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Jeanie Finlay’s affectionate film would have benefited from an infusion of Jack Black. There are energy junkies and boppers amongst the clientele, loners with tattoos, old blokes who buy Meat Loaf and suicidal teenagers (“Who are you?” “General delinquents”) with a pash for heavy metal, but the atmosphere in the store is sensitive to eccentricity and doesn’t make waves.
There is nothing particularly special about the shop, other than it is run by someone who loves his job and is good at it. What holds your attention are the people. Excepting one-off dabblers, looking for pre-Ziggy Stardust, or trying to flog stolen goods, these habitues are serious collectors. They live in bare rooms with a chair and a record player and stacks of albums. Their fingers play air guitar, their faces locked into a twisted mask. You get the feeling that their social lives are limited to Sound It Out and their rooms.
Beyond the wierdness of having a music deck and disco in your mum’s shed is the sense of loss, connected to the North East, shops closing, the High Street for sale, empty boulevards like the pale ghosts of industrial decay and because of it, perhaps, a closeness that comes with shared deprivation. Unlike the Home Counties, where dress codes are manditary, Stockton, as portrayed by those who frequent Sound It Out, is uncritical of sartorial misrule.
It is too easy to dismiss vinyl junkies as saddos. “It’s all about emotions and memories,” says the shop’s owner. “If it wasn’t for music, I wouldn’t be here,” says the chubby-faced teenager with the torn jeans who has tried to top himself twice already. You can melt records down and mould them into the shape of a coffin. Shane, who spent his childhood being called a spazza and now talks with authority about the medication he needs to retain his job as a shelf stacker, is planning on doing that.
Ninety-nine per cent of Sound It Out’s customers are guys. “They don’t want to grow up.” What’s so clever about the chattering classes anyway, when you’ve got this?Everything that “In and Out” has to say about masculine behavior is encapsulated in a single dance scene with Kevin Kline, a scene in which Mr. Kline is pure bliss. There he is, dressed like Paul Bunyan and almost alone, except for a surreally meddlesome instructional tape that is trying to teach him what real men — Paul Bunyan men — do.
That subject has become a sore one for Howard Brackett, the high school teacher whom Mr. Kline plays with athletic poise and supreme comedic elegance, because his students, boss, mother and fiancee all think he’s gay. They think this because they have heard it, as have a billion or so others, on the Academy Awards show. As a character who started out as the real Tom Hanks of “Philadelphia” and is now a nice-guy Brad Pitt, Matt Dillon plays the Oscar winner who unwittingly yanks his favorite teacher out of the closet.
“In and Out,” which is not a film to wonder how the star learned his teacher’s secret or to associate gayness with actual , then offers Howard this inspired way to act out his confusion. “Stand straight and tall!” orders the tape, and Howard tries. “Excuse me, are we a little teapot?” the tape asks, when Howard accidentally crooks one hand on his hip.
“Repeat after me,” the tape continues: “Yo! Hot damn! What a fabulous window treatment! That was a trick!” And then, having battled with himself even more furiously than Jim Carrey did in “Liar Liar,” Howard can fight no more. He tears off the plaid flannel, strips down to a tight black T-shirt and lets himself go wild to a disco beat.
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This delirious sequence comes midway through a frequently funny but surprisingly strait-laced comedy, one that too often imagines as a taste for bow ties and a reverence for a certain movie queen. (Howard’s idea of fighting words: “She was too old for ‘Yentl!’ “) Even as written by the dependably hilarious Paul Rudnick, it has more than its share of mail-order Hollywood moments. Mr. Rudnick, writing as his alter ego Libby Gelman-Waxner in Premiere, would undoubtedly kvetch about the kind of finale that has everyone in the school auditorium (or restaurant, bathroom or bus) chiming in to comment on the main characters’ lives.
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