A lot of shit went down in 1997, the year AUSTIN POWERS came out: loungecore was the big vibe in downtown New York and my loungey clique was so 'hip' we made the cover of the New York Times style section; Faxy Brown was Thursdays; Weds was lounge night at Windows on the World (top floor of the World Trade Center); Friday was for tourists, man, so we stayed in and had ecstasy-fueled home gatherings; but the rest of the week was all feather boas and tuxedos; smoking everywhere but the elevator; Moby and Fancy and Molly who got rich as a dominatrix and moved right up to the big leagues... then... it all... changed. Ecstasy was no longer the drug of choice; cocaine was cheaper suddenly and widely available; swing dancing took over. Suddenly it wasn't about alcoholism, ecstasy, ennui and shopping anymore. It was about sleazy townies becoming suddenly popular with top shelf models because they brought coke, and worst of all, swing dancing.
I judge, not just because I was too dyslexic to learn swing dancing, but because the scene was never about syncopation or following some actual rhythm, man. It was about lack of principles. The term metrosexual was about to be coined just for us; Sex and the City was still just a column in some magazine; straight men kissed each other hello; everyone's face was stubbly with Party of 5-o-clock shadow. Absolutely Fabulous was our message in a bottle from Swinging London, and then AUSTIN POWERS. Formidable!
AUSTIN POWERS then, was a cultural zeitgeist/touchstone kind of hit, and that's too bad, because all the success went to Mike Meyers' head, just as it did Molly's and mine and all the rest who jumped on the cheap-cocaine train that officially kicked loungedelicness to the curb - not to mention 9/11 exploding of Windows on the World, and the first the smoking bans--in restaurants, then bars, then everywhere. I almost died on a massive ten day bender, watching AUSTIN over and over, and then I had an intervention and got sober.
It's a labor of love type of film, with no expectations of the status awaiting it, and Myers is most hilarious when he's operating low and off the cuff with no pressure to measure up to a previous hit (the bombing of I MARRIED AN AXE MURDERER in the wake of WAYNE'S WORLD, for example). Too much fame, pressure and money can do terrible things to one's sense of comic timing; all your friends are suddenly crowded out by sycophantic well-wishers and the elbowing entourages of celebrities all out for a bite of your zeitgeist. When it's gone, so are they, and all that's left is the sad jokes involving the accidental consumption of bodily fluids and solids, focusing big budget laser beam attention on the slack-jawed 6-7 year old easy mark in all of us.
But it was... baby.
Mike Meyers' instantly legendary character was as anachronistic as Don Quixote and just as enduring, yet he barely bothered to mine the riches of the conceit, instead dealing with Austin's slow integration into the social order, and ditto Dr. Evil (also Myers), who gets almost as much screen time and has his own problems, like a now-grown-to-surly-adulthood test tube son (Seth Green) and untidy underlings like the tragically named Number 2 (a game Robert Wagner).
Super sexy and attractively inhibited, Elizabeth Hurley never wastes a moment to get on our Austin's case, just like a typical late 1990s girlfriend weaned on 90210 and CNN. In one tragic scene, Austin has just demolished a whole squad of fembots, using nothing but the power of his shirtless mojo. Hurley (and mind you they've not yet had it off by this point in the film) finds him covered in blonde hair and bikini parts. Instantly, the most important thing for him is that she believes he was being faithful! FAITHFUL!!!! TO WHAT??? If I was the bad guy in THE WARRIORS I'd throw a handful of candy at her. But Austin just squirms in guilt and she smiles the smile of the cat who knows it has its mouse. "I believe you, Austin," she says, never once doubting the rightness of her own moral position as cocktease supremis. She hasn't even slept with him but demands ultimate fidelity.
It's a neat comment on the "unfun" 90s that Hurley's main job in life seems to be tampering down Austin's bon vivant playahood, raining on his parade, and making him like it by pure virtue of her inescapable hotness. This being the age of AIDS and ADD, it doesn't matter if he's just saved the entire freaking universe and danger is allegedly all around, it's only important that Hurley believes he's not had it off with a robot.
Bill, your balls are in the mail.
In the interest of science, I've defrosted one of my very first film reviews (from my forcibly discontinued but now reposted 1997 AOL web site, "Dr. Twilite's Neighborhood") to compare and contrast:
Finally, a movie that satirizes our collective nostalgia for the sixties. Mike Myers gets the giddy deliria down pat as Austin Powers, a sly London "mod" photographer/super spy. He also plays the villain, Dr. Evil, a sort of composite of the Ernst Stavros Blofeld and Myer's old SNL guru, Lorne Michaels. After a cataclysmic battle at a London nightclub, Dr. Evil escapes Power's clutches and cybergenetically freezes himself. Austin does the same, and soon they are both thawing out in the chill, no-fun nineties. It's an ingenious premise, and Myers has hung a variety of assorted gags around it, in addition of course, to the now required scatalogical humor.
Therein lies the only major problem with the picture. Compared to the non-stop zing of the NAKED GUN movies, Myer's own WAYNE'S WORLD, or even the real BOND series, AUSTIN sometimes meanders and drags, less a spy movie than a series of related skits ala SNL. But the skits are funny, Myers is always dead-on, and as Powers' "Bond girl", Elizabeth Hurley proves herself to be a very good comedic sport. The film may come off as being a bit stretched out here and there, but you have to admire Mike Myer's off-the wall lunatic originality, as well as his subtle message to all the retro types out there who dress for a time they never knew. As Dr. Evil so succinctly puts it: "There's nothing more pathetic than an aging hipster." (1999) ***
What?? Bitch please...in 1986 when you started dressing like you were from 1967, and then in 1997 when you dressed like you were in 20s Weimar Berlin. Erich of the past, be not smug (PS - I wrote this coda re-editing this post in 2012, so there you go, see you in the frozen HELL of the post-Mayan future!)