Showing posts with label sex. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sex. Show all posts

THEATER REVIEW: THE TURK IN ITALY

Fiorilla (Nino Machaidze) in The Turk in Italy. Photo by Robert Millard.
In the buffo

By Ed Rampell

L.A. Opera’s The Turk in Italy is sort of Gioachino Rossini meets the Marx Brothers and Elvis’ 1965 movie Harum Scarum, a delightfully frothy comic concoction combining madcap merriment, mayhem and music. One half expects Chico to unmask himself during the second act’s costumed ball and ask, “Why a Turk?” Soon after the curtain lifts the amused audience witnesses one of the oldest circus clown routine, which your plot spoiler adverse reviewer won’t reveal. This comedy of ill manners is about – what else? – sex, and has more dosey doe partner changing than square dances or Woody Allen movies.

Indeed, in this opera buffo there’s not just a threesome, but a ménage a quatre (and then some), as Selim (Italian bass-baritone Simone Alberghini as the titular Turk), accompanied by a bodyguard who resembles the Green Hornet (but don’t worry, Seth Rogen isn’t making his opera debut here), arrives in Naples and woos Donna Fiorilla (sizzling soprano Nino Machaidze). This young beauty, however, is already cheating on her much older, wealthy husband, Don Geronio (Italian baritone Paolo Gavanelli, who hilariously steals scenes with the merry mania of a comic kleptomaniac), with the youthful, aptly named Don Narciso (portrayed by Russian tenor Maxim Mironov as a kind of Neapolitan Fonzie). Further complicating moral matters is the reunion of Selim with his former slave and lover, the fortuneteller Zaida (sultry mezzo-soprano Kate Lindsey).

Plotwise it would be enough to write that “complications and sheer hilarity ensue,” except for the addition -- and interjection -- of a sixth major character, the prosaic Prosdocimo (baritone Thomas Allen), a writer, who humorously gives new meaning to the cliché of “the artist suffering for his art.” Although identified as a “Poet,” Prosdocimo is actually seeking subject matter for a new comic opera or comedy, and more precisely seems to be a librettist or playwright. In any case, Prosdocimo appears to be the alter ego (or doppelganger) of Rossini (and/or of Felice Romani, who wrote The Turk in Italy's libretto and, according to Performances Magazine, apparently plagiarized librettist Caterino Mazzola). In any case, Prosdocimo is not merely content to observe and then write about what he has experienced amidst the carousers. The not-so-humble scribe stirs the plot pot in a self-serving way, solely to get a better story.

The Turk in Italy premiered in 1814 at Milan’s renowned La Scala, yet this zany sex farce is redolent with meaning for contemporary audiences. The curtain rises on an encampment of people identified as “Gypsies,” and my concern over the stereotyping of the much maligned Roma as vagabond thieves, etc., dissipated shortly afterward, as they vanish from the stage and story, serving mainly to introduce Zaida, a Turkish astrologer.

As its title indicates, Rossini’s opera suggests something much in the news since 9/11: The so-called “clash of civilizations” (and their malcontents) between the Christian West and Muslim Middle East. Of course, this is all treated with jest by Rossini, that barber of civility. When Selim informs Don Geronio that men seeking another’s wife have a way of dealing with this in Turkey -- by buying said wife, as if she’s a mere commodity -- Geronio responds to this oddity by informing the foreigner that Italian men, in turn, have their own way of reacting to such requests: punching the wannabe buyer in the face! Of course, comical Gavanelli milks the scene for every laugh it’s worth – much to the aud’s delight.

Rossini and Romani’s lighthearted depiction of the eternal war between the sexes is more than a bawdy romp. Beneath the frivolous surface are serious issues, such as the fact that one-size-fits-all monogamy is, in fact, not natural for all humans (just check the divorce rate.) In The Turk in Italy polygamy battles fidelity; the eponymous polyamorous Turk must surrender his harem -- and of course Fiorella must pay for enjoying sex and multiple partners. Call it the “Jezebel sin-drome.” However, since Turk is a comedy, this opera buffo doesn’t have the grim tragic finale of Giuseppe Verdi’s Rigoletto or Georges Bizet’s Carmen. Although as infidelity gives way to “domestic bliss,” some ardent feminists, sexual revolutionaries, etc., might consider this a fate worse than death.

Nevertheless, a good time was had by all at the Dorothy Chandler, and Rossini’s buoyant score, which leaps to life under the twirling baton of conductor James Conlon, is enough to lift the spirits of a suicidal manic depressive about to jump off the Golden Gate. There are no sumptuous sets to "ooh" and "ahh" at here, but scenery and lighting designers Herbert Maurauer and Reinhard Traub have collaborated to render some clever sets and effects with what appear to be scrims, projections and the like. At one point black clad chorusmen (no, not stagehands!) appear onstage to rig up a giant screen or curtain. Kristin Shaw Minges’ choreography is lovely, and at times, appropriately sexually provocative.

My only reservation concerns the direction of the German Christof Loy and Axel Weidauer, and their deploying of “Regietheater” in order to update Rossini’s early 19th century frolick. They set the story in relatively (if indeterminate) modern times, but this does absolutely nothing to better serve Rossini’s saga. This rendition would have appealed even more if Maurer’s sets and costumes were allowed to take us back to Rossini’s era. Indeed, the production’s best effect is a fabled mode of transport staright out of Aladdin. Re-setting William Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet in 20th century Manhattan and replacing Verona’s balconies with New York’s fire escapes in West Side Story was a stroke of genius, but Loy and Weidauer are no Leonard Bernsteins, and Rossini is in no position to take issue with the liberties they’ve taken with his creation. Their unfortunate switcheroo does not enhance what is otherwise Rossini’s euphoric night at the opera buffo.


The Turk in Italy runs through March 13 at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion, 135 N. Grand Ave., Downtown Los Angeles. For more information: (213)972-8001;
www.laopera.com












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SUNDANCE 2011: UNCLE KENT

A scene from Uncle Kent.

Tech sex

By Don Simpson

Kent (Kent Osborne) is a single, 40 year-old cartoonist who lives alone with his fluffy and sometimes finicky cat in Los Angeles. He spends most of his work days sketching cartoons alongside his friend, Kev (Kevin Bewersdorf), and most of his non-working hours taking hits from his bong and chatting with people on Chatroulette.

A cute environmental journalist named Kate (Jennifer Prediger), one of Kent's Chatroulette acquaintances, crashes at Kent’s house for the weekend. Kent is well aware that Kate is currently in a long-term relationship, but he is unabashedly attracted to her intelligence, sense of humor, flirtatiousness and openness nonetheless. It does not help Kent’s state-of-mind that his time spent with Kate grows increasingly sexually charged: conversing frankly about masturbation and homoerotic fantasies, posing for raunchy photos and picking up an attractive bi-curious woman (Josephine Decker) on Craigslist. Kent is receiving mixed signals from Kate and it is really screwing with his head.

You may wonder why Kent is so obsessed with a woman who is in a serious relationship with another man. Well, it is actually quite simple. Dating for men at the age of 40 can be difficult -- first and foremost because of the pesky biological clocks of women. Kent really has no interest in having children, and he certainly does not want to rush things just because the woman he is dating is running out of time to safely have a baby. Sure, Kent could start dating much younger women in order to buy some time before their biological clock progresses that far, but Kent has been affected pretty severely by his recent 40th birthday, and he seems to think of himself as being too old for that. Kent hates feeling pathetic and desperate, these are relatively novel emotions for him; more importantly, his penis is getting old and tired. Before she arrives, Kent imagines that sex with Kate would not include any attached strings, but he quickly discovers that getting into her pants will be not be quite that simple.

Co-written by Joe Swanberg and Osborne, Uncle Kent tackles multiple themes found in Swanberg's oeuvre, most notably an emphasis on how technology and other social media influence and affect human relationships. The Internet (primarily YouTube, Craigslist and Chatroulette) plays a big role in Kent’s daily life. While home alone, Kent waits in front of his computer for someone to communicate with him via a web cam. When he is away from his computer, Kent relies on his USB flip video camera to record even the most mundane events, such as buying his first pair of reading glasses (these things happen when you turn 40!) from a pharmacy. Sometimes technology is used as a sexual tool (as in when Kent and Kate take raunchy photos via his web cam or when he uses his USB flip video camera to record Kate hooking up with the woman they met on Craiglist), other times it is quite innocent (as in when Kent does cartoon sketches of people on Chatroulette). Nonetheless, Kent exists in a constantly connected state. It appears as though there is always a camera recording his every move and Swanberg’s self-reflexive approach to directing -- such as bouncing back and forth between the footage being recorded by the characters and the footage being recorded by the cinematographer (Swanberg) -- makes the audience more aware that we are watching a film. The film itself therefore becomes another layer of technology that is affecting the characters’ relationships.

I admit it. I am a big fan of Swanberg. I think what really adds to my appreciation and attachment to Swanberg’s films is that they are from a perspective very similar to my own. Swanberg’s characters are aging at the same pace that I am, though, with the exception of Kent, most of his characters are closer to Swanberg’s age than to my own. (I am not quite 40 years old, but I am damn close enough to be able to relate to Kent. Swanberg is nine years younger than me.)

Like most of his Mumblecore cohorts, Swanberg makes films about what he knows. Unfortunately this sometimes attracts criticism for being too limited in scope. I do not have any problems with Swanberg’s characters being from a very singular social demographic and maybe that is because I belong to that same demographic. Besides, very few directors portray human relationships and sexuality with Swanberg’s frankness, and I suspect some of that authenticity would be lost if Swanberg ever ventured too far away from what he knows best.

While on the subject of doing what you know best, it is also worth pointing out that besides appearing in Swanberg’s last four films (Hannah Takes the Stairs, Nights and Weekends, Alexander the Last and Uncle Kent), Osborne (who made his acting debut as Emile in School Ties -- a fact that pops up in Uncle Kent) has worked as a writer and storyboard artist on several children’s television programs including SpongeBob SquarePants and The Marvelous Misadventures of Flapjack.
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AUSTIN FILM FESTIVAL 2010: S&M LAWN CARE

Mel (Mark Potts )and Sal (Cole Selix) in S&M Lawn Care.
Mowing down the competition

By Don Simpson

Sal (Cole Selix) and Mel (Mark Potts) run S&M Lawn Care. Mel mows lawns because lawn care is in his blood (his deceased father was once a great lawn care specialist). Sal mows lawns in order to save money to travel to the Amazon.

Everything is going as planned until one day someone starts stealing S&M’s hard-earned lawns in complete disregard of the Lawn Care Treaty of 1995. That certain someone, a sleazy jerk with long hair and goatee named Drake (William Brand Rackley), is armed with a slickly produced commercial and seductively clad female assistants. Sex sells and everyone around town is buying. Drake even donates his used lawn mowers to the “Darfurinians.” How can S&M possibly compete with that?

Drake’s company, Lawns By Drake, functions cleverly as a allegory for big budget Hollywood films (filmmakers who put style and sex over substance) while S&M Lawn Care represents the hard-working and big-hearted independent filmmakers of the world. Along those lines, S&M Lawn Care is a million times funnier than The Other Guys, Get Him to the Greek or Funny People, but it is extremely rare that an independent comedy is able to beat a Hollywood comedy in the box office. Heck it is nearly impossible for independent comedies to even have an opportunity to compete at the box office.

Besides playing the lead roles, Potts functions as director, co-writer, cinematographer and editor; Selix functions as co-writer. S&M Lawn Care is the third feature from Singletree Productions (The Stanton Family Grave Robbery and Simmons on Vinyl) which was formed in 2006 by Potts and Selix.
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FILM REVIEW: BARRY MUNDAY

Ginger (Judy Greer) and Barry (Patrick Wilson) in Barry Munday.
Putting the ex in sex

By Ed Rampell

Writer-director Chris D’Arienzo’s Barry Munday is a droll sex comedy minus sex with a gifted ensemble cast that’s extremely enjoyable to watch. Patrick Wilson, who was so good opposite Kate Winslet in 2006’s heavy sex drama, Little Children, takes a comedic turn here as the title character, an unrepentant male chauvinist pig whose objectification of women is derailed by a quirky quirk of fate. Enter Ginger Farley (played by the comical Judy Greer) as a one night stand Barry barely remembers, but who appears shortly after his emasculating accident claiming that he knocked her up (or did he?).

Chloe Sevigny of HBO’s Big Love makes big trouble here as the nerdy Ginger’s hot to trot sister, Jennifer. Two former stars and sex symbols of 1960s/1970s cinema have supporting roles here: Cybill Shepherd (1971’s The Last Picture Show, 1972’s The Heartbreak Kid,) and Malcolm McDowell (1968’s If…, 1971’s A Clockwork Orange) play the sisters’ parents with great wit. It is, in particular, a joy to see Mr. McDowell back on the big screen, and he is in good form here. Jean Smart (who portrays Hawaii’s governor on CBS’ remake of the Hawaii Five-O series) also has fun portraying the stricken Barry’s hippie-ish mom, probably the source of his female issues.

Don’t get me wrong, I enjoyed this indie farce and laughed throughout it, and you probably will, too. But it’s anti-sex-as-recreation point of view is irritating, suggesting that the de-sexualization of Barry has somehow made him a better man. He’s more caring and able to assume the responsibilities of fatherhood, now that he doesn’t have to deal with that distraction of those pesky, raging hormones. (He can still have sex.) This is especially annoying as it’s a contemporary trend in movies that appear trendy on the surface but are actually anti-sex and quite reactionary.

Examples of the anti-sex bent in pop culture include two 2007 movies: Judd Apatow’s Knocked Up, with that bumbling, unattractive 21st century everyman Seth Rogen and Katherine Heigel, and Jason Reitman’s Juno, starring Ellen Page and that other unappealing, sexually inept contemporary everyman, Michael Cera. Both films are extremely nervous about sexuality and deal with out-of-wedlock conceptions. Along with Barry Munday, they express the viewpoint that the only legitimate, real purpose sexuality serves is not for pleasure, but solely for reproduction. Beneath their cool sheen these movies and their ilk are agitprop for the “family values” Christian fundamentalist rightwing, and throwbacks to America’s “Scarlet A” Puritan past. They advocate restraining and reigning in our instinctual selves as the path to ending unwanted, unplanned pregnancies -- not expanding access to birth control and reproductive rights. If you don’t believe me, just ask Bristol Palin how effective this conservative methodology is. (Notice that abortion was removed from the already gutted healthcare bill -- so much for the “pubic option.”)

It makes me wonder whatever happened to the sexual revolution? And to the hard won, greater freedoms filmmakers fought for in terms of honestly depicting nudity, sexuality, etc., as in McDowell’s classic If… and dare we add his notorious 1979 film, Caligula? Talents have more artistic freedom nowadays -- they just generally don’t use it. I guess sex has lost the sexual revolution.

But as I say, other than that, I had a good fun time watching Barry Munday.










    
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FILM REVIEW: ENTER THE VOID




Watching him watch others Enter the Void.
Between the blank space

By John Esther

Enter. Friedrich Nietzsche’s eternal recurrence; Stanley Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey; George Bataille’s Erotism; Velvet Underground’s “Heroin”; Arthur Schopenhauer; The Germs; Candide (Voltaire); David Lynch’s Inland Empire; Ultravox’s “Western Promise”; Akira Kurosawa’s The Bad Sleep Well; Yasujiro Ozu’s Tokyo Story; Radiohead’s There, There; Sofia Coppola’s Lost in Translation; Ingmar Bergman; Ingmar Bergman’s Thirst; Beatles’ “Within You, Without You”; Michelangelo Antonioni’s phenomenal final tracking shot in The Passenger; the over-the-shoulder viewpoint works here as opposed to Darren Aronofsky’s misdirection in The Wrestler; those cowardly critics in the trades; Ultravox’s “I Want to Be a Machine”; Oliver Stone’s Natural Born Killers; Richard Kelly’s Southland Tales; this makes those tracking shots in Wim Wenders’ Paris, Texas all the more boring and seem light-ed years away; Wenders’ Wings of Desire; Fyodor Dostoyevsky’s epilepsy a la the opening credits; James Joyce’s Ulysses; Lars von Trier’s Zentropa; the “book drop shot” in Krzystof Kieslowski’s Red; Michel Foucault’s ideological accretions and deletions; Alexander Sokurov’s Russian Ark; Solaris (both); Carl Cox and the three turntables; Peter Greenaway’s A Zed & Two Noughts; Philip K. Dick – in particular, A Scanner Darkly; so the circle is not dead; film academic William Van Wert; CGI is in the Art House; Sigmund Freud; exchange cock for car and the protagonist becomes impotent a la Chinatown; Cabaret Voltaire’s “Crackdown” and “Sex, Money, Freaks”; Charlie Kaufman’s Synecdoche, New York; Thorton Wilder’s Our Town; and taxonomies are perhaps, perchance, per se, pure say, purr/stay, for the PRSA and precisely a few of the legible thoughts which crisscrossed, circumnavigated and swerved while watching Gasper Noé’s cinematic construct.

According to Noé’s testimonies, the atheistic-educated, adolescent pot smoker-turned-screenwriter/director/cameraperson/co-editor/associate producer had some similar (i.e. Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey; Dick and dick) yet more differing thoughts (i.e. Lady in the Lake; Robert Moody’s Life after Death; Katherine Bigelow’s Strange Days; and Tron), put into the text, although, at the least, his oeuvre proves he is no stranger to post-Sartrean French intellectual thought.

Divided by a hallucinatory scene of illustrious colors during two world-class tracking shots – that mirror in the bathroom scene! -- transports a young drug dealing American expatriate named Oscar (Nathaniel Brown) to a Tokyo nightclub where the setup by a friend-turned-fiend named Victor (Olly Alexander) because of Oscar’s sexual relationship with Victor’s mother (Sara Stockbridge) leads to Oscar’s death at the hands of Japanese police and the post-life recollections and recreations of Oscar’s life.

Brilliantly shot from Oscar’s, and only Oscar’s point-of-view, Oscar and the camera hover and circle over the past, present and future of the dead, young man’s life: the cataclysmic car crash that took the lives of his biological mother and father (Janice Sicotte-Beliveau and Simon Chamberland, respectively); the birth canal/blood oath he shares with his sister, Linda (Paz de la Huerta); copulating scenes of family members –- including a hilarious “money shot”; his relationship to his only true friend, Alex (Cyril Roy); his relationship to Victor; sake and Saki (Sakiko Fukuhara -- put pun pere); his interactions with others; the lives of others before and after his demise; etc., back and forth, flotsam and jetsam, great highs to grave depths; tenebrous to the incandescent-ing ; in and out of the minds of Alex and others; disco-rd to umbilical cord; wound to womb; adulthood in the east (Japan) to childhood in the west (Canada, because Made in USA would have been too expensive). In other words, the twilight’s last gleaming of a young, wild, and damned (promising) man is captured.

A groundbreaking “psychedelic melodrama” by any “cinematographic means” necessary, if you think last year’s Avatar broke boundaries, for every breakthrough James Cameron’s film offers technologically, Noé’s film does artistically. There is much more to experience and any other attitude may be cowardice.

Writing of which, judging by the ridiculous responses reported at the 2010 Sundance and SXSW Film Festivals, it seems viewing the film requires a certain cerebral capacity in dIs-Order to b-are/ear its roughly 160-minutes of sense and sensory overdrive. (The Cannes Film Festival 2009 screening was not the film’s “definitive form,” said Noé). Then there are the themes/d-reams/scenes of incest (“Ah, the western syndrome!”); a personal dioramic orgasmic porno(é)graphic personal apocalypse; drug induced hallucinations; various s(t)ink hole shots, an abortion and its dis/car-de(a)d/contents; Linda learning about the death of a family member -- from the spontaneous (parents) to the protracted (brother); a strip club; a roller coaster car crash; philosophical discussions based on The Tibetan Book of the Dead and the drug, DMT; the fear Noé is going to give us another shocking scene on par with Irreversible’s bludgeoning and rape scenes (he does not); parental loss; “average characters” at fault for their untimely deaths; etc., to endure. This film is not for the squeamish (or epileptic). At least English-speaking audiences do not have to worry about subtitles.

Unless this is Oscar’s omniscient/omni-potent(cy/see) drug induced trip in wastelandedUcated, and it legitimately could be, the film’s primary underachievement (which seems an unfair word to use here) is the beyond-the-grave narrative. I almost always loathe such reactionary narratives (i.e. Our Town; It’s a Wonderful Life; American Beauty; Lovely Bones), but here it is forgivable because it works without being sentimental, superstitious or spiritual in any traditional meaning or affirmation of the afterlife. (The film’s neo-structuralism could do wandering wonders for a reeled real historical figure.)

Highly likely to make my top ten of 2010, even if the film is not the best film of the year, the increasingly talented Noé has made the film event of the year. Lead grip Akira Kanna deserves kudos, too. Void.



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FILM REVIEW: EASY A

Olive (Emma Stone) tightens up for Easy A.
Hester lesser

By Don Simpson

If you are a fan of corsets, have I found a film for you! And if corsets alone are not enticing enough, how about Emma Stone in corsets? Ah, now I have your attention!

Olive (Emma Stone) is a high school virgin who concocts a lie about losing her virginity to a make-believe community college boy. Said lie is told in order to avoid a weekend with her curvaceous best friend, Rhiannon (Alyson Michalka). Unfortunately the tantalizing tall tale is overheard by Marianne (Amanda Bynes) -- the leader of the local chapter of Jesus freaks -- and spreads like an epidemic gone wild via texts and tweets around campus.

For this one (made up) indiscretion, Olive is labeled a slut. Rather than attempting to debunk her promiscuous reputation, Olive spins it into a profit-making venture. In exchange for saying that she hooked up with random high school misfits and losers (in order to improve their social standing), Olive accepts payments in the form of retail gift cards. This coincides with Olive’s reading of Nathaniel Hawthorne's The Scarlet Letter in her English class; she finds a comrade in Hester Prynne, and sews an “A” into her wardrobe, which by this point consists only of corsets.

At times, Easy A tries really hard to be this season’s Clueless (1995) with its flippant banter, gratuitous snark, and tiresome self-awareness. Other times it flat out apes the iconic John Hughes high school movies of the 1980s (and not very successfully). As a modern update of The Scarlet Letter, Easy A is no better than Roland Joffé’s The Scarlet Letter (1995) starring Demi Moore -- which Easy A mocks on multiple occasions.

Easy A is sure to piss off people on both sides of the political aisle, but I think it will piss off God-fearing Christians the most. Producer-director Will Gluck (Fired Up!) takes quite a few cheap shots at the fundamentalist Christian crowd, representing them as clownish caricatures whose judgmental intolerance is pathetic and unwarranted. (Jesus freaks annoy me too, but what good does this cartoonish portrayal do anyone?) As for the more liberal members of the audience, well, where do I begin? First and foremost, this is a despicable representation -- corsets and all -- of women. Olive is purportedly intelligent, but other than some polysyllable words and witty wordplay she never really shows her smarts. Oh yeah, and men too! I am downright confused about what Easy A is trying to say about teenage promiscuity and underage sex.

Then again Emma Stone sure looks good in corsets, so how bad can Easy A be?
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FILM REVIEW: THE PEOPLE I'VE SLEPT WITH

Jefferson (Archie Kao) and Angela (Karin Anna Cheung) in The People I've Slept With.

Dealing with the deck

By Miranda Inganni

“A slut is just a woman with the morals of a man,” says Angela (Karin Anna Cheung), the protagonist in director Quentin Lee’s The People I’ve Slept With. While one has long heard the idea that a man who sleeps around is a stud, but a woman who does the same is a slut, this movie ignores all of it. And thank goodness for that.

Angela loves sex and good for her, but when she becomes pregnant and isn’t sure who the father is, she relies on her deck of cards. Sort of like baseball cards, Angela's cards are a photo collection of the guys she’s had sex with, each one with a nickname -- Mystery Man, Mr. Hottie, 5-Second Guy...You get the/her picture(s).

As she works her way through the stack of cards, she realizes that Mystery Man, AKA Jefferson Lee (Archie Kao) is the most qualified mate -- regardless of whether he is the biological father or not. And regardless of his disagreeable politics.

Angela also confides in best friend, Gabriel (Wilson Cruz), who happens to be gay, and, ultimately, to her seemingly perfect sister, Juliet (Lynn Chen). Each has their idea as to what Angela should do as far as the pregnancy is concerned.

Blighted with some occasionally weak acting, this charming, mildly controversial, frequently funny, hormone-driven, sweet story is a glimpse into the ideal choice one could make if one were presented with the option of what one could do if they had the chance to make the ultimate parental choice.
 
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