Mrs. Grunt

REMEMBER Francis the Talking Mule Joins the Army? Remember Abbott and Costello in Buck Privates? Or that lamebrained Martin and Lewis movie with the unforgettable musical number--"The navy gets the gravy/But the army gets the beans/Beans, beans, beans..."? These films, and a hundred like them, showed us that being trained to kill people in a brutally authoritarian institution could be fun, in fact, downright hilarious. Just when it seemed that Vietnam had bombed the service comedy into oblivion, Hollywood has chosen not only to revive the genre but to add an insipidly trendy twist by making the first supposedly feminist service comedy. Imagine a cross between Gomer Pyle, USMC and An Unmarried Woman. The result is Private Benjamin, a relentlessly stupid, dismal little movie.

Private Benjamin pretends to be about feminine consciousness and identity, about a woman "finding herself" in a man's world, but its silliness and simplicity insults all feminists, male and female. Judy Benjamin (Goldie Hawn) is an airhead. A Jewish American Princess, she's not funny and she's not cute; she'd not even pitiful--just plain dumb.

Of course, the film depicts Judy as the naive victim of a sexist society. Her ex-spouse ripped her off. Her dad pushes her around. Her second husband, a horny, gray-haired fool, paws her constantly and, on their wedding night, cajoles her into making love on the bathroom floor. At the exact moment of his premature ejaculation, he has a heart attack and dies on top of Judy. It's like visualizing a bad Rodney Dangerfield joke and recognizing its ugly failure.

Poor Judy, widowed and alone in a world where she's "never not belonged to anyone" seeks advice on a radio call-in show. A strong, soothing voice comes over the air waves saying "What you need is guidance, security, good friends, and a good healthy dose of self-confidence." She meets the owner of the strong, soothing voice, a poker-faced Army recruiter, and believes him when he tells her that joining the Army means living in a Monterey condominium and sailing a yacht. He also assures her that the Army is no longer sexist: "This is the Army of the eighties. Any jobs that men hold can be jobs for the ladies, too. Even trained killers, stuff like that."

Judy happily signs away her freedom to Uncle Sam and the irony gets so thick you could cut it with a bayonet. The makers of Private Benjamin don't seem to realize that the military replaces marriage as the oppressive force in Judy's life. She swears to honor and obey the Army just as she made those same vows to her two husbands. Instead of mistreatment from someone she loves, Judy receives abuse--physical and mental--from a bunch of strangers in green uniforms. She's shoved, almost head-first, out of a bus; she's pummeled by a soldier who steals her blanket; she's savagely tossed out of bed; she's forced to clean toilets with her toothbrush. When her condescending, over-protective parents arrive to rescue her from the base, Judy, confronted with the choice of being treated like a baby or being treated like a piece of crap, opts for the latter. She sincerely believes that by remaining in an institution that denies her any individuality or free will, she can gain some sense of identity. Her ridiculous transformation begins ; before long she's a spit-and-polish fighter, marching proudly, singing "I'm not afraid to die." She begins signing her letters "Private B." No name, just her rank. She hasn't found her identity, the Army has consumed it.

This is indeed the Army of the eighties, though, with the stereotypical personalities of all the old service comedies transplanted into new bodies. The ferocious drill sergeant is Black; the macho commanding officer and the hard-bitten, street-smart ex-con are female. And as well as turning boys into men, the New Army turns girls into women. We know Private Benjamin has become a real woman because she has her first orgasm ("Now I know what it is I've been faking all these years!") with a French gynecologist she picks up while on leave.

DIRECTOR HOWARD ZIEFF used to make television commercials--it shows. Private Benjamin is shot with all the style and imagination of a thirty-second corn flakes ad. The script by Nancy Meyers, Charles Shyer and Harvey Miller is a masterpiece of banality. Everytime Private Benjamin prepares to turn in, another banal plot development rears its ugly head--and Henri, the French gynecologist, has the ugliest head of all. After transferring to France to be near him, Judy must decide between Henri and the Army.

Here the film's inconsistency and narrow-mindedness become more disturbing than silly. If the Army has given Judy such fulfillment and wisdom, why does she unhesitatingly reject it? She moves in with her lover, runs his household for him, dyes her hair a hideous orange at his behest, and dutifully mops up his dog's urine.

Despite all of Judy's domestic doting, Henri soon follows the behavioral pattern of every male in Private Benjamin, beginning with Judy's nebbishy, over-sexed bridegroom who seems like a nice enough guy until, in the middle of their gala wedding reception, he drags her outside and begs for fellatio. Then there's Judy's father, whom we first see presenting the newlyweds with a generous check; yet, in minutes, he commands his daughter to bring him cigarettes and ignores her to watch TV. And Col. Thornbush: at first, a firm but kind father figure who makes Judy his protege--then tries to rape her. Henri, the loving and compassionate Renaissance man becomes--like all other men--an insensitive, abusive monster. As he places the wedding band on Judy's finger she looks into his face and sees her dead husband, her father, Col. Thornbush and the revelation strikes her: all men are the same! She calls off the wedding; when Henri tries to stop her, she decks him with a mean right hook she learned in basic training.

As a stirring drumroll rises on the soundtrack, Judy Benjamin heads down a long tree-lined road, alone. She seems to have made a definite decision, but what is it? Where will she go? Back to the Army? For all her superficial self-confidence, she's the same directionless ninny she was at the beginning of the movie.

Goldie Hawn might have saved Private Benjamin but she fails miserably. She looks foolish, mugging and whining like Lucille Ball. In the past, Hawn has given warmth and a glimmer of intelligence to the many poorly written characters she's portrayed. But Judy Benjamin, who gives painfully new meaning to the word shallow, renders Hawn helpless. One can only hope that Private Benjamin won't start a new wave of contemporary service comedies. The world's not yet ready for Francis the Talking Mule Goes to Afghanistan.