When Doc gets caught up in a bad publishing deal thanks to sleazy businessman Rodeo Rocky, he calls on Blackie to help him out. Wackiness ensues, as it so often does in a Willie Nelson movie. Doc cooks up a plot to make some money and screw over Rocky. He discovers Gilda, a slightly nutty up and coming singer, then slaps Blackie and Gilda’s names on songs he writes, telling them, “you get the credit, I get the money.”
Can Doc scheme his way out of Rodeo Rocky’s contract and make enough money to provide for his kids and ex-wife, who he may still love? And just exactly how much of this film is based on the exploits of Nelson and Kristofferson in their rowdier days? Nelson, who sold the wildly successful song “Night Life” for peanuts, sure learned about the ins and outs of the music business the hard way, so there might be a grain of truth in Doc’s plotting.

Songwriter doesn’t ever take itself too seriously, mostly because its two leading men sure seem to be having a blast, thus suggesting that the question Blackie poses to Doc, “Do you suppose a man has to be a miserable son of a bitch all the time just to write a good song now and then” might not be true after all. Celluloid Country repeat offender Lesley Ann Warren is excellent as neurotic, drunk, girl singer Gilda (she was nominated for a Golden Globe), and there are a couple other recognizable faces in the mix, including Rip Torn (Payday) as slick promoter Dino. Members of Willie’s band and Stephen Bruton show up as well in Songwriter, appearing as…the band. Rodeo Rocky is played by Richard C. Sarafian, best known around these parts as the director of the supercreepy “Living Doll” episode of The Twilight Zone, while the film’s actual director, Alan Rudolph, is an Altman disciple who’d again work with Kristofferson in Trouble in Mind.

The music, written by Nelson and Kristofferson, is damn good. “Who’ll Buy My Memories,” shows up, as does Kristofferson’s “Under the Gun.” Songwriter will never make any AFI “Best Of” lists. But when it comes to films starring musicians, it’s not half bad, thanks to the many charms and musical talents of Willie and Kris Kristofferson, who was nominated for an Oscar in the Best Original Song Score category. There are worse ways to spend 90 minutes…like listening to Countryman on a loop.

Making a movie about a man like Jerry Lee Lewis is pretty much a no-brainer. He did more before the age of 30 than most do in an entire life, recorded some of American music’s greatest works to date, and had a pretty salacious personal life. Great Balls of Fire, released in 1989, is based on the tell-all book of the same name written by Wife #3, Myra Lewis. The book is still on my lengthy to-read list, so I’m going to hold out hope that it’s better than the film.

The music itself takes a backseat in Great Balls of Fire, even though “The Killer Himself,” as he’s credited, rerecorded his most famous Rock & Roll songs for the movie (the film ends before Jerry Lee begins recording country music in the ’60s, though you do get to hear his version of “Crazy Arms”). There’s one nice moment where Lewis hears Roy Hall’s “Whole Lotta Shakin’ Going On” sung by a woman in a blues club and the film then cuts to Lewis’ performance of the song. It’s a shame that a movie about one of Rock & Roll’s greatest musicians has so little music—though it does have a choreographed dance scene when Jerry Lee picks up his child bride from school.

The best part of Great Balls of Fire is its stars. Punk rocker/country singer/Celluloid Country favorite John Doe plays Lewis’ bass player/cousin/father-in-law JW, while Alec Baldwin does a fine job as another one of Lewis’ cousins, the preacher Jimmy Swaggart. Winona Ryder, then 18 years old and straight off of cult film classic Heathers, plays a lovestruck 13-year old Myra. Dennis Quaid does the best he can, but Lewis is a pretty complex character, and Quaid isn’t given much of an opportunity to explore Lewis’ depths. Quaid does well with the “gum chomping, cocky bastard with ferocious stage presence” Jerry Lee, and many of the shortcomings of his character can be equally attributed to the script, which is shallow, poorly written, and not entirely sure whether it wants to be a drama with the occasional funny moment, or a comedy with a few serious scenes.

Great Balls of Fire does a pretty decent job of covering the scandal that torpedoed Lewis’ career when, on his first overseas tour, the British press found out about his teenage wife, and done properly, a Lewis biopic would be a wonderful film (and probably about four hours long, in order incorporate all of his various trials and tribulations).

But this movie is just a mess. It glosses over some of the most important, interesting, and movie-worthy moments in the Killer’s life: his first two marriages, the time spent paying his dues in various Louisiana juke joints, and his long struggle between God’s word and the devil’s music (Lewis was kicked out of bible college for playing a Rock & Roll version of “My God is Real;” however, the recent A Half Century of Hits box set features a track entitled “Religious Discussion,” which gives a look into Lewis’ views on religion as he debates with Sam Phillips.).

If you want a warts-and-all look into the life of Jerry Lee Lewis, pick up a copy of Nick Tosches’ stunning book Hellfire (1982). Painstakingly researched and beautifully written, it reads like an enthralling novel, almost Faulknerian in scope and prose style. Plus it starts with an epigraph from Jonathan Edwards’ “Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God,” just in case your life was lacking some 17th century Puritanism. Or just get yourself a handful of Jerry Lee Lewis albums. Whether he’s singing country or rock & roll, you can learn a whole lot about Jerry Lee just by listening to him sing and play like a man possessed.

Rip Torn stars as Maury Dann, a B-list country singer and A-list scumbag. He’s all class onstage and gladhanding fans, but when the spotlight’s off, he’s guzzling Wild Turkey, popping pills, and banging barely legals. Torn, who discerning viewers may recognize as 30 Rock’s Don Geiss, and/or That Guy Who Beat The Crap Out of Norman Mailer, delivers a stunning performance in his role as Dann, a slowly destructing egomaniac who uses everyone in arm’s reach, hence the slogan on the original Payday poster: “If you can’t smoke it, drink it, spend it, or love it…forget it.”

And that’s pretty much what the film’s about. Dann smokes, drinks, spends, and loves while he’s on the road between gigs (the film only shows one performance, and it’s the first scene). He stops in to see his ailing, despairing mama…only to shut her up with a random handful of pills from his guitar case. He doesn’t spare a thought for his so-called friends and employees; the movie implies that numerous band members have either quit or been fired, and when Dann kills a man, he gets his driver, Chicago, to take the fall. And let’s not forget how he dumps a groupie on the side of the road with a wad of cash…only to take said cash back because she hasn’t “[earned] it.”

The moral of the story: despite what we’ve learned in previous Celluloid Country installments, not all country musicians are boy next door types who just happen to anonymously happen upon some chick’s ranch or a haunted mansion. Sometimes they are straight up rotten, but you still sort of root for and loathe them at the same time, thanks to Torn’s multifaceted, polyester clad performance.

When it comes right down to it, Payday is probably the dudeliest country music film we’ve covered—perhaps the dudeliest country music film in existence. Not to perpetuate gender stereotypes, but it sure seems like every scene was written to maximize its Dude Movie potential (other Dude Movies: Roadhouse and anything starring Steve McQueen). This actually makes for a pretty excellent viewing experience as Maury gets into a fistfight with a band member over a hunting dog, sleeps with a SHeDAISY-sized group of young women, and stabs a guy in the parking lot–all in the span of approximately 48 hours. No wonder he gobbles amphetamines like they’re Skittles; I’m exhausted just writing about all of Maury’s exploits.

Though the film is more of a character study than a country music movie with a linear plot and climactic performance a la Pure Country or Rhinestone, there are some decent songs in Payday, including four penned by Shel Silverstein as well as an Ian & Sylvia track. The final scene, which juxtaposes the Carter Family’s “Keep on the Sunny Side” with a horrific, violent ending, is by far the best use of music I’ve seen in any Celluloid Country movie to date. Granted, that’s not saying much, but just trust me: it’s a good ending. It does, however, leave one burning question: just which—if any—country outlaw is Payday based upon?

Dolly Parton plays Shirlee Kenyon, a thrice-married dance instructor from Flat River, Arkansas. She quickly gets fired for too much time helping “stupid customers with their stupid problems.” But for all her advice-giving, this physician can’t heal herself: She goes home to her lazy, beer-guzzling boyfriend (the best friend of the dude Shirlee married three times). And someone who’s hard up for cash probably shouldn’t be flinging coins off bridges on a daily basis in order to make wishes.

So she decides to head for Chicago with a purse full of cash and her boyfriend’s bowling bag in a montage set to “Light of a Clear Blue Morning.”

Speaking of montages, I hope you like them–because there’s more where that came from. Finally, Shirlee arrives in Chicago. But oh no! While stupidly throwing another coin off a bridge, the wind takes her $20 bills with it. Shirlee and her spike heels then stupidly clamber over the rail to retrieve her money. Struggling newspaper reporter Jack Russell (no, seriously–that’s his name) observes this and mistakes it for a suicide attempt, so he freaks out and rushes over to “save” her. What’s the big deal, Jack? She’s got some excellent flotation devices.

Shirlee shrugs off Jack’s rescue attempt and heads on over to a diner where she butts into some girl’s (played by a frumpy Teri Hatcher) business with some admittedly pretty good advice about her workaholic boyfriend, who turns out to be none other than one Jack Russell.

Shirlee continues to be a nosy parker and Jack continues to be kind of a jerk until Teri Hatcher storms off. Then Shirlee steals Teri Hatcher’s breakfast, which is kind of awesome until you look at Desperate Housewives Teri Hatcher and realize that the woman could use a good meal or seven.

Time for another musical montage! This one features Shirlee’s job hunt, set to “Dirty Job.” But it turns out that in Chicago, nobody wants a dancer who keeps her clothes on. Shirlee finally gets work as a receptionist at talk radio station WNDY and, through some more wacky movie coincidences, finds herself filling in for radio shrink Dr. Kendall, who’s failed to show for her first day of work (or any day of work it seems, because the character of Dr. Kendall is dropped like Jessica Simpson from a record label).

But nobody cares about Kendall, because “Doctor” Shirlee Kenyon is a big hit, which we see in, yep, another montage. Turns out that the denizens of the City of the Big Shoulders love Shirlee, who doles out wisdom in the form of folksy aphorisms like a busty combination of Confucius, Oprah, and Jesus.

Jack, sensing something a little off, decides to secretly investigate Shirlee in hopes of ending his journalistic slump. And in a plot twist seen by, well, everyone, the two end up falling for one another. But what happens when Doctor Shirlee’s past—and total lack of qualifications—comes to light? Spoiler Alert: There’s a happy ending. And some more musical montages.

There’s a couple superexcellent things about this movie that grant it guilty pleasure status. First is, of course, Dolly and her music. Second is the rest of the cast. In addition to Teri Hatcher and James Woods (Jack Russell), Spalding Gray, Jerry Orbach, Michael Madsen, and Paul Dinello (Strangers with Candy) all make appearances. Overall, Straight Talk is a movie with a whole lotta charm and a couple laugh out loud moments, thanks in part to Shirlee’s advice (to a martyriffic caller: “Get down off the cross, honey; somebody needs the wood.”). It’s no Coal Miner’s Daughter, but it’s certainly no Beer for My Horses either.

Hillbillys in a Haunted House stars Ferlin Husky as ultra-manly country star Woody Wetherby, while American Country Countdown radio host Don Bowman portrays Woody’s business manager, Jeepers. Joi Lansing (most memorable in her recurring role as Gladys Flatt on The Beverly Hillbillies) is girl singer Boots Malone, although based upon the truly impressive bullet bra she sports throughout the film, her name is off by one letter.

Anyway, the three are traveling to Nashville so that Woody and Boots can perform in a jamboree. And what a better way to pass the time than singing a song about how they’re going to Nashville? They decide to stop for the night in the generically named Acme City. It’s a bona fide ghost town; all the inhabitants have relocated to the big city in search of factory work. Talking to a filling station attendant, the trio learns that the only place to stay is the abandoned Beauregard Mansion. In the middle of this conversation, lightning dramatically crackles in the night sky…and then the scene returns to mid-afternoon sunlight. No one says anything about this three-second eclipse. As Boots, Woody and Jeepers drive off to the mansion, the attendant realizes he forgot to tell them the mansion is haunted. Oops!

So now they’re in the abandoned mansion, and Jeepers—totally the Shaggy in this live-action Scooby Doo ripoff—is terrified by every little noise. But when he gets scared, Woody serenades him with “Living in a Trance.” one look at the song lyrics makes me wonder about the strictly business nature of the Jeepers/Woody partnership.

Boring stuff happens, and eventually we learn that the house isn’t abandoned, but is filled with a host of inept Cold War spies—including Lon Chaney, Jr.—trying to steal a secret formula for rocket fuel (Acme City may be a ghost town, but it’s also home to a state of the art laboratory). For some reason these spies have a caged gorilla in their spy lab; I have no idea what this has to do with rocket fuel, but when the gorilla escapes, wackiness ensues.

Hands down the best part of the film is the parade of guest stars. A very young Merle Haggard shows up twice, singing “Swinging Doors;” other country singers with cameo roles include Marcella Wright, Molly Bee, and Sonny James. Sure, it’s a little weird when the plot comes to a screeching halt so that one of these stars can sing, but it’s such a treat to see these artists sing, especially Haggard and Husky.

So if for some reason you must see this movie, don’t worry—for each awful and improbable plot point, there’s a country song to take your mind off it.

Hooray, former colonies of Britain!

If, as music scholar Bill Malone writes in Southern Music, American Music, the poverty, disenfranchisement, deprivation and cultural isolation of the American South is part of what gave Southern music its special character, then it would seem to be likely that Australia—struggling with the same—would have some music with comparable character. It can’t all be Savage Garden and Andy Gibb, right?

Indeed, Australia has a well-developed country music scene; from Slim Dusty to Kasey Chambers, country music in Australia is not only surviving, but thriving. 1997’s Doing Time for Patsy Cline may not feature an actual country music star like the other movies we’ve featured in Celluloid Country, but its presence is almost tangible throughout the film.

Matt Day (Muriel’s Wedding) is Ralph Smith, a 17-year old outback boy who dreams of country music stardom in his own personal Mecca, Nashville. As he prepares to leave his parents’ sheep farm, his father offers this bit of advice: don’t bring back a girl with slim hips. Why? To prevent childbirthing fatalities since the farm is so far away from a hospital.

With this bit of wisdom ringing in his mind, Ralph sets out hitchhiking, trying to get to Sydney so he can hop a plane to the States. A couple named Boyd and Patsy–named after the singer, of course–picks him up, and the three continue on their way. Ralph quickly falls for fellow country music lover Patsy (played by Miranda Otto of The Lord of the Rings trilogy), though he’s not too wild about her scumbag boyfriend.

Ralph’s views about Boyd are vindicated when they are pulled over and arrested for amphetamine possession. While Patsy escapes, the two guys wind up in the slammer–hence the film’s title, Doing Time for Patsy Cline.

Here’s where things get wacky. The movie starts playing with reality, cutting the prison scenes with an alternate storyline in which Ralph and Patsy hit it big in late ’90s Nashville despite their lame-o song and garish, fringe-y cowboy outfits that haven’t been worn since The Porter Wagoner Show was on television. Is it real, or simply the fantasy of a marginally-talented bumpkin? You’ll have to wait 90 long, incredibly boring minutes to find out.

This is not a good film. However, it did win several awards, mostly for musical score. Indeed, the music is the best part of the film; songs include “Midnight Special,” “Sweet Old World,” “Boulder to Birmingham,” and “Dead Red Roses,” an original written for the movie (it’s Ralph and Patsy’s smash hit, and does in fact sound like a number of 1990s one hit wonders).

The film is a neat look into not only the music of Australia, but its prison system as well. Did you know that if you’re in an Australian prison, you apparently get to keep your guitar and your bitchin’ cowboy hat and jam with the dudes in the cell next to you, all of whom have mandolins, harmonicas, and drum brushes? Oh, and apparently there’s an annual line dancing festival next door to the jail.

Doing Time for Patsy Cline is not the most realistic–or the most enjoyable–country music film ever made, and if you’re looking for good Australian country music, you’re better off starting with the albums of ’50s singer Slim Dusty and working your way up to current Australian country stars Catherine Britt and Adam Harvey.

Here Nelson plays the alliteratively named Buck Bonham, a goodtime country musician who tours the nation in a school bus painted to resemble the Texas flag. Buck’s got a wife, Viv, (played by Dyan Cannon and the world’s supply of AquaNet) and a kid who’d like him to stay home, but his heart is with the road, making music with his friends, and apparently wearing a vast collection of headbands. But when bandmate Garland Ramsey decides to retire from life on the road, he’s replaced by his daughter Lily who temporarily fills in as the band’s guitarist. Buck begins falling for Lily–some 25 years his junior and his best friend’s kid, to boot–and when Viv surprises her husband at a show and sees the two sing, then kiss, onstage, things get depressing right quick. But have no fear: everything gets wrapped up nicely when the married couple duets on “Uncloudy Day” before a crowd of drunken mulletheads at Garland’s music festival.

Okay, so her husband’s an adulterous rambler, but if anything, Viv should have been more worried about Buck getting Single White Female-d by Lily: during the concert scene where she confronts her husband, Buck and Lily are sporting matching pigtails, and the two seem to have the exact same wardrobe, right down to the skintight blue jeans. At the very least, a bunny boiling scene would have perked this tired romance plot right up.

Slim Pickens (Blazing Saddles, Dr. Strangelove) is a blast to watch as Garland Ramsey; he steals every scene he’s in. Personally, I’d have liked the film a lot more had they stretched the scene of Buck and Garland in Mexico out for about two more hours as the two wrestle over a pistol, drink a few bottles of tequila, and then drive the Texas bus back to the States. But I guess Garlandsuckle Rose just doesn’t have the same ring to it, and buddy comedies weren’t selling that year.

Broadway star Amy Irving stuns as Lily–but not in the good way. Irving actually won the Worst Supporting Actress award at the inaugural Razzies in 1981, which, for those of you who haven’t seen Honeysuckle Rose, should give you a decent idea of how painfully awkward her performance is. Considering she and Willie began dating during the filming of this movie, one would think her scenes with him would be a little less stilted, but no. Willie Nelson is a great actor here, mostly because he’s basically playing himself. Buck Bonham opens his shows with “Whiskey River,” plays Trigger, Willie’s famous holey guitar, and shares Willie’s love of golf. Really, the only difference between the two is that it takes Buck almost half the film to finally toke up.

As is often the case with movies by or about country music, the best part of the film is its soundtrack. Most importantly, Honeysuckle Rose is the film that led to Nelson writing “On the Road Again,” one of his best-loved signature songs. Aside from Nelson’s excellent music, the soundtrack also boasts numbers by Hank Cochran, fiddler Johnny Gimble, and Emmylou Harris (who appears in the film as herself). Even Dyan Cannon takes a turn, not sounding half bad on “Two Sides to Every Story.”

The plot is predicable and the jokes are lame, but as far as being entertained by Willie Nelson, there are worse ways to spend a couple hours…like watching The Dukes of Hazzard.

Strait takes on the starring role of the film as Dusty Wyatt Chandler, a country megastar from his carefully manicured stubble to his snakeskin boots. He delivers a show packed with special effects and loud noises to sold out arenas thanks to the machinations of cougar/manager Lula, who seems to make a habit of nabbing young musicians and making them famous, including her current project, roadie Buddy Jackson.

In the middle of a concert, Dusty decides he’s had enough of the fancy, choreographed stage show Lula has put together. Thus, he heads off to go rediscover his roots thanks to the Yoda-like advice of the elderly Southern grandmother straight from Central Casting. On his journey, he manages to meet a spunky barrel racer named Harley Tucker who is struggling to keep her family’s ranch from being sold. Harley will be competing in a Vegas rodeo, which (thankfully) is on the same day as Dusty’s Vegas concert.

Clean shaven Dusty introduces himself to Harley as “Wyatt,” and thanks to contrivances which only happen in movies, ends up staying at the Tucker ranch. Harley is apparently also as dumb the barrels she rides around, because beside frequenting country bars with omnipresent jukeboxes and hearing “Wyatt” singing on the ranch, she still has no clue as to his real identity until the movie’s final scene, in which Dusty sings a song about eternal love to the woman he has known for maybe a week.

The ranch is saved, Buddy Jackson gets run out of country music, Dusty and Harley reunite with a chaste hug, and the movie ends without denouement and everybody is happy, except maybe the fans who expected an ostentatious Vegas show and got Dusty singing to his girlfriend.

The character of Dusty appears to share much of his everyman personality with Strait, but on camera Strait just appears uncomfortable and outside of his element. This makes sense when Dusty is caught up in the glitz of enormous stage shows, but when he’s back on the ranch, Strait’s lack of acting chops are made painfully obvious. It makes me wonder why someone else wasn’t cast; a good voice can only go so far on film.

Aside from Strait, it’s nice to see a few familiar faces on screen. The role of longtime friend and drummer Earl Blackstock is filled by John Doe of seminal punk band X. The rest of Dusty’s musicians are the members of Strait’s Ace in the Hole Band. Sleazy roadie Buddy Jackson is ably played by current television star Kyle Chandler (Friday Night Lights), though the script doesn’t give him much to do other than look cute and be Dusty’s conniving yet dimwitted antagonist.

The real value of Pure Country comes not in the script, but in the soundtrack. “Heartland” and “I Cross My Heart” both went to Number One on the charts, while “The King of Broken Hearts” has been wonderfully covered by Mark Chesnutt on 1995 album Wings and more recently Lee Ann Womack on 2008’s Call Me Crazy. The soundtrack is also one of the most successful albums of Strait’s career, selling over six million copies. Unfortunately the movie had to come along with it.

If anything, Pure Country teaches us that the struggle between bombastic stage shows and musical purity is one that’s been around for quite some time and isn’t vanishing any time soon. Far too many up and coming young artists are choosing the former at the expense of the latter, making Pure Country equal parts mindless entertainment and pointed warning that sadly is going unheeded.

As far as country music films go, Sweet Dreams is a good one despite its inaccuracies and thanks to above average acting. Jessica Lange aptly resembles Cline, though not to the extent that Beverley D’Angelo does in her role as Cline in Coal Miner’s Daughter. Still, the hair, makeup and wardrobe are spot-on, even if the homemade cowgirl outfits Cline wore in the beginning of her career are nowhere to be seen.

Of course, all the fancy clothing in the world can’t make a leading lady sing like Patsy Cline, and although Lange lip-syncs her heart out, it’s painfully obvious and often distracting. Aside from this misstep, however, Lange is absolutely captivating as Cline, a role that earned her an Oscar nomination for Best Actress.

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Rhinestone starts with a musical montage showing New York City at night while Dolly Parton sings about how she’s just a country girl with the “Tennessee Homesick Blues.” Do you get the ironic juxtaposition of the city lights and Dolly’s down-home charm? DO YOU?! If not, don’t worry–the very unsubtle nature of this wacky city/country contrast will be seared into your brain by the end of the movie.

Anyway, it turns out Dolly is actually Jake, a good ol’ gal gigging at a country bar (The Rhinestone) while she’s stuck under the thumb of her lecherous, kimono-wearing Svengali manager, Freddie (Ron Lieman). Long story short, a contrived argument turns into a wager in which Jake has two weeks to turn an Average Joe into a country singer in order to get out of her contract. If she fails, creepy Freddie gets to sleep with her.

Who should show up at that very moment but one Nick Martinelli (Stallone), the most stereotypical New York cabbie ever. (A horrible driver, he lives above his parents’ funeral home, where he eats a lot of spaghetti.) Nick (of course) agrees to this stupid bet, and thus becomes the Eliza Doolittle to Jake’s sassy Henry Higgins.

After some non-witty non-banter, the gruesome twosome head down to Jake’s hometown of Leipers Fork, Tennessee, a backwoods town that makes Aintry, Georgia look like Paris. In order to make Nick a bona fide country singer, Jake and her father (Richard Farnsworth, seriously slumming it after appearing in films such as Gone With the Wind and Blazing Saddles) teach him all those things a country boy needs to know: horseback ridin’, hillbilly dancin’, country eatin’, and other folksy, “g”-less gerunds.

In the world of Rhinestone, all you need to be a country singer is new clothes, some folksy aphorisms, and a few days below the Mason-Dixon. Art imitating life, or vice versa? You be the judge.

Things are looking up for Nick when he makes friends with Bennett Cole, a vaguely homeless-looking barfly who turns out to sing country music in the town’s only bar. But wait—it turns out that Bennett is Jake’s ex-fiancé. How unexpected.

Nick and Jake eventually sleep together in her daddy’s house, and shortly thereafter they go back to New York and have to deal with gross Freddie and the stupid bet. Trouble ensues. I don’t want to spoil this cinematic masterpiece, but I will say that this is the type of trouble that apparently can only be solved by Nick riding a horse through the streets of New York.

It all leads up to Nick’s big debut at The Rhinestone, a scene that is worth watching if only for the absolutely bonkers “country” attire worn by Stallone. There are drag queens running sequinless around New York City to this day because of Nick’s selfishness. Remember that pinhole camera you made in second grade in order to watch a solar eclipse? You best find it, lest you hold The 9513 responsible for any retinal scarring that may occur.

Nick gets onstage to sing, and you can probably imagine the rest, because not one iota of this film deviated from the standard romantic comedy about two opposites and their antagonistic relationship that eventually blossoms into true love.

But on to the good parts. Well, good part. Dolly Parton’s music. Parton wrote all of the project’s music—here she’s credited as a Music Supervisor along with Mike Post, he of NYPD Blue and Law & Order fame—and like several of her other films, the sole redeeming quality of the movie is her singing. When she duets with Nick, Stallone’s guttural hollers are (thankfully) completely overshadowed. The moments where Stallone has to tackle Parton’s lyrics solo (the admittedly abysmal “Drunkenstein,” a song which I believe was written to be intentionally bad, because there can be no other explanation for this misstep) are sung with all the charisma of a dying moose.