Blog From The Bench

I love Elvis movies. I'm not talking about movies starring Elvis. I mean the biopics, made for the small screen. From the 1979 John Carpenter/Kurt Russell telefilm, Elvis, in which the TV-shootin' King of Rock 'n' Roll is haunted by his stillborn twin Jesse Garon, to the 1988 'Cilla mini-series, Elvis and Me, I love 'em.

Why? I don't know.

It's got something to do with hillbilly chic: the spectacle of white trash with unprecedented fame and vast quantities of cash; the gossamer mix of drugs, philandering, temper tantrums, karate, paranoia, guns, peanut butter 'n' banana sandwiches, Cadillacs, redneck entourages, sequins, naugahyde, mutton chops, lip curl, and bloat. I can't get enough of E's fights with Vernon over money; his fights with Colonel Tom Parker over career; his adoration of Gladys; and his jealous protection of Priscilla. It's a treasure trove of bad taste, completely mesmerizing. John Waters couldn't invent this stuff. It makes Dawn Davenport's Yuletide rage over cha-cha heels look like Leave It to Beaver.

This Sunday will see the premiere of the latest incarnation of the great hillbilly mythos, unimaginatively titled Elvis. Randy Quaid as Colonel Tom Parker? Camryn Manheim as Gladys? Rose McGowan as Ann-Margrock, er, -Margret? The T-1000 as Vernon? I'm there. Yes, indeed, gentle readers, break out the artery-clogging comfort food. I'm there.