for more than a year now. Once, I was one of the few in the know. Now, I sound like some drugged-up hack jumping on a faulty bandwagon. This whole quandary has me giving up that Gyllenhaal jones. My crush is crushed. I no longer have the energy needed to praise her titular effects. Yes, you heard it here first; I've officially fallen out of love with America's latest flavor of the month...

But first, before I throw my #1 fan status in the trash, I must take a look at Secretary; even if I had to pay nine dollars to see it. Yeah, you guessed right, I couldn't get into this alluvium room because they feared I'd spray jizz across the screen in buckets of undiluted joy. Nope. That's not me. It's not in my nature...

This is the one, true Gyllenhaal fan movie, unable to ever be matched or topped by another. As far as getting to stare at the girl for two hours, enveloped in her little world, no other film will be able to rise to the occasions that Secretary does. This is the first time we get to see the girl really act. She comes into her own, holding the screen with such intensity; it burns the palm of a sweaty hand. In one graceful, flowing arc, she grows from insecure nerd, clopping about in thick-soled shoes usually reserved for the likes of Janeane Garofalo, to sexy, elegant temptress. Her transformation is astounding to watch. And it hurts, because it's so honest in its innocent, cruel nature. In buying a ticket, we are literally forced into an uncompromising relationship with this Lee Holloway character. It's a virtual life, and as a partner, we just can't compete with the ever-cool James Spader, no matter how forthright the girl is in sticking her ass in our faces.

Secretary could act as this girl's resume-demo reel. After it makes the rounds, there isn't a job in town she won't be able to snag. Gyllenhaal displays a double-wide range, doing almost every possible task there is for an actress to do, which includes getting her spine shellacked by a hose happy Spader (you wont see Reese or Gwyneth enduring this type of atrocity). Maggie accomplishes more, here, than Julia Roberts has been able to achieve her whole career. And for those of us (formally) smitten with the girl, we're given a laundry list of tiny moments that will make this the end-all, be-all DVD of the quarter century.

Here's the first film that doesn't need special features; they're all locked within the duration of the piece itself. Lets look at some of these glorious moments: We're treated to full frontal Gyllenhaal nudity for the last fifteen minutes of her on-screen time. She openly masturbates, spanks herself with a hairbrush, pokes, prods, and cuts at her soft, honeydew skin in acts of self-mutilation. Maggie delivers mail through clenched teeth, crawling on hands and knees. She lets Spader spank her loudly with a strong, open hand. The girl makes copious typing mistakes so she can be berated, she makes love with her clothes on, she clicks a couple of seductive, boa-wearing poses at Glamour shots; I'm telling you, the girl does it all. Heck, she even goes Dumpster diving.

Yes, I've found my Goddess!

The story is a rather simple one, existing solely as framework for some intense character study. On the surface, the film is about smacking that ass; cracking it and beating it until it bleeds and bruises. It's about snaking a hand up behind your partner's head and grabbing that tuft of hair at the base of their neck, jerking it back in a painful gesture of tough love. But, more than that, it's about two people coming to terms with their faulty personas, and learning how to love themselves and those that love them back, no matter how quirky they may be. Basically, Secretary is an essay on the life of a butterfly. It doesn't strive to be much more than that. It's this simplicity that makes the film so effective. It cuts back in a slender, Trim Spa handshake, and that's the sound of director Steven Shainberg creating a flawed classic.

Some have dismissed James Spader's role in the film, calling it trite and writing it off as another notch in his belt of sexually charged eroticism. I don't think that's fair. Here, he commands the screen with an authority I've yet to see spew from his oeuvre. Despite his character's faults as a fully functioning human being, he's able to garner a bit of sympathy in the role of E. Edward Grey. No small feat, he also manages to be a mean prick; a sort of Fonzi for the new millenium.

This was an exhilarating time for me, personally. I walked away from the theater feeling as though I'd just gotten to hang out with Maggie for a good two hours. In a touch of fun, I like to think back on the film as a DeDe only sequel to Joe vs. the Volcano. For me, DeDe is still my favorite Meg Ryan character, and this proves that there were dimensions to her first frumpy girl impersonation that never fully got explored. As far as Gyllenhaal is concerned, I think I liked her best when she was stumbling around like a female Frankenstein Monster in her big shoes and ugly brown sweater. Account this to my odd tastes in girls. What I wouldn't give to be the star of one of her mastabatory fantasies. She has some of the most artistic, self-loving daydreams I've ever witnessed. I liked how, instead of ravishing her body, James just sat at a desk staring at her. Is this how girls think when going down on themselves? No wonder they mature faster than men. Actually, when you think about it, that's kind of creepy...

The very next day after seeing Secretary, I was asked to usher myself under the gloomy, overcast shadows of Moonlight Mile. How odd is it to be competing with your own brother at the box office? Of course, Jake has been everywhere these last couple of months, jumping in bed with the likes of Jennifer Aniston and Kathleen Keener. Here, he smartly chooses a younger hooch to shack up with in the lovely and amazing Ellen Pompeo. From the looks of things, Jake and Maggie are in direct competition to see who can show more skin at the box office. The elder Gyllenhaal wins, hands down. After all, in a startling pan down, she does reveal that ever-elusive sugar wallet.

But don't let that distract you from Jake's performance. He's able to single-handedly steal this picture right out from underneath the likes of both Dustin Hoffman and Susan Sarandon. If you get unwillingly pulled into this laugh-a-minute weepfest, you, too, can have some fun. All you have to do, since we never met Marley Shelton's parents, is pretend this is a strikingly somber follow-up to last year's Bubble Boy. This movie takes place just moments after Chloe and Jimmy get married, and she dies during the Honeymoon. Instead of being trapped in that bubble, he's now trapped in the home of her grieving parents, trying to console them with that goofy smirk that never seems to want to come off his face...

Okay, that's neither fair to Brad Silberling's new film or the source material. This project is based on Brad's own experiences following the death of his girlfriend Rebecca Schaeffer, that cute little girl from My Sister Sam. She was unmercifully gunned down by some whack-job that never fully received the punishment he deserved. Brad has taken liberties with his story, not wanting to entirely base it on that sad incident. The narrative remains true to the girl's spirit, but the timeline has changed, as well as the details of the occasion.

If you really want to feel sick at your stomach while watching this, if you really want to cry and torture yourself, you should probably watch the E! True Hollywood Story about Rebecca and her short life. Brad doesn't hide the fact that this is as much about her as it is his experiences with her family after the fact. In pictures of the fiance we see on screen, they all look like her. You can literally feel her spirit hovering in the near distance.

Early on in the film, Jake's new love interest explains that her missing boyfriend, lost to the wars of Vietnam, knew her at about 60%. This movie is the same way. It hits dead on sixty percent of the time, evoking a sorrow and humor that is true to life. The other forty percent is sacrificed to the Hollywood machine. Parts of it feel real, especially those moments where Gyllenhaal really gets to shine as an actor. But Susan Sarandon and Dustin Hoffman are wrong for this picture. Especially Sarandon. She feels fake, you can tell she's acting almost every step of the way. There is a real laziness on her part, and I recount her only being effective in one scene, when they are in the courtroom at the end of the movie.

Dustin, on the other hand, is a master and a joy to watch. He almost pulls through as a worthwhile candidate, until the moment he starts weeping. It's not a sad moment. It's one of those instances where the film actually stops, and you think to yourself..."Look at him act. Gee, I wonder what horrible thing he's thinking about to emote those crocodile tears? Did craft services not have his usual jellyroll?" Neither one of these two performers should be hogging up space in this otherwise touching film. They should have gone with a couple of lesser-knowns. But then, there goes your producer, and it probably would have never gotten made.

I do recommend seeing it. It's a worthwhile endeavor. It's not nearly as much fun as Secretary, but it's not supposed to be. The film never feels fake, like it's pandering for awards. Even though it looks to cop out with a courtroom scene at the end, we never see the outcome. We learn it's not about what happened to the killer, but what happened to this makeshift family that sprang from this sudden disaster.

As for me, I'm truly going to give up lusting after Maggie Gyllenhaal. I think I'll focus my attentions on a beer. That's something I haven't had in a long time. A frosty macro-brew in a pint glass. She's never treated me wrong.

Well, I've officially wasted my summer to this sickness. Here's to hoping that next summer will hold something more important. Let's pray Billy Dooku never finds his way to Burbank...

And f*ck that bag, along with Jesse Jackson. How dare he demand someone edit their film to his liking? That guy's a jerk.