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There is even something about the way he shows sunlight bathing a breakfast table that's amusing; his Sutphins look like they live in a cereal commercial. He has the look and feel of their middle-American neighborhood just right, but the movie's comic premise doesn't go anywhere with it.
Beverly, the Serial Mom, is played by Kathleen Turner, a brave actress who has ventured here where several other actresses reportedly feared to tread. One thing I like about Turner is her willingness to tackle unlikely roles; her agent probably warned her against Danny DeVito's 'War of the Roses,' for example, but she and the equally fearless Michael Douglas took that exercise in matrimonial bloodshed and made it ghoulishly effective.
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In 'Serial Mom,' though, it's not so much that Turner's performance doesn't succeed, as that there's something sad about it that works against the humor. All serial killers are insane (at least I hope so). But in a comedy they need to extract some sort of zeal and manic joy from their atrocities; they have to give the audience permission, for the time being, to suspend the ordinary rules of good conduct.
Feb 12, 2016 After a brief stint in Hollywood family friendly mainstream fare john waters returned to a more adult feature with serial mom. The film is a parody of made for TV true crime flicks and it hits every note associated with that including time and date stamps/ disclaimers. Kathleen Turner is. Director John Waters puts a twist on the everyday mediocrity of suburban life in the domestically devious Serial Mom. See Kathleen Turner like never before as Beverly Sutphin, the seemingly.
In the slasher movies, the humor comes because the killers are seen as the victims of their programming, repeating the same obsessive behavior over and over again; we laugh because we see their mistake. In the classic horror films, we're amused because the evil is so stylized we can't take it seriously; Vincent Price licks his lips and rolls his eyes and intones his pseudo-Shakespearean imprecations, and his behavior takes the edge off his actions.
Watch 'Serial Mom' closely, however, and you'll realize that something is miscalculated at a fundamental level. Turner's character is helpless and unwitting in a way that makes us feel almost sorry for her - and that undermines the humor. She isn't funny crazy, she's sick crazy. The movie shows her triggered by passing remarks (a garbage man says 'somebody ought to kill' a neighbor woman who refuses to recycle). She gets a weird light in her eyes that I guess we're supposed to laugh at, but, gee, it's kind of pathetic the way she goes into murderous action. Like 'Clifford,' this is a movie where the comedy doesn't work because at some underlying level the material generates emotions we feel uneasy about.
John Waters has, of course, been over some of this ground before; many of his films show a surface of inane suburban normality, pierced by the secret depravities of his inhabitants. After his early X-rated weirdo extravaganzas starring Divine, he scaled back to PG-land for 'Hairspray' (1988) and 'Cry Baby' (1990), invocations of the early 1960s and mid-1950s. Both films, like 'Serial Mom,' depend for a lot of their humor on his memories of a time when people seriously believed that cheese could come in cans.
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His cast this time includes Ricki Lake (whom he discovered in 'Hairspray') as Misty Sutphin, the boy-crazy daughter who eventually begins to twig that something is wrong with mom; Sam Waterston as Beverly's unobservant husband, and Matthew Lillard as Chip, the brother whose bad grades at school inspire his mom to run down one of his teachers with her car. And, yes, that's Patricia Hearst in the jury box during Beverly's eventual trial (she inspires Beverly to write an urgent note to her attorney: 'Juror Number 8 is wearing white shoes after Labor Day!') The movie has some fun with how the family deals with their mother's serial murders (Misty sells T-shirts outside the courthouse), and of course Waters works in some movie parodies (although when Kathleen Turner spreads her legs in court in homage to Sharon Stone, it's more awkward and uncomfortable than funny).

The more I think about this film, the more interested I am in why it doesn't work. The crucial problem is that since we feel some sympathy for the Kathleen Turner character, we can't laugh at her. But underneath that, somehow, is Waters' own essential niceness.
He may have directed some of the most shocking and scatological films of our time, but at some level he always expresses a tenderness for his characters, and in 'Serial Mom' he is simply not able to be cruel enough to Beverly Sutphin to make her available for our laughter.
Waters seems typecast as the author of shocking suburban melodramas, but I suspect that trapped inside of him is the soul of an entirely different kind of storyteller.
John waters and Kathleen Turner bring out the sicko best in each other in Serial Mom. It’s a killingly funny spoof of crime and nonpunishment that couldn’t have come at a better time for us or them. Waters, the writer and director of such beloved cinematic outrages as Multiple Maniacs, Female Trouble and Polyester, has been looking for a star big enough to personify his distinctively warped view of the mad, mad world since Divine died in 1988. Born Harris Glenn Milstead, Divine was a 300-pound drag diva who brought heft and heart to Waters films from Mondo Trasho to Hairspray. There’s no forgetting Divine’s Babs in the 1972 Waters classic Pink Flamingos as she snacked on dog shit or sucked off her son, Crackers (Danny Mills), who begged: “Do my balls, Mama.”
But enough tender nostalgia. Turner, even dressed in suburban frocks that hide her Body Heat allure, gives Waters star power to spare as Baltimore’s homicidal homemaker Beverly Sutphin. Serial Mom is a spirited return to form for the actress after V.I. Warshawski, House of Cards and Undercover Blues. Turner’s found the crack comic timing she lost after The War of the Roses; also back is the go-for-broke silliness she showed in The Man With Two Brains when Steve Martin shouted, “Into the mud, scum queen.”
Turner is liberated by Waters, who in turn gets a leading lady who really is a lady. You can’t take your eyes off her. Turner is dynamite in a performance that keeps springing surprises. Beverly may look like Martha Stewart on ludes, but she is seething inside. It’s not the injustice of the world that she wants to avenge. Waters would never be concerned with anything so banal. Beverly is bothered by minor infractions. Very bothered. We can all relate to anger of the “little things,” but Beverly acts on it. Around her, remember to recycle your trash or wear your seat belt. And be nice to her nerdy dentist husband, Eugene (Sam Waterston), her lovelorn daughter, Misty (Ricki Lake), and her horror-film fanatic son, Chip (Matthew Lillard). Beverly loves her family so much she’d kill for them.
Waters has rarely come up with such a fiendishly comic conceit to stick it to the powers that be. He has created a virtuous housewife who kills in the name of political correctness and family values. The kids are slow to discover the murderer in Mom. But Eugene (Waterston in a delicious sendup of his usually somber self) refuses to believe it, not until he finds the Charles Manson scrapbooks under Beverly’s bed and the taped messages from Ted Bundy.
It’s great to see Waters up to his demented tricks again. There were only glimmers in his last two films, Hairspray and Cry-Baby. Though Serial Mom is a mainstream movie with a modest budget ($13 million) and a respectable R rating. Waters stealthily and steadily kicks ass. Cinematographer Robert Stevens (The Barbs) contrives to make everything look normal. But you can practically hear Waters snickering behind the camera: “The better to fool you with, my dear.” Big bad wolf Waters assimilate? Never!
Waters’ twisted touch is evident from the first scene. Beverly, cereal box in hand, is rudely interrupted while serving breakfast to her family. The culprit is a buzzing fly who flits from plate to plate, leaving fly goo on the toast and juice. She grabs the swatter, takes aim and hits her mark. In close-up, Waters reveals the squashed, bloody insect body. Avenged sevenfold download free. Superimposed over the gross image is a screen credit: written and directed by John Waters.

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The scene is a cue for the wussies to exit and the Waters buffs to settle in for two hours of choice perversity. Beverly runs a clean home. No gum chewing and no use of the f word, the p word or the “brown word.” But once the kids are off to school, she can’t resist an anonymous obscene call to her neighbor Dottie Hinkle, hilariously played by Waters regular Mink Stole. “Is this the cocksucker residence?” asks the gleeful Beverly, who had previously dashed off a note to Dottie using letters cut from magazines: I’ll get you, pussy face. When the police later discover the letter p missing from her copy of Premiere, Beverly says the film magazine belongs to her nosy neighbor Rosemary (Mary Jo Catlett). “I don’t like to read about movies,” Beverly tells the cops. “They’re too violent.”
Serial Mom might also prove too violent for those who refuse to accept murder as a proper subject for laughter. These are the times that try the souls of filmmakers who don’t blame movies for instigating all the violence in the world since Cain and Abel. No matter. Waters soldiers on, the banners of his bad taste flying high. Without giving away the details, it’s fair to say that Beverly makes lethal use of a car, a fire poker, a pair of scissors, an air conditioner, a telephone and even a leg of lamb. Beverly sings along with Barry Manilow’s “Daybreak” as she drives off to each kill. Nice touch. The film recalls David Lynch’s Blue Velvet in the way darkness lurks just below the surface of sunny suburbia. But Waters, bless him, would rather be playful than profound. The grossest sight involves an internal organ that dangles on the end of the fire poker. And the funniest moment concerns a woman who gets whacked for wearing white shoes after Labor Day. Beverly considers it an unforgivable fashion faux pas.
If Serial Mom merely consisted of watching Beverly knock off victims in lock step, you could dismiss it as a one-joke farce with unusually clever variations. But Waters is chasing bigger game. It’s the glamour of crime and the celebrity and riches it confers that draw his satirical barbs. You wouldn’t think parody is possible anymore in the age of Bobbit and Buttafuoco, but Waters gives it a game go.
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In an uproarious trial sequence, Beverly defends herself as the court turns into a circus of family, friends and media sharks trying to cut themselves in for a piece of the “serial mom” action. Waters sees the trial as a junk-culture playpen. Check the cameos, a Waters trademark: That’s Patricia Hearst as Juror No. 8. And Suzanne Somers shows up as herself for pointers on playing Beverly in a TV movie. The looks the two women exchange as they size each other up are priceless. Waters, a court junkie himself, knows this tacky scene well. He doesn’t even try to hide his lurid fascination with the Hard Copy world he’s lampooning. You may miss the old shock value — though shit is exposed, none is eaten — but Waters dishes out enough subversive wit in Serial Mom to keep you memorably entertained.