Only now does it occur to me... TELL ME THAT YOU LOVE ME, JUNIE MOON (1970)

Only now does it occur to me... that TELL ME THAT YOU LOVE ME, JUNIE MOON is not what it appears to be. I'd been told that this, one of the final films Otto Preminger made before he died, was merely mediocre. They didn't tell me that it was batshit insane, a gloriously sincere queer melodrama starring Liza Minnelli that occasionally feels like John Waters made a Hammer horror flick. Am I goin' too fast for ya? 

So Liza plays Junie Moon, a withdrawn good girl making her way in the world, when a date goes horribly wrong––and I mean horribly wrong. First her date orders her to strip in a cemetery, which is sort of a red flag.

And it would all be very Hammer horror/Roger Corman faux-Poe-Gothic if it wasn't for the music––it's scored with the similar kind of POW! BANG! big-band music they use whenever Batman and Robin get in a fistfight in the 1960s series. Hey, I don't know, man.

Then things really take a turn at the junkyard, where he knocks Liza down and pours battery acid on her face...

 

I'll have you know that absolutely nothing motivates these events except for maybe a heightened, post-Tennessee Williams dedication to lurid melodrama.

With her face half-scarred, Liza spends time at a sanitarium [please, for sensitivity's sake, make no references to her collaboration with the Pet Shop Boys, "(I Think I'm) Losing My Mind"]

where she gains a wheelchair-using gay bestie (played by the legendary Broadway director of THE BOYS IN THE BAND and DEATHTRAP, Robert Moore).

He lends the film an amazing, manic energy and a propulsive heartbeat, like he stumbled out of an Armistead Maupin novel. Liza also befriends a troubled and seizure-prone young man and possible love interest (Ken Howard), and the trio make their way to a rented house, trying to prove they can make it on their own.

Note Liza claiming she does not not know what to do with sequins

Along the way, we meet creepy-peeper neighbors who feel like they escaped from a Russ Meyer/John Waters flick, Liza develops a friendship with a tree-dwelling owl,

there are bizarro nightmare sequences with black & white makeup and a disorienting squashed screen effect,

what I swear is a Charles Bronson mannequin,

Prove me wrong––I dare you!

and holy shit, Fred Williamson––the Hammer himself!––as a workin' man and homoerotic foil named "Beach Boy,"

Williamson fans will note that there is also a CABARET-inspired gang in the plagiaristic-Italo-trashterpiece 1990: BRONX WARRIORS, which co-stars Williamson as "The Ogre"

and finally, an aging Kay Thompson (nightclub singer, Page Six standby, creator of the ELOISE book series, and godmother and eventual real-life roommate of Liza) shows up, strutting around like she's a socialite from a hag horror film (WHATEVER HAPPENED TO AUNTIE MAME?)

and generally acting like she owns the place.

Are you going to tell her otherwise?!?

It culminates in a warm-hearted road trip and journey of self-discovery––

and dammit if this ridiculous camp-fest doesn't have a big ol' heart, surrounded by genuine compassion and confidence. This movie is completely insane, completely sincere, and I enjoyed it on every level.