God bless the Mary who squealed, “I don’t believe this shit!” during the press screening of Cover, a film that purports—without a shred of artistry, wit, or compassion—to blow the lid on all the mens living on the DL in Philly’s tony African American community. The batshit craziest film any of us will see this year, it seems to have been made in reverence to the cultural writings of bell hooks, but Bill Duke’s latest doesn’t have a clue.
If Cover doesn’t attain the well-deserved status of a camp classic, only the straight-to-video aesthetic will be to blame. Ladies and gentleman, BET’s answer to Citizen Kane, beginning with frazzled housewife Valerie (Aunjanue Ellis) declaring, “I’m a Christian, not a murderer,” and recollecting for a mortified Detective Hicks (Louis Gossett Jr.) and embarrassingly overzealous D.A. Simmons (Clifton Davis) the events leading up to her hilarious interrogation.
Important to the filmmakers is how Valerie’s fingerprints ended up on the murder weapon, how she caught her husband with another man (gay doesn’t mean sucking cock here, only soaping up another man’s back), and the role that the twitchy woman in her church group plays in her salvation. Important to me, though, is how Patti LaBelle, bringing it to church in one of the un-churchiest church scenes you will ever see, makes a case for why a gay man should be part of her support group for women with problems with cheating partners, only to then say to Miss Thing, “My son Randy just came out of the closet, do you know him?”
Also close to my heart is how a clueless white person is hidden in the background of every scene (certainly a recipe for a drinking game), how Vivica A. Fox’s performance suggests a say-no-drugs advert, how Mya—oh my God—gets HIV, how Valerie’s sojourn to room 3118 inside a Philly hotel tries to be scarier than John Cusack’s trip to room 1408, how Roger Guenveur Smith tries to do Al Pacino by way of Thurston Howell III, how every man in the film macks on other men the same exact way (something about dust being caught in one’s eye), and how I will never hear the words “get on your knees” again without thinking of Valerie waving a wooden cross in my face. Lionel Ritchie’s corny-as-shit “Hello,” consider yourself served.
Since 2001, we've brought you uncompromising, candid takes on the world of film, music, television, video games, theater, and more. Independently owned and operated publications like Slant have been hit hard in recent years, but we’re committed to keeping our content free and accessible—meaning no paywalls or fees.
If you like what we do, please consider subscribing to our Patreon or making a donation.
