| Chris Polley |
Heavenly Bodies plays at the Trylon Cinema from Friday, August 15th, through Sunday, August 17th. For tickets, showtimes, and other series information, visit trylon.org.
When I found out that no one had claimed to write something for the Trylon’s upcoming screening of 1984 Canuxploitation dance-ercise flick Heavenly Bodies, I felt like Charlie getting the golden ticket to the chocolate factory. What did I do to deserve this? I’d thank God, but as this relatively newfound cult classic suggests, the only deity behind those pearly gates is Samantha Blair (Cynthia Dale), the protagonist of Lawrence Dane’s Flashdance riff, and her almost exclusively nameless posse of similarly glistening aerobics instructors and students. But quickly did I realize that, perhaps, this film is simply too perfect to elicit a genuine academic reading. No—I needed to let the moving pictures speak for themselves to help spread the gospel. Yes—this was the way. Then, perhaps my very unheavenly body would be worthy of joining their northern ranks as an honorary member. I will even purchase my own legwarmers if it helps.
In between the opening credits we get our first iconic moment before even a single line of dialogue is uttered. Former actor Dane (Wikipedia claims he’s best known for his portrayal of Lt. Preston in 1998’s Bride of Chucky) is an undisputed master of “show, don’t tell,” and he proves it effortlessly here, as aspiring fitness guru Samantha—stuck in a dead-end office job—uses the dour company’s copier to duplicate fliers announcing the opening of the eponymous Heavenly Bodies studio. Her clandestine efforts get foiled, however, when she gets caught in the act, and the dozens of sheets she has stuck in her waistband under her sweater slide right through her wool (?) skirt and onto the floor. What muscle was unclenched to let these puppies fly is left to the viewer’s imagination, and that’s the kind of smart visual gag that even the Zucker brothers would never dare dream up.
Here is the audience’s first taste of the kinds of grand plans Samantha has for the Canadian underworld of dance-addicted fitness fiends, and boy is it a doozy. Like the best dance moves, it’s pelvis-forward, and it seemingly involves a paralyzed top half and a crab-walking bottom half. Hey, they’re the ones that are heavenly, so no judgment, but I feel the oddly discolored hardwood rubbing against my neck and shoulders as I scoot backward rhythmically might just cause some kind of undue stress on my slouching muscles. Again, I’m no expert, and I will admit I am afraid to try it out at home for fear that I will be found by an EMT in an uncompromising position, so perhaps this is a move I’ll need to reserve for busting out in public someday when more immediate help is readily nearby.
Quickly, Samantha’s quasi-club, quasi-classroom gets some local media attention, and a news team approaches patrons quite aggressively to get their take on what’s just so special about Samantha Blair and Heavenly Bodies. Naturally, they ask this guy first. He immediately, and without permission, shows off his proverbial guns he’s somehow toned and perfected (it’s not HD, but the evidence is clear, yes?) at this very bottom-half-oriented exercise joint. It’s never explicitly stated (again, Dane is a subtle auteur), but the viewer is left to only assume that this interview is what catapults the head instructor to provincial stardom.
Samantha is tapped by a mysterious football team owner to get his boys into shape, and while it’s only implied it’s American football (I don’t think they call soccer ‘football’ in Toronto, right? Or is there such a thing as Canadian football? I’m not going to Google it, I can tell you that much), it becomes evident very shortly that this is a motley crew, to say the least. There is indeed a lot of visual information to take in here, but there are guys ready and willing to give this dancing thing a genuine shot, those that are doing just enough hand movement to cleverly fool the powers that be, and several somewhere in between. Samantha has her work cut out for her, but lucky for us, this plot thread is dropped as soon as the fellow in the pink becomes her obvious love interest.
Wherein it’s revealed that Samantha is a single mother of a very obnoxious child, and Dane blocks the scene immaculately so that it appears to the audience that her son wackily disappears into the kitchen only to come back out a moment later as a fully grown man who’s picked up groceries to, as he announces, make her pierogies for dinner. The cinematic sleight of hand is so deft, and the pan to the right so delicate, that we’re not even worrying about what giant leafy vegetable protruding from the paper bag he may need to make potato ravioli. It’s revealed, too, just a minute later, that the boy and the man are, in fact, two different people. The illusion, while temporary, remains an effective bit of dramatic and surreal filmmaking.
Okay, so it’s confirmed here that it’s American football that this guy plays, I guess. Or maybe he’s just playing American football for fun with his girlfriend and her goofball kid? In either case, this is some truly epic Bob Saget-approved stuntwork. If the actor didn’t have a double and this isn’t some kind of perfectly executed Texas switch, then I’m guessing this little dude’s knees just literally gave out on him, and Dane had no choice but to keep this mishap in the final cut. I can’t express properly how much I could watch this tiny freak just totally biff it into the grass before I’d tire of it. This is why stunt design is finally getting added as an Oscar category, people.
I call this student-assisted aerobic move the ‘En Route to Crucifixion’ for hopefully self-explanatory reasons. Again, a lot of details to admire here in terms of pure craftsmanship, but if it’s an 80s dance movie, you know I gotta give flowers to the costume design team: Aside from the scarf-but-no-shirt beauty at the center of the frame, you have suspender spandex, front knot scrawny pallbearer, and pink-and-white-striped v-neck all in one glorious shot. She’s dance-dying for their sins, y’all, and they’re all doing it oh so fabulously.
It is finally confirmed in the conflict-heavy second half of the film using some genius Framing with a capital ‘F,’ that Samantha’s football-playing boyfriend, is indisputably a football player. By placing the wine glass and landline phone base in between the carefully laid out football and football helmet, we the viewers are left to surmise (Dane sure likes to make us work for it, but lucky for us that we’re really good at watching movies) that Samantha’s football player boyfriend, is—as it turns out—a person who plays the sport of football (I think professionally???). The pedestal shot up to Samantha’s face leaves us with an inscrutable facial expression, but unless she herself is also a football player (nothing in the script suggests this), then we are left to simply assume these are her football athlete boyfriend’s items he has left at her home, presumably because they are going steady by this point in the film. Maybe he even keeps a toothbrush there, but that’s just speculation.
Now, of course the film ends with a dance marathon, because for this kind of story, it’s either that or it takes a hard left turn into some kind of Die Hard situation with hostages and our hero trying to take down the captors using the power of dance. There are so many wonderful movements from the dance marathon climax, trust me, so this is just one personal favorite, but what I genuinely love about this shot is that it’s proof after 90-some ludicrous minutes, one of the reasons the film works so magnificently is that our lead actor Cynthia Dale is legitimately magnetic in every scene—perhaps none so more than here, where she enters the contest’s umpteenth hour and exhibits this absolute ferocity, eyes locked with vengeance against a rival club run by a sleazebag with a concerning amount of chest hair. I truly think she is heavenly in the role, and is without a doubt what makes the whole experience sing— err, uh—dance.
Hopefully this is enough evidence to convince anyone out there that this film demands to be seen and enjoyed with a crowd. I wish the Trylon would host its own dance marathon following the screening, but I’m afraid the energy and inspiration from the film would lead to a days-long affair, and I know even the most dedicated of the microcinema’s volunteers might prove ill-equipped to handle it. They could prove me wrong, though!
Edited by Olga Tchepikova-Treon