It's Purple Raining Men Who Are Having Oral Sex With Other Men.
Lots of weird shit happened in the 80s. Bandanas became acceptable attire for people other than bikers and Wild West bandits, Tony Danza turned a skull full of Italian sausage and chauvinism into a career, and dressing like a 19th century pirate could make you a rock star. Such was the world in which Prince made Purple Rain, a 2-hour propaganda film dedicated to proving he's not a homosexual. Similar charges have been leveled against me, due to my fanatical Danzig worship, America's Next Top Model body type, and affected use of language, but I've never thought to dispel them by singing and dancing while costumed as a French Revolution Era aristocrat, which seems to be Prince's line of attack.
Purple Rain has Prince and the New Power Generation as a struggling house band in a hot nightclub. How the nightclub got hot when its star attraction is a mixed-race midget rubbing himself on an amplifier is beyond me. Actually, come to think of it, I did visit a bar in Slovakia that had the same kind of thing going on, but they were using blood as lubricant and there was a hermaphrodite involved. Apollonia, a small town girl with big city dreams and a fag hag name shows up with designs on being a star, and she quickly latches onto Prince. However, club headliner Morris Day, gamely giving the performance his all despite clearly having suffered a stroke of some kind, has his own ideas. The fact that his ideas seem to actually involve helping Apollonia instead of smacking her around and throwing her in a lake like Prince does seems not to faze anyone involved in the film. Prince is abusive and cruel, both to Apollonia and the female members of his band. This behavior stems from the family dynamic portrayed in the film, where a violent but musically brilliant father torments Prince's mom. This sympathetically portrayed relationship forms the heart of the film, but sadly, all the music, frilly shirts, and purple forms the stiffened erection of the film, with Prince forming the willing male mouth engulfing it.
I've got no problem with musicals. In fact, I like them. Musical theatre keeps all the undesirables in one place, ensconced in a movie theatre giving each other handjobs, making them easier to nailbomb when the line between shock comedy and militant action becomes blurred. But one of the things I can't stand about musicals or rock movies is that they invariably capture a sense of cool that becomes absolutely ridiculous within a month of the movie's release. It's like old yearbook photos, or a time capsule that you open, expecting to discover a sense of nostalgia but finding only the rat-tail you cut off in 6th grade and $300 in now-worthless Pogs. Purple Rain is just embarrassing, a dated wedding video where everyone is drunk and has beards. It's like watching home movies of your parents smoking pot, like a slideshow of high school prom photos, set to a song that made you cry in 1988, but now sounds like something an autistic kid made with a Cassio keyboard and a key-tar. I don't want to remember the '80s, and I don't want to remember Purple Rain anymore.