Ever hear the one about the model (Pell James) who wanted to be an actress? Or the one about the rock singer (Steven Strait) who valued talent over fame? Maybe you've heard the one about how two people who shared a glance in a NYC subway were fated to meet and fall in love in L.A.?
It doesn't matter if you've never heard them, because if you see Undiscovered, you will learn these and other romantic, and rock band, clichés. In fact, you'll learn all of them, every single one, in a constant and unbroken stream that will have you staring in stupefaction when you're not screaming with laughter.
Just when you think John Galt's screenplay can't possibly offer another old saw or blatant contrivance, he awes you with his ability to reach into the primordial ooze and pull something out - there haven't been this many chestnuts in one movie since Diary of a Mad Black Woman back in February.
Every line is of the order of "I'm not a rock star! I'm a musician!" Every gesture is like the actual rock star who tries to patch things up with James by bringing a box of Ho-Hos. And every plot hole is a massive amnesiac omission, like Strait's non-existent relationship with his band or James's mysterious abandoning of her own career to push her boyfriend's. Matters are compounded by director Meiert Avis's unwillingness to accept that 1994 is over, but the script is so magnificently awful that any window dressing is entirely beside the point.
The rock faithful know it's a fine line between clever and stupid; there's an even finer one between stupid and the camp nirvana this movie achieves. See it with a gang of friends, preferably roaring drunk. (Maple)