SpottieOttieDopalicious Reflections on Cinema

Kissing Jessica Stein

During the opening scene, which takes place in a synagogue, one already becomes sympathetic towards Jessica Stein (Jennifer Westfeldt), as she’s trapped between her mother and grandmother, who’re engaged in a brazen yet heated debate about Jessica’s love life—or rather lack thereof—during the middle of a sermon. [1]

The urgency of her plight intensifies after receiving a call at work from her brother who informs her that he’s relinquishing his player card: “I’m getting married!” he says speaking through a cell phone.  Jessica is not unhappy yet she’s hardly congratulatory either.  There seems to be no hope for this New York City newspaper copy editor whose shy and neurotic disposition stand out almost as much as her beauty. That is until she impulsively responds to a “woman seeking woman” ad (the sheer coincidence of the ad referencing a Rilke quote that Jessica lives by is what ultimately peaks her interest). 

The writer of the ad is none other than Helen Cooper (Heather Juergensen), an oversexed gallery manager (she’s between three relationships). Helen is equally as gorgeous as Jessica and witty, too.  On their first date, she coins a phrase/category called sexy ugly (the fact that Helen’s lexicon has yet to be co-opted on the same level as Erica Jong’s zipless fuck, or hip-hop’s bling bling, may prove my theory on how so few people have seen or even heard of KJS).  Due to Jessica’s rigid and mechanical approach to “making out”, the relationship is rocky for Helen at first [2] .

But Helen and Jessica eventually hit it off after weeks of negotiating how far they will

go.  In one scene, I’m reminded of what Neruda once said in a love sonnet to his wife, Matilde: “I wish to hunt the liquid measure of your steps.” Midway into the second act, the camera zooms in on Jessica’s hips as she struts down a hallway oblivious to the fact that she’s “workin’ her jelly” on her male co-workers leaving them, including her boss and ex-boyfriend, Josh Meyers (Scott Cohen, who gives a commanding performance), gawking with envy over who they assume to be the mystery dude responsible for putting the new glide in her stride.

The very fact that Jessica’s boss still subscribes to the notion that she’s hooking up with a dude—despite her casual confession in an earlier scene when she states, “Trust me, there’s no guy”—exposes a flaw, or rather phenomenon, of male fantasy that’s often overlooked in film. 

This phenomenon is illustrated in a scene when Jessica and Helen are being admired from afar by two guys at a restaurant.  The men eventually develop the courage to approach Jessica and Helen; however, any attempt to spit game on their part is impeded by Helen’s initial inquiry: (loosely paraphrasing here) “My friend and I were just having a conversation and we were wondering if it’s okay for two women to be together?” But what comes off sounding like the perfect icebreaker for two straight-males is actually a snare.  But it’s a safe snare: one that snags the hypocrisy of the guys’ positive response without divesting the guys of their dignity.

During this scene, Helen appears to be giving the two men limitless opportunities to free themselves from the trap, to rectify their premise.  But something extremely clever is happening: while she’s encouraging the men to divulge their fantasy, she discreetly engages them in it by pushing her hand up Jessica’s dress (this all takes place underneath the table).  Jessica suffers silently trying to quell the sensation of Helen’s touch.  But at one point it becomes so tender that she screams.  She and Helen excuse themselves convincing their company that the real stimulus triggering Jessica’s scream stems from the advent of a leg cramp not foreplay.

Herein lies the phenomenon of male fantasy: the way in which men can foam at the mouth over the sheer thought of two women touching, yet be simultaneously clueless as the fantasy both unfolds right under their noses and threatens to surface in full view.

The beauty of this critique is that it’s not didactic.  It is comical and cunning because it exposes an embarrassing flaw about males without making the males feel humiliated.  In the hands of poor screenwriters, Helen and Jessica would toss their drinks into the faces of these men, and storm out the restaurant shouting, “Men are pigs!” But the screenwriters, who’re also the female leads, understand the power of film: its ability to sidestep moralizing by offering critiques to its antagonists without the antagonists being bashed, bruised, scarred, or even killed.

I cringe whenever Hollywood releases a joint that depicts lesbians.  They’re stereotyped as either sociopaths with an insatiable appetite to carve a buck fifty into the flesh of any fool that crosses them, or as stalkers/sexual predators (the very carelessness of the former is what prompted lesbians to scoff at Pennsylvania-native Sharon Stone’s portrayal of Catherine Trammel, and boycott Basic Instinct by giving away the ending to anyone who’d listen). 

Though Jessica goes through great lengths to keep her relationship with Helen on-the- down-low, she hardly has any desire to “eighty-six” companions who threaten to uncover the real identity of her lover, or Helen for pressuring her to make their bond public. Jessica’s reason behind maintaining the anonymity of her lover does not correlate with a bourgeois attitude.  In other words, she’s not exploiting lesbianism, or Helen, in an effort to acquire cheap thrills [3] .  I believe that the reason for Jessica’s secrecy, which originally correlates with shame, is indicative of a startling reality: the fact that her feelings for Helen are indeed genuine.  And Helen’s attraction to Jessica is equally authentic.  Helen, who’s dated women in the past, does not perceive Jessica as merely a challenge or an innocent, phat piece of ass to be stalked and drugged. 

Because Kissing Jessica Stein highlights two straight-women that begin a lesbian affair, the uproar behind the film may cause some to initially furrow their eyebrows.  But after the final credits roll the uproar won’t crystallize in the form of an insurrection billowing around Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment (the studio that distributed KJS)—it will manifest into raucous laughter belting through foyers and through the walls of living areas and master bedrooms.

Jonathan Moody is a poet/cosmic funkateer who grew up in Ft. Walton Beach, FL.  He received his Bachelor’s in psychology from Xavier University of Louisiana.  Currently, Moody is an MFA candidate at the University of Pittsburgh. This is his first film review, marking the debut of his New Yinzer column entitled: “SpottieOttieDopalicious Reflections on Cinema”.