Justin’s perennially tanned
neck, draped in the shiny, jet-black curls of his artfully crafted mullet, and
the way that he sullenly sank back into his seat to carve his name into the
ancient plank of his desk, putting my fingers within inches of his delectable
flesh, infused my tender young heart with palpitations of joy and anguish the
likes of which I had never even imagined possible. To my pure, virginal soul, perhaps the most
enticingly exotic detail of Justin to note was his sinful (remember: tiny, redneck-town, people—keep up!) collection of black
t-shirts emblazoned with a variety of Man’s Ruin tattoo details: impossibly
beautiful half-naked women, roses, skulls, flames, and guitars…all scrawling out
the names of the bands whose music charged our fledgling spirits while it ate
the batteries of our Walkmans (look it
up, kids)— Mötley Crüe,
Def Leppard, Dokken, Poison…and of course, the inimitable Guns-n-Roses.
Oh, the days Justin wore his G-n-R “Appetite
for Destruction” shirt were the very best—I could study the crucified skeletal portraits
of Axl and his boys at my leisure, fantasizing that maybe…just maybe…Justin
thought of me when they sang about eyes as blue as skies. (Pshaw. As if.)
If Justin was feeling particularly sleepy or if he was ducking one of
Mr. Ass-Whole’s searches for a blank face in the audience to assault, dear
Justin’s head would tilt back ever so slightly, nudging his feathery curls down
his back and gently kissing the edge of Slash’s top hat, sending mysterious,
coded messages to my beguiled brain.
What can I say? To my
thirteen-year-old heart, it “meant
something.”
I wish I could say that one day, years
later, Justin noticed me amidst the crowded high school cafeteria and strode purposefully
across the sea of envious students to pull off my glasses, untie my pony-tail (immediately rendering me shockingly
beautiful, of course) and carry me to his awaiting IROC-Z (look it up already!) parked outside, blaring
Warrant’s “Heaven” or Skid Row’s “I Remember You” so that we could drive away
into the sunset to the fist-pumping cheers of our entire school—but… that would
be nothing but fiction…and I am nothing if not a realist. John Hughes did not author the adventures of
my youth. In fact, last I heard, I’m
pretty sure Justin ended up getting someone pregnant and dropping out of
automotive school—but, you see—none of that matters: Justin Dreamy
will forever be frozen in time as the impossibly beautiful boy from my
thirteen-year-old delusions of grandeur, racing the night by my side, because
the music of G-n-R staged the soundtrack for the sweetest dreams imaginable. Even if I never had the young man, I had the music—and somehow, that was enough.
It was that thirteen-year-old-girl who
left “Rock of Ages” tonight, clapping like a simpering baby seal—cheeks aglow
with laughter and the vicarious thrill of having a smoldering dream
reignited. NO, I’m not leaving my
beloved husband and darling children to pursue a grade-school crush—I’m
referring to the precious reminder that when the music is in you (really in you, coursing through your veins and
thrumming in your throat), you are alive forever and a part of something so
much bigger than your own tiny problems on your own tiny planet—and you still
have a chance. Your time here isn’t finished and if you
still have breath in your lungs and a beat in your heart, you can still make a difference. Flashes of this timeless feeling are so rare—but
when you are privileged enough to find one, the bond you feel with those around
you in that moment is nearly overwhelming.
Imagine the ultimate “lighters up” performance at a concert (you know…that song where everyone sang in
unison and you heard the collective voices of thousands of people harmonizing and
connecting)—for a single, simple second, your whole life was in front of you,
nothing was out of your reach, and you were not alone.
“Rock of Ages” is a satirical piece of
humanism, exploring the two extremes of life—one point of view is drowning in
the undertow of their feelings and the naïveté of their inexperience with life—and the other is sinking from the inability
to feel anything because they’ve experienced too much from life. And (spoiler alert!) BOTH will be saved by
music and love and human connection. I
don’t want to give too much of the film away (and I can only discuss it in
terms of the film, as I have not seen the musical it was based upon…so…haters
gon’ hate) because I want everyone to JUST GO SEE IT. Admittedly, there are tons of cheesy moments, clichés, and predictable action and draggy
moments in need of some editing, blah blah blah… but, in the end, can’t the very same things be said of real life? This film is FUNNY. And endearing. And the music kicks so much ass—the songs
weave a lyrical tapestry that informs the viewer so much more about the
characters than the sometimes sketchy dialogue can even hope to convey.
Again, though I am loathe to date
myself, I must share that the summer before I sat lusting behind young master
Justin Dreamy in Mr. Ass-Whole’s math class was when “Top Gun” blew up the
movie world and Tom Cruise became more than the cute boy dancing in his
underpants while his parents were out of town.
I have grown up beside this man and always marvel at his commitment to
his performances (my personal favorites
are a toss-up between Frank T.J. Mackey from “Magnolia” and Les Grossman from
“Tropic Thunder”) but in “Rock of Ages”, while his performance vaguely
hints at self-parody, Cruise luxuriates in the skin of this libidinous and
sulky and charmingly disarming, brilliant study in self-awareness. Goodbye, Maverick. Welcome, Stacee Jaxx. Tom Cruise not only lights up every scene he
appears in—he sets it on fire, then proceeds to eat it whole.
Honestly, I thought the casting was excellent
across the board; even if the nuances of their performances were a wee bit
uneven—but there is no actor I would change.
The “ingénues” (Julianne Hough, Diego Boneta) conveyed their innocence with
charm—and the jaded “professionals” (Cruise, Paul Giamatti, Alec Baldwin) may
be cynical, but they were never lackluster.
(Speaking of which, there is an
Alec Baldwin subplot with Russell Brand that was—I believe—played for laughs,
but that I thought rang sweeter and truer than most straight drama I’ve
seen. Pun intended. See
for yourselves.) The only crime
perpetrated by the film was the lack of screen time for Mary J. Blige—but she kills with what she gets. And, again…the music. The MUSIC! The
performances of each and every neo classic hair-metal ballad enthralled the
thirteen-year-old girl inside me completely (and from my stolen glimpses of the
nearly sold-out audience lip-synching along, she wasn’t alone.)
Admittedly, as my husband and I left
the theatre with joyful hearts and refreshed spirits, we were mildly dismayed
to be among the youngest viewers of the film (honestly, it looked like the set of the latest erectile dysfunction
medication advertisement—but, I've tried to remain focused on the positive.) Listen—if a super-fun musical with amazing
music isn’t for you, then don’t go see the movie. If these kinds of memories are not YOUR kinds
of memories, then go watch the Adam Sandler tripe in the theatre next door (okay,
confession time…the thirteen-year-old-girl in me kind of wants to see that TOO)—but
I mean it: if these aren’t your memories, then just stay home. This film was not made for you. Maybe one day someone will make you a movie
starring the spawn of Justin Bieber and Selena Gomez with tons of Drake and Josh/ Spongebob Squarepants/ That’s
So Raven references starring Channing Tatum as your washed up dreamboat set
to the music of Miley Cyrus and Taylor Swift. Seriously.
It’s probably in pre-production now.
No? Then go see “Rock of
Ages”—now.
As for me, I’m just thankful for the
reminder that music—especially the music that truly matters to you and marks
your memories, etching its name inside your very core the way Justin Dreamy
scarred the surface of his 7th grade math desk before my craving heart—and
the feelings, are alive forever. Rock on…and
on…and on…
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