All in the Best POSSIBLE Taste!

All in the Best POSSIBLE Taste!

Those of a certain age will remember Kenny Everett’s outrageous creation, Cupid Stunt (and if you don’t, have a look on YouTube!) The catchphrase was that it’s all done in the best possible taste, though it was rather the opposite. If you don’t think the name is funny, you probably shouldn’t watch…

There’s a tendency to think that everything should be tasteful these days: Christmas lights should be fashionably of one colour, rather than the variegated sizes and shapes I remember from my childhood. And I want to make a case for tastelessness – not as the norm, but as an antidote to the Hyacinth Bucket tendency that the Daily Mail encourages. It’s a way of staying young at heart and flexible in thinking: a way to counter intellectual sclerosis.

In films, I have generally quite odd taste (I’m told) – everything Peter Greenaway has done fascinates me on the arty side: the high point of his work may well be Prospero’s Books, a version of The Tempest with every line spoken by Sir John Gielgud, and more nudity than you can shake a wardrobe of dressing gowns at. But sometimes the unarty has its place, too.



The Dutch director Paul Verhoven is not noted for his restraint in action movies, and I want to make a case for Showgirls, scripted by Joe Eszterhas (famous for Basic Instinct) being better than its status as winner of a record 7 Golden Raspberry Awards suggests. Set in Las Vegas, it follows the rise, fall and departure of a stripper, and includes a singularly unkind picture of the top end of Vegas shows and their backers. In the end, the despised heroine kicks seven kinds of brickdust out of a rock god who mistreated her friend, and leaves town. She’s gutsy, honest, and a good mate. Subsequently, the film has achieved cult status and been re-evaluated by some critics and film makers. Anyway, I like it.

Among photographic books, Bad Girls Hotel enjoys a similar cult status.

All the images were shot in the Carlton Arms Hotel in New York. The introduction to the book says ‘nobody in their right mind would ever stay there’ – though it doesn’t explain why. Apparently, it was popular with tourists. Currently, the rate is $80 a night for two guests. No room service, no TV, no elevator.

The big plus is that each of the tiny rooms was decorated by a different artist: and the artwork tends towards the brain-melting. Some might give you nightmares, others, sweet, sweet dreams. That would be a good reason to shoot there. With a wideangle lens: the rooms are around ten feet square.



And the girls. They are colourful, uninhibited, and often tattooed. They match the rooms, and often are juxtaposed with the decorations in a way that is completely different from Verushka’s playful painted nudes (something to look up there. I have the book, from a very long time ago).

Dancers, escorts, waitresses: and, apparently, the occasional medical student (I don’t know which one, sorry: but she’ll be established as a GP or registrar somewhere by now!) Every one is an extrovert, though some of them are quieter about it than others.



Coulter shot with a fisheye lens and corrected distortion in editing – this was in the relatively-early days of digital. The result is a book that lies confusingly between porn (where some of Coulter’s models normally work) and high art, with many subjects suffering from what Kathy Lette describes as ‘margarine legs’. You might not want to stay at the Carlton Arms: some of you might prefer not to know that the place exists. But if Lou Reed’s Walk on the Wild Side has a shady sexy vibe for you, you might want to look Coulter up. The books are out of print, and secondhand copies are rare, possibly expensive.

But beware of imitation… What works once, for one person, doesn’t work repeatedly, and may not work for anyone else. Coulter has a website, based on the success of Bad Girls Hotel and the earlier Crazy Babe. Mining the same seamy seam doesn’t work in the long term (I feel). Similarly, Showgirls came out in the same year as Strip Tease, from Carl Hiaasen’s book of the same name (which is funny in the extreme), with some similar themes. Trying hard to be heart-warming, while playing on having a wholesome star getting her kit off (Demi Moore in this case, as a single mother trying to keep it classy, rather than Elizabeth Berkley taking things way downmarket, who’d made her name in a family TV show), it failed, and with less aplomb than Verhoven’s film.