“I Love Boosters,” Reviewed: A Socialist-Surrealist Shoplifting Fantasy
As an aspiring designer herself, Corvette has a complex relationship with Christie: infuriated though she may be by Christie’s racist and classist condescension, Corvette also considers her a creative idol. Corvette lives in an abandoned fried-chicken restaurant that she has converted into a studio, where she passionately turns out samples and designs. She dreams of a career in fashion—she admits to Mariah, “I’m even lonely when I’m with people,” but adds, “When I’m designing, I feel like I’m touching the world”—and she has submitted a design to a contest that Christie is running. So there’s some serious fangirling involved in Corvette’s pre-heist stalking of Christie’s home, not to mention some calculated self-promotion: she shows up in the tilted apartment wearing an elaborately crafted gown that she designed and made. Seeing the dress, Christie delivers a high-handed verbal riff—reminiscent of the trickle-down speech in “The Devil Wears Prada”—on whether it’s turquoise or aquamarine.
“I Love Boosters” is quite literally a colorful film, an exhilarating splatterbox of unnatural and acidulous tones. For one thing, Christie’s commercial empire runs on an inspired gimmick: each of her stores offers clothing in only one color per month, with décor to match, and the wall-to-wall uniformity gives the shops the look of movie-musical sets. But Christie’s color sense seems to derive in part from her eye for what’s happening on the streets, because the members of the Velvet Gang are artists in their own right, bringing a jubilant sense of freedom to their own outfits, which feature harmonious clashes of colors, textures, and shapes. (The film’s ingenious mix-and-match costuming is by Shirley Kurata.) And it turns out that Christie is doing more than just gleaning ideas—she’s stealing them outright, as Corvette discovers when she finds an item for sale at Metro Designers that looks just like a design that she posted on Instagram. Thus, the Velvet Gang’s great revenge tour begins: the women plot not just to steal a trove of garments but to clean out a store’s whole stock, and they soon meet similarly aggrieved allies who are ready to join their quest.
Call it a campaign of redress, pun intended, for injustices committed with impunity up and down the fashion supply chain. Ideas aren’t the only thing that Metro Designers is stealing. The stores’ monthly merchandise overhaul proves to be a wage-theft scheme, because the salespeople are required to buy and wear the company’s latest offerings, leaving two young employees, Violeta (Eiza González) and Mansion (Najah Bradley), with paychecks of about forty dollars. The clothing, meanwhile, is made in a Chinese sweatshop, whose oppressive and dangerous working conditions Riley depicts in flashbacks and interpolations. The arrival of a woman who works in the sweatshop, Jianhu (Poppy Liu), jolts the story into a new direction, and even a new dimension. Jianhu got to the Bay Area by way of a secret high-tech Chinese-government gizmo that she purloined from the sweatshop—a teleporter, she calls it, which the factory manager had planned to use to beam garments across the seas to avoid shipping charges. The device plays a major role in the heist that follows, and takes the film beyond the realm of a style-crime caper into political science fiction.
Riley breaks his narrative frame to pile in an inspired cornucopia of genres and plotlines, moods and tones. The movie is something of a live-action cartoon, as when Corvette, struggling to climb Christie’s slippery floor, revs her legs like Road Runner’s, and when a giant ball of bureaucratic papers, including an eviction notice, rolls menacingly toward her when she feels stressed. Along the way, there’s a self-help satire involving Dr. Jack (Don Cheadle), a motivational speaker who’s actually running a pyramid scheme. There’s a horror-movie thread involving a suave seducer (LaKeith Stanfield) who turns, involuntarily, into a supernatural sexual predator. There’s creative lampooning of workplace indignities, with store clerks’ thirty-second lunch break staged as a sprint at a track meet, in sped-up motion. There’s skewering of the media, in TV news segments that spotlight apparently random people, most of them Black, as talking heads for right-wing positions. (One woman, for instance, complains that rent control curtails her freedom to pay higher rent.) And the teleporter turns out to have additional uses, as a “situational accelerator” that employs dialectical materialism to heighten the contradictions of whatever it’s aimed at, and as a “deconstructor” that’s effectively a time machine, returning its targets to prior states of being.
