THE FIRST WIVES CLUB: Blu-ray (Paramount, 1996) Paramount Home Video

Director, Hugh Wilson’s The First Wives Club (1996) is just one of those movies you know could have been better.  Its pedigree alone, a runaway best seller by Olivia Goldsmith, first published in 1992, and, something of an anthem for jilted ex’s seeking payback in an era where divorce was decidedly more ‘fashionable’ than marriage, ought to have secured its ever-lasting fame. It is difficult, if not impossible, not to see the novel as revenge ‘fiction’ squarely aimed at Goldsmith’s own messy divorce. By that account, her departing hubby took almost everything, including the Jaguar and country house. The book, like most every other in Goldsmith’s cannon to prolifically follow it within a very short period, and into which Goldsmith’s badly bungled ‘heroines’ steadily venture down the proverbial ‘rabbit hole’ into odd and spiteful ‘bitch’ fiction of the pop-feminist vein, nevertheless proved a winner with her militant female fan base, promoting the distorted illusion all men were out to get them.

In one of those ‘truth is stranger than fiction’ ironies that never fails to offer up a little head-scratching, Goldsmith - who looked more like a Paula Dean knock-off than a best-selling author, eventually became obsessed with the youth and beauty her burgeoning fictional counterparts abjured via their own new-found maturity and acceptance of the natural aging process. Checking herself into hospital for a routine chin-tuck with her favorite ENT, Norman Pastorek, just one of many surgical attempts Goldsmith made to keep the specter of middle-age at bay, the authoress had no cause to suspect this time would be anything but routine. Alas, the general anesthesia administered on that fateful afternoon placed Goldsmith in distress even before the scalpel had been drawn, her body felled by a series of severe convulsions and then, a coma from which she never stirred.

A moment’s pause reveals Goldsmith, considered then as the champion of all discarded women of a certain age on the make, to prove some idiotic point about their own desirability, after arguably, it had already ebbed from the tides carrying that promised ship of youth on which they no longer sailed, was far more complicated than any of the cardboard protagonists who populated her novels. And Goldsmith, born Randy Goldfield, and, as dissatisfied with that persona as with her lot in life, chronically to dismiss husbands, lovers, hairpieces, editors, and friends with flummoxing finesse, was pretty much a mess and her own worst enemy. Alas, playing the part of the Manhattan maven, using a public façade that could momentarily dazzle with faux warmth to instantly evaporate as her mood changed and the need to replace old friendships with new ones to remain ‘relevant’, hip and ‘with it,’ eventually bred the kind of cruel dissatisfaction in Goldsmith’s real life the alter egos in her stories managed to rise above. Eight days after she entered hospital for her routine chin-tuck, Olivia Goldsmith died, with speculation leaning toward the antidepressants she popped like Pez candy, as the real culprit for her demise. She was only 55.

But in life, Goldsmith was as much the vengeful sort as some of the characters who more playfully preened and populated her novels. Immediately following the zeitgeist of her debut novel, The First Wives Club, the authoress, prone to extremes, went into a sort of creative funk from which her slow, but steady decline in popularity began. She blamed her editors for this dwindling success, rather than admit her books were increasingly formulaic and silly. It is highly unlikely Goldsmith would have maintained her toe-hold in the publishing world had she survived her own vanity in 2004.  The woman with all the ideas, superseded by an ego bigger than any home she ever owned (and there were several, each more absurdly lavish than the previous one) never quite found the ever-lasting satisfaction her trio of soul-seeking martyrs in The First Wives Club eventually discover under their own steam and acceptance of life on their terms.

Even so, the movie version leaves much to be desired, mainly, as it miserably fails to capture Goldsmith’s caustic wit – the excess of it diffused in Robert Harling’s lumbering screenplay. Harling was arguably, the wrong guy for the job – best remembered, and justifiably so, for Steel Magnolias, a glowing aide memoir to his beloved sister, Susan, prematurely felled by diabetic complications. The play, and eventual movie made from it remains a valentine to that inimitable community of Southern women brought together in his family’s hour of need. But Goldsmith’s novels, including The First Wives Club fail, even to recognize such a communal enclave within the fairer sex exists. Her protagonists are usually solo acts – save a sidekick, and are only briefly united in their suspicious desire to ‘get even’ with other women they perceive to have done them wrong. Harling, decidedly, does not understand this sort of bitch in heels. Nor is he particularly adept at unearthing the ‘heart’ or ‘soul’ of this embittered gal who makes up the movie’s ‘get even or get everything’ mantra derived from anger, cunning and venom of the ‘misery loves company’ ilk. Even so, The First Wives Club ought to have worked as acidic comedy, pulling on the weight of three of the biggest box office draws of their time, all of whom, by 1996, had slightly gone to seed.

Bette Midler, the raucous ‘divine Ms. M’ whose live-show, cabaret-inspired mid-70’s glam-bams caught the popular zeitgeist, enough to launch a lucrative career as a singer, and briefly, a memorable decade on film, in which she played – more or less – hard-talking/no-nonsense gals with an axe to grind, had decidedly mellowed as Midler aged. In The First Wives Club, Midler is Brenda Morelli-Cushman, a shoot-from-the-hip, Sicilian-Jewish single mom, estranged from her appliance-selling hubby, Morty (Dan Hedaya) since involved with his much-younger ditz – Shelly Stewart (Sarah Jessica Parker). Diane Keaton, a one-time beloved of Woody Allen comedies, likewise, had undergone a transformative trial by fire in the picture-making biz, her quirky demeanor considerably softened as Annie MacDuggan-Paradis, the perpetually anxious and slightly neurotic house-frau toting a Winnebago of self-esteem issues still tethered in hope her philandering hubby, Aaron (Steven Collins) will return, and grappling with an over-possessive mother (Eileen Heckart) and lesbian daughter, Christine (Jennifer Dundas). The last of the lot, Goldie Hawn, desperately clinging to the faded trappings of a screen siren, is perfectly cast as Elise Elliott – a one-time Oscar-winning actress, now boozy and bitter as her movie producer husband, Bill Atchison (Victor Garber) is involved with Phoebe LeValle (Elizabeth Berkeley), whose career is being molded by Bill as the ‘new’ Elise.

The First Wives Club certainly has the all-star cache of a major rom/com to recommend it. But it wastes virtually all of this stellar support in a sort of lop-sided who’s who; the cruelest losses, Maggie Smith (utterly wasted as Gunilla Garson Goldberg, a socialite conspiring with the girls to screw up Shelly’s apartment makeover), multi-talented Bronson Pinchot (a mere cameo as Duarto Feliz, Brenda's interior-decorating boss), Rob Reiner (as Elise’s plastic surgeon, Morris), Marcia Gay Harden (as relationship therapist, Dr. Leslie Rosen) and Stockard Channing - the ill-fated Cynthia Swann-Griffin (judged as the brightest gal of the bunch, but who leaps to her death at the start of the picture from her fashionable Manhattan penthouse balcony after her own husband has gone astray). In the penultimate ribbon-cutting ceremony for their new enterprise, a charity devoted to helping other discarded ‘first wives’, thrown by Elise, Brenda and Annie, the movie lays on thick another trio of feminist martyrs from days gone by, playing themselves: Gloria Steinem (the 60’s and 70’s most outspoken denouncer of men, but who eventually wed one, David Bale in 2000 despite her politicized aversions to the sex), Kathie Lee Gifford (whose own husband, former NFL quarterback, Frank Gifford was caught with his pants down – literally) and Ivana Trump (we all know how that one played out), who encourages Elise, Brenda and Annie, not to ‘get mad’ but to ‘get everything’.

Ironically, The First Wives Club was a commercial smash – its mixed reviews doing little to slow its steam at the box office, and, to briefly reset the pop-and-play effect on Midler, Hawn and Keaton’s respective viability in movies. Almost 5 years earlier, the project had taken form after producer, Sherry Lansing acquired the rights to Goldsmith’s ‘as yet’ unpublished novel; Lansing, passing it along to producer, Scott Rudin after she became CEO at Paramount Pictures in 1992. Alas, the theme of female empowerment fell to Harling, decidedly lacking the estrogenic motivations to see it through, and, eventually, to have much of his efforts reworked by Paul Rudnick after Harling departed to direct 1996's The Evening Star (a tepid sequel to 1983’s Oscar-winner, Terms of Endearment). At this juncture, Diane Keaton was cast, largely due to her symbiotic working relationship with Rudin on Mrs. Soffel (1984). Bette Midler originally auditioned for the more flamboyant role of Elise, reworked and recast with Goldie Hawn after Jessica Lange turned producers down. The men in The First Wives Club are a fairly inconsequential lot, perhaps one reason why actor, Mandy Patinkin dropped out, after already accepting the part of Aaron. Likewise, Dan Hedaya came to the role of Morty second best, when Hector Elizondo turned it down. Also present, if barely accounted for, author, Olivia Goldsmith – seen in the background, and, actress, Heather Locklear, at the peak of her sex appeal, in the non-speaking role of Cynthia’s husband, Gil’s (James Naughton) mistress, having her nipple massaged by Gil during Cynthia’s funeral.

The First Wives Club begins rather optimistically in 1969, at Middlebury College where four graduating friends, Annie MacDuggan, Elise Elliot, Brenda Morelli, and valedictorian, Cynthia Swann, are preparing for the bright futures ahead of them. As graduation gifts, Cynthia presents everyone with matching Bvlgari pearl necklaces, making the promise to always be there for Annie, Brenda and Elise, who also pledge their eternal loyalty to her. Alas, time does strange things to college friendships. We advance to present-day, Manhattan, the girls having lost touch with one another. And life, that seemed so rife with promise in 1969, has since betrayed their optimism. Cynthia, the estranged trophy wife of a Manhattan stockbroker, bitterly gets drunk and commits suicide from her penthouse. In the aftermath, a maid discovers the Bulgari necklace and letters addressed to Annie, Brenda and Elise, each of whom attend Cynthia’s funeral and begin to reassess the failed trajectory of their own lives. Annie has split from her husband, whom she believes will come crawling back to her very soon. Brenda is divorced from Morty, a peddler of cheap electronics, presently cooking his books to finance a lifestyle for his much younger mistress while deviously avoiding having to pay Brenda any alimony. Meanwhile, Elise finds her film producer/husband is taking her to court for alimony as he embarks on hand-crafting a film career for his latest plaything. Needless to say, the girls have strayed very far from their original ambitions and desires to succeed.

At first, each attempt to self-medicate their troubles away, leading to, arguably, the funniest scene in the entire movie as a drunken Elise progressively gets plastered in the bar at the Waldorf-Astoria after being told she is being sought after to play ‘the mother’ in a new movie in which she naturally assumed she would otherwise be cast as its sexpot star. Already three-sheets to the wind, Elise tries to comprehend how her career has suddenly slipped away, suggesting to the bartender, “Angela Lansbury is Monique’s mother…Shelly Winters is Monique’s mother…Sean Connery is Monique’s mother…no, no. Wait. Sean Connery is Monique’s boyfriend. He may be 300 years-old but he’s still a stud!” Meanwhile, Aaron seduces Annie. She believes this is the first step to their reconciliation. Instead, in their postcoital aftermath, he confides to having an affair with their marriage therapist, whom he intends to marry. At this juncture, a tearful Elise unexpectedly arrives at Brenda’s tiny apartment, fearful she will turn out like Cynthia, and, the two old friends’ reason that the time has come to avenge their present fates. They bring Annie into their fold. Together, this enterprising trio sets about to sink the ambitions of their wayward men.

Brenda gets revenge on her husband’s mistress, Shelly, by getting New York’s most stylish matron to suggest her entire apartment needs a costly – and vulgar – makeover by Duarto Feliz. Meanwhile, Brenda learns from her uncle Carmine that Morty is committing tax fraud to prevent him from paying her alimony. And Elise discovers her ex’s new lover has lied about her age, thus setting him up for criminal prosecution for having sex with a minor. Meanwhile, Annie and Aaron’s lesbian daughter, Chris gets a job working for her father's advertising agency, conspiring to sway his colleagues into joining Annie – until now, a silent partner in the firm - in a new venture to squeeze him out of the company they co-founded. And Elise, being taken to court by Bill for alimony, instead liquidates all of the marital assets to Brenda for a dollar, offering Bill fifty-cents as his half of their community property split. Realizing revenge alone makes them no better than their husbands, the girls take all of their new-gotten gains and blackmail their respective spouses into helping them fund their nonprofit organization, the Cynthia Swann-Griffin Crisis Center for Women, dedicated to aiding abused women in memory of their fallen friend. At the gala to inaugurate their new venture, it becomes obvious Elise is about to embark upon a new relationship with a cast member from her new play. In another part of the ballroom, Brenda and Morty reconcile. Annie, however, rebuffs Aaron's attempt to get back together. As the evening winds down, Bill hits on, and picks up Shelly, leaving Elise, Brenda and Annie to joyfully indulge in their own boisterous rendition of the classic pop song, "You Don't Own Me".

The First Wives Club was shot in and around New York City, the bulk of its interiors recreated by designer, Peter Larkin, staged over 3 months at the famous Kaufman Astoria Studios in Queens, with additional locations including Christie’s auction house, the Bowery Bar, a suite at The Waldorf-Astoria Hotel, Café des Artistes, the King Cole Bar at the St. Regis Hotel, Frank E. Campbell's funeral home, and Barneys. The movie has a very ‘New York’ feel, and that is part, if not all of its charm. The rest relies on the chemistry between Midler, Keaton and Hawn. This, alas, is practically nonexistent, the actresses’ best scenes weirdly played apart rather than together, and often at the expense of their male counterpoints in the picture. The absence of any genuine camaraderie between the gals is sorely missed. Regrettably, Harling’s script fatally lacks the satirical bite to make this trio’s varying revenge scenarios successfully click. It also all but emasculates the steamy sex in Goldsmith’s novel, trading in her slap n’ tickle for more than a healthy dollop of slapstick. In absence of screen chemistry, cameraman, Donald Thorin always delivers something visually arresting to admire. Nevertheless, a few ‘sight gags’ miserably fall apart – the absolute worst, Elise, Brenda, and Annie’s escape down a window washer’s scaffolding to avoid being discovered by Morty. On more than one occasion, the movie just seems to be struggling for something meaningful to say, relying too heavily on its “hell hath no fury like a woman scorned…” chaunt to carry the load. Even so, The First Wives Club sustains our attentions as a thoroughly artificial farce, more memorable for its audacious misfires than its homage to the source material. 

Paramount Home Video’s Paramount Presents…Blu-ray release of The First Wives Club is problematic. The main titles, designed in the vein of animated sixties’ pop art, with their emphasis on bold colors and angular Saturday comic strip-styled renderings, exhibit edge enhancement and aliasing. Delving into the body of the this release, the situation is modestly improved, although pesky edge effects remain intermittent, and are now wed to film grain appearing to have been artificially boosted. It’s a pretty gritty looking image with flesh tones occasionally leaning toward piggy pink. Contrast is acceptable and black levels are solid. Paramount has ported over the 5.1 DTS audio,  adequate, though not exemplary, with frontal sounding dialogue and the only real opportunity for spatial spread owed the picture’s pop-tune-driven interludes of which Dionne Warwick’s bouncy, Wives and Lovers, Billy Porter’s soulful, Love Is On The Way, The Eurhythmics/with Aretha Franklin’s feminist anthem-inducing, Sisters Are Doin' It for Themselves, and M People’s trashy club mixer, Moving on Up, fares the best. Extras are limited to a brief introduction and theatrical trailer. Bottom line: The First Wives Club is hardly a faithful adaptation of Goldsmith’s 1992 beach-blanket page-turner from 1992, itself, barely to be considered as ‘literature’. It fills our leisure with a few memorable scenes, and a lot of fluff and nonsense – to quote Shakespeare again, “…signifying nothing.”

FILM RATING (out of 5 – 5 being the best)

2.5

VIDEO/AUDIO

3

EXTRAS

1