There's a lot to like about Prey for Rock and Roll and a lot to set your teeth on edge. I guess I could never completely pan a film featuring out-and-proud dykes in an all-woman punk band called Clamdandy.That's one of the reasons why I feel conflicted reviewing queer-themed films. When I start to shift into critical mode, another part of me says, "Remember how it used to be? Remember when movies like this were unimaginable? When film lesbians were cartoony and used for a cheap laugh? Remember Open City and Notorious?"
I'm thrilled that a movie like Prey for Rock and Roll comes along with a reasonably intelligent (though overly glib) script and positive role models. It never hints that Jacki or the other band members need men to fix or complete them, quite the reverse in fact. It doesn't shrink from exposing our heroines at less than flattering moments. Yet there seems to be some ambivalence, a discrepancy between the film's ideology and its plot. For all its enlightenment it still panders to breeder preconceptions, tries to put a sympathetic spin on queer attraction so they can "relate."
Prey for Rock and Roll is narrated by Jacki (Gina Gershon), lead singer and manager of Clamdandy. Ever since she was 12 years old and saw Tina Turner at the Hollywood Bowl, she's dreamed of being a rock and roll star. Jacki seems loosely based on Patti Smith; she certainly sings like her and does so with panache. The songs are energetic but the lyrics feel generic. They lack a lot of the invention and intense imagery that make for great rock and roll.
We watch as the four rehearse, chill, bitch, piss, vomit, and suffer the ordeals that men throw their way. We learn that Sally (Shelly Cole) and Jacki have both been the victims of male sex-abuse. Animal (Marc Blucas), Sally's older brother, is a sweet, caring, non-confrontational guy. Jacki keeps him at a safe distance because clearly, males are bad news. It's easy to understand why they take exception to men. They've been repeatedly subjected to degrading treatment by troglodytes.
Many guys think that testicles entitle them to be domineering, aggressive, toxic pricks. Now, of course, you don't have to be raped to understand this. You don't even have to be female. What bothers me is this very old and still prevalent presumption that queer folks must be damaged goods, that our sexuality must be an expression of rage, despair, or trauma.
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