Slums of Beverly Hills (Movie Review)

I once caught my fairly conservative Christian mother watching Boogie Nights, under the pretense that it starred Burt Reynolds. Later, I also found her watching Striptease, a film she explained as watching because she "always loved Demi Moore."

In both instances, she walked away [claiming to be] appalled that her beloved stars had resorted to such "smut" to further their careers. I resolved at that time that my mother either had a fetish she wasn't talking about... or she really needed to read the video box before she whipped out her rental card.

For simplicity's sake, let's say it's the latter. In which case... I would not recommend The Slums of Beverly Hills (1998) to my mother. Though I would, yes, recommend that my mother watch Slums with my good friend, XOXO...

[Long inside joke concerning how I tend to leave XOXO alone with my mother during racy movie scenes.]

And though I didn't enjoy Slums as much as I enjoyed other "sensually disturbing" comedies about dysfunctional families (a la Welcome to the Dollhouse), I didn't hate it. Though, for the record, my movie-watching companion lost interest midway through the film.

In short: it's a bildungsroman about a teenaged girl (well played by Natasha Lyonne) growing up in the "slums" of Beverly Hills. She's learning to adjust to her adult body, all the while dealing with an immature older brother, a well-intentioned 65-year-old father who can't hold a steady job, and a few other coming-of-age traumas.

And while I wouldn't term this a "chick flick" — it's too dark and raunchy for that — I do think females are more likely to relate to Lyonne's trials and tribulations. Unfortunately, this same group may also be turned off by scenes that didn't wind up on the cutting room floor.