I’d never seen such an innately glamorous person give herself over to the sordid, seedy, salacious approach of a movie like this - a movie with the nerve to call itself “Nuts” - and do it with this much lewdness and vaudeville. I vaguely sensed that Streisand’s casting triggered the movie’s offness. a sheen, as if the grime had a halo - her. When he gets to Kirk, Claudia, the movie matches the name with a face: Barbra Streisand’s. The top of somebody’s head makes an expectant pivot toward the guard: Call mine. Then a guard calls out a bunch of names, and bodies rise, form a line to head up a set of stairs toward a light. The shot keeps going until it hits a logical barrier: jailhouse bars. A toilet just flushed, and the colors here would match the ring around the bowl. The camera inches downward to survey an array of latte, caramel, coffee and chestnut skin, leaning, lying on the floor, in sundresses and hot pants, languishing. Not because I was on the Death Star or Krypton, but because I’d been plunked down in a drama whose opening sounds are rattling chains and the chattering of Black women’s voices. But I did, once, and I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. No kid needs to watch a movie about a Manhattan prostitute who kills one of her johns. To hear more audio stories from publications like The New York Times, download Audm for iPhone or Android.
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