Big-Haired Case File #26: Rock Of Ages
About a year and a half ago, I found myself aboard a Carnival cruise ship as part of Kid Rock’s Chillin’ The Most Cruise for reasons far too ridiculous to get into here. One night, I watched a Southern-fried slab of country beefcake named John Stone in a performance that seemed designed to highlight the impressive condition of the singer’s abdominal muscles more than his singing. His vibe was Chippendales-meets-Urban Cowboy, all rhinestone flash and shit-eating grins. And the crowd was eating it up. “I have no idea who you are, but, cowboy, take me away!” squealed a woman up front. I sat a table with three fiftysomething women from suburban Detroit who were there as part of a girls’ weekend out. I had nothing in common with these women besides my pure Midwestern blood.
Then something magical happened: The telltale first few bars of Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’” started playing, and suddenly everything I’d found phony, pandering, and clichéd about Stone (which is to say everything) began to feel beautiful and pure and right. This was cheese, all right, but it was pure cheese. More than that, it was transcendent cheese. It was the perfect song for the moment.
I stood there on the top deck of a cruise ship, ecstatically singing along to “Don’t Stop Believin’” alongside women who apparently needed to hear the song even more than I did. When we got to the part about the city boy “born and raised in South Detroit,” we all screamed the lines as if our lives depended on it. On a visceral, emotional level, this song just fucking worked. It didn’t work despite being cheesy and clichéd and ridiculous; it worked because it was so cheesy and clichéd and ridiculous. We needed the pulsating optimism of Journey’s timeless anthem. We needed to believe that everything would be all right if we just kept the faith, if we just kept on believing. It was a beautiful dream, and in that particular moment everything seemed exhilaratingly possible. Then “Don’t Stop Believin’” ended, and the brief, magical alchemy between me, three middle-aged women from Detroit, and the cheesiest fucking country singer in the world dissipated. And Stone’s music devolved from transcendently cheesy to merely embarrassing.
I mention this strange scene from Kid Rock’s Chillin’ The Most Cruise both because “Don’t Stop Believin’” figures prominently in Rock Of Ages and because the appeal of Kid Rock’s Chillin’ The Most Cruise is nearly identical to the appeal of Rock Of Ages. Had it succeeded onscreen the way it did during its inexplicably massive Broadway run, Rock Of Ages would have killed. Like Kid Rock’s Chillin’ The Most Cruise, Rock Of Ages offered audiences a vacation from the tyranny of taste, discernment, and sophistication, where everyone could indulge in the desire to be as cheesy and shameless and vulgar as possible. Like Kid Rock’s Chillin’ The Most cruise, Rock Of Ages skips deliriously past the centers of the cerebral cortex devoted to taste and appeals to some part of the brain that’s all about rocking out, scoping chicks, and sweet guitar solos. It’s an invitation to be a jeans-sporting teenager with a denim jacket that has the Guns N’ Roses insignia on the back all over again. That’s an irresistible offer the public found surprisingly easy to resist.
On paper, Rock Of Ages looks like an automatic blockbuster. Just about every facet of it arrives audience-approved: The musical it was based upon was a Broadway smash; the soundtrack is packed with hits people already know by heart; and the cast features an abundance of star power with Catherine Zeta-Jones, Paul Giamatti, Alec Baldwin, Russell Brand, Bryan Cranston, Malin Akerman, Julianne Hough, and most exciting of all—from a commercial perspective at least—arguably the biggest movie star in the world (Tom Cruise) playing arguably the biggest rock star in the world, a snake-hipped, leather-pants-wearing dynamo so sexually potent women reach orgasm just from being in the same area code. Rock Of Ages took something that was already wildly successful, added the world’s most successful movie star, and came away with a bomb.
How could that have happened? How could a can’t-miss proposition miss so egregiously? When I first saw the film, I thought it would do Mamma Mia numbers. Both films are based on enormously successful Broadway “jukebox musicals” overflowing with some of the biggest hits of the past half-century. Besides, the world is really divided into two camps: people who love ABBA and people who—for whatever reason—pretend not to love ABBA, to themselves and to the world. While ABBA may be as cheesy as hair metal, in 2012, hair metal appeals to a much smaller demographic. Hair metal was never particularly fashionable, but after Nirvana broke, liking glam metal performed by drunken heterosexual men who were dolled up like Vegas hookers became a source of enduring shame for much of the population. Musical theater, however, is a realm where it’s somehow acceptable to stage productions where people on roller skates pretend to be trains and actors pretend they are kitty cats. So the concept of shame doesn’t have quite the same currency there it does in other aspects of the pop-culture universe. Rock Of Ages tried to make it okay to like hair metal again, but that was a leap a lot of filmgoers simply weren’t willing to make. It’d be one thing to catch this movie on cable, where its parade of stars and soundtrack of hits are designed to catch the attention of channel surfers. But it’s another to hire a sitter, pay inflated movie-ticket prices, and see a hair-metal jukebox musical starring Tom Cruise and the woman from Dancing With The Stars.
Rock Of Ages opens by dunking audiences in a warm, soothing bath of clichés. We begin with Hough’s small-town girl taking a bus from rural Oklahoma to the big, bad streets of Los Angeles in 1987. Hough begins singing the Night Ranger hit “Sister Christian” a little hesitantly before the bus driver joins her. Then the entire bus begins singing along to the soaring chorus, and an adorable little girl, her blonde hair bathed in a halo of golden light, assures Hough, “It’ll be all right tonight.” The scene plays like a bizarro-world version of the “Tiny Dancer” sequence from Almost Famous, and for a brief moment I forgot how tedious I found Rock Of Ages the first time around, and I gave myself over to its populist shamelessness. Maybe my second viewing would prove preferable to the first; maybe the film would steamroll over my defenses and become giddy, goofy, ridiculous fun. The opening scene is tacky, deliriously unself-conscious, and vulgar but enjoyable enough to make me question whether self-consciousness and taste are inherently positive qualities. Isn’t there something liberating about giving yourself over to cheese?
My optimism was short-lived. By the time “Sister Christian” morphs into “Just Like Paradise,” which in turn morphs into “Nothin’ But A Good Time,” the film’s cornball charm begins to dissipate and kitsch oversaturation begins to kick in, and that’s barely five minutes in. Rock Of Ages doubles as a museum of well-worn show-business banalities, so the big-eyed dreamer with the big voice and even bigger plans is mugged of her beloved albums as a “Welcome to L.A.” hazing ritual within minutes of stepping off the Greyhound bus. Then she meets another pie-eyed dreamer (Diego Boneta) who gets her a job at The Bourbon Room, a once-magnificent rock institution now teetering on the brink of disaster. The club’s owner (Alec Baldwin) takes one look at Hough and hypothesizes,
You sang in the church choir every Sunday, senior year you had the third lead in your high-school musical, and then somebody, your adorable aunt Betty, told you that you have real talent. And like a flaming dipshit, you believed her, dumped your jock boyfriend, ditched town, and moved to Hollywood to have a crack at fame and fortune.