Unless you happen to be throwing a "big fat Greek wedding" that mainstream audiences want to attend, indie films made in Los Angeles rarely cut it (recent items like
Full Frontal and
Ivan's XTC come to mind). The latest evidence supporting the theory that the blockbuster/sitcom factory town is inimical to indies is
Secretary, the dreary, lumbering story of a mentally ill woman who somehow lands a typist's job with a lawyer and finds true love with him, thanks to their mutual thrill with sadomasochistic game play. The film's faux, drab retro look and its locus in a bland, timeless suburbia further alienates. What were they thinking here? Bare, bruised bottoms, masturbation sloppiness and worms in envelopes as perpetrated by the mentally challenged should not be among the most memorable moments in any film. In fact,
Secretary is strongest as a good argument for the L.A. Film Office being a little more selective in issuing permits to indies.