As if Elizabeth Berkley
hasn’t been through enough. From a broken home in the Palisades, her father off in Palm Springs, married to an overly perky fitness instructor, her mother sullying the peace of her child’s home by remarrying and forcing her to live with a brash, street tough from New York, intent on destroying the lives of each and every one of her friends, Berkley continued to strive towards greatness only to fall short of being named valedictorian by just a fraction of a point. Then, when fame was to hit, launching her beyond the small goals of guest starring roles or Proactiv spots, Berkley had to endure an unholy backlash against her best film, the wonderfully tawdry Showgirls
Then it was off to straight to video “erotic” thrillers and the role of a hooker in Oliver Stone’s wretched Any Given Sunday
, but then again, what else is someone with lady parts to expect when taking a role in an Oliver Stone picture? But now, she has to read this from Charles Isherwood in the New York Times
, having her best work described as “unspeakable,” a charge so often levied that Berkley thinks it wise to call after people like Isherwood and urge them to forget all about the “unspeakable” film. She wants to move on. Fair enough. But to endure this:
“The name Elizabeth Berkley may ring a bell, but if you can't think why, for God's sake, don't ask me. I'm not telling.”
Spare me. If you can’t admit to loving Showgirls or Elizabeth Berkley or her ability to make every movement both intensely real and strangely alien, be it the eating of french fries, pool fucking or dancing by way of an addiction to caffeine pills, then, well, Mr. Isherwood, you have a lot more than your cred as an insufferable snob to worry about.