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Drive-Away Dolls-Ethan Coen

In the summer of 2005 I turned 21. It didn't take long for me to become inaugurated into the life of power drinking as the group I hung with at the time had logged many hours of copious guzzling long before I stepped up to the bar and were overjoyed to welcome a new recruit into the fold.

In August of that summer we embarked upon the State Road bar crawl. My first bar crawl ever.

We began at a tiny little hole in the wall called "Wize Guyz" and planned to work our way south—twenty minutes at a time and one beer per bar—until we reached our destination which was three miles away: "The Last Stop Inn".

Along the way were two inconspicuous queer bars that we refused to forsake on our journey. The first one, "Five Cent Decision", was empty and so there weren't many stories to walk away with other than the hilarious block print on the bar tenders shirt, which read: "Let's get one thing straight…I'M NOT!" He tolerated our shenanigans in good spirits and bid us adieu as we then stumbled across the street into "The Lime Tree Tavern". A low key lesbian bar that despised our loud and obnoxious mob the minute we spilled our way through the door.

Three to four women, butched out to maximum levels, puffed away at their Winston's and shot daggers at us with their eyes while gritting their teeth and picking at the labels of their Budweisers, grinding out twenty minutes of noise pollution.

The equally beefy and short feathered bartender huffed and puffed with a short fuse that was burning at a rapid pace as we shouted over one another various bottom shelf beer brand quantities.

Our loquacious demeanor was not accepted in good spirits whatsoever and any time one of us would try to spark some form of conversation with any of the natives it was pretty obvious that they were not interested in the slightest.

This, I believe, was bar number six on the journey, and by that point the alcohol made us oblivious to the tension in the air and in no time we skedaddeled off (sans incident) to wreck even greater havoc at the next unsuspecting dive bar, leaving the bull-dykes behind to commiserate over the idiots who had disturbed the peace of their sanctuary.

Now, mind you, this is my solitary experience inside of a genuine lesbian bar, and is the only snippet I have to go off of. But, if I were to make an educated guess, I'm willing to bet that the replicant's which span far and wide across the United States, deviate very little from The Lime Tree Tavern.

Unlike the late night Skinemax features, where playboy centerfolds wander down the naughty side of the street and over exaggerate orgasms with laughable sex scenes, the real life product was drastically different. It felt more or less like a congregation of every physical education teacher I had throughout school getting together to blow off some steam over a couple of cold ones.

Nothing more, nothing less.

Normal people whose personal lives are just a tad different than the average woman's and wish to have a place amongst like-minded folks without getting ogled and whispered about for their differences.

Perhaps times have changed, as 19 years have come and gone since that dalliance with Cleveland's finest lesbian watering hole. But I find it hard to believe that within that time frame it evolved into a frenzy of over-the-top party animals that hold wet t-shirt contests and whoop and holler like frat boys as unrealistic dimes do body shots onstage.

Then again, maybe it has? Who am I to make an authoritative assumption with such lack of mileage in lesbian bars under my belt?

Nevertheless, this is the world that we are thrust into from the outset of "Drive-Away Dolls". The first solo venture of Ethan Coen.

And a horrible one at that.

Maybe it's just the year of black holes coming into alignment at the theatres for Directors that usually deliver the goods? As Guy Ritchies "Operation Fortune: Ruse de Guerre" was equally as shitty as "Drive-Away Dolls" was.

The plot isn't worth mentioning. The acting is garbage. The chemistry between Margaret Qualley and Geraldine Viswanathan is pathetic, and the exploitation of lesbians for chuckles was absolutely reprehensible.

I would've expected something a bit more respectable from Ethan Coen in this regard, but no. The jokes were straight out of an American Pie/early Todd Phillips flick. Egregiously amateur and written for an audience of complete idiots.

This was the first time I had seen any sort of work featuring Geraldine, and I have to admit that I was pretty excited, as she had been creating some potent ripples in the industry. Sadly, being attached to such shit as this, did not create a great first impression. Margaret Qualley was obnoxious and deplorable. The ineptitude of Joey Slotnick and C.J. Wilson was a pathetic retread of Buscemi and Stormare. And Matt Damon's cameo was completely pointless.

By the time I left the theater I was baffled that a name with such grandiose prestige as Coen was attached at the top.

Severe disappointment.

A generous half-star for an interesting pen-kill at the beginning and the small inclusion of ESG.

Stars:1/2*

Verdict: Pass

Cousins: Thelma and Louise, Death Proof, Set it Off, The Kitchen, Charlies Angels (2019)

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