Shannen Doherty

I mentioned in February finding out that Shannen Doherty had terminal cancer, and now she's passed away. I mentioned it in my review of her 1992 erotic TV movie, Blindfold. I knew she was beautiful but, before that movie, I didn't know just how fun she was.

I was never a fan of 90210 but I did watch Mallrats over and over. That movie doesn't exactly showcase her too well--she's the dissatisfied girlfriend the whole time, that movie really belongs to Jason Lee. Last night I chose to honour her memory by watching Heathers, which I suppose is still widely considered her best work.

Though, like in Mallrats, hers really is a supporting role, though one with a bit more variance. I love the bit where she's at the funeral of Heather #1 and we hear her mental prayer about how she'd dreamed of killing the other Heather so many times and considers her death a sign from God that she'd been thinking on the right track.

I read on Wikipedia the film's screenwriter originally intended it for Stanley Kubrick, that it was inspired by Dr. Strangelove. And, yeah, it is that kind of tone of satire. I read an article in the past couple years about how Heathers hasn't aged well, that its humour about school shootings and suicide and bullying is too much about things that are real problems in our world. I would say, that actually means the movie has aged well. The shallow, narcissistic gestures taken in the wake of the apparent suicides are a potent reflection of how violence and tragedy are routinely co-opted by the media to-day. I mean, the murder of the first Heather basically becomes a P.R. triumph for her. Shades of Donald Trump?

The movie's taken some flack for its resemblance to 1976's Massacre at Central High, though that movie is much more of an allegory and lacks the effective satirical elements of Heathers.

Anyway, here's to you, Shannen Doherty.

X Sonnet #1863

No chomping chain could hold the mouth from tongues.
Deserving drinks were dumped above the skull.
A thorny op'ra burst the tumble lungs.
But ramb'ling on, the marble traced the bowl.
The lucky luckless day has shot to years.
With iron shorts, the biggest boy advanced.
The sun delivers racks of frothy beers.
With heedless glee, the drooling foxes danced.
A shaking dream invests a box with blood.
A step beyond reflection brought the fetch.
Distressed and drunk, the cattle dwelt in mud.
A secret red awaits the finest catch.
The ghost was green and never seen as real.
Eventually, the spirits cease to feel.