Soaked In Bleach

Come doused in mud, soaked in bleach
As I want you to be
As a trend, as a friend
As an old
Memoria, memoria
Memoria, memoria
And I swear that I don't have a gun
No I don't have a gun
No I don't have a gun...

Certain words come to mind when I think of Courtney Love. Like "skank" and "trashy" and "starfucker." Specific textures and scents manifest at the mention of her name: melted lipstick, skunky perfume, ashes, runny makeup, unwashed panties. I've never liked Courtney Love, never been a Hole fan, never understood what Kurt Cobain saw in her. I've known girls like Courtney before: vindictive little trash dolls, humid and lollipop-sticky with casual cruelty, demanding respect without earning it, quick to shoot you a smoldering look of scorn if you dare disagree with something they say. And more often than not, the things they say are highly inappropriate and offensive, uttered offhandedly in a mixed group, making everyone squirm uncomfortably and cough out short, fake laughter and hastily change the subject. And usually, they're oblivious to just how raunchy and gross they're being. At parties, they're drunk before they arrive, consume the rest of your beer and pass out on your couch, waking late and staggering off in a funky cloud of sour sleep-sweat without offering recompense. Their favorite word is "fuck." Their favorite man is yours. And you just know that there is no run-of-the-mill pussy in their panties - it's a goddamned Venus flytrap, smeared with honey and buzzing with flies.

I don't know if Courtney Love had anything to do with the 1994 death of her estranged husband Kurt Cobain. My personal opinion is "yeah, probably." I wouldn't put it past her. It's my personal opinion that she's skullfucked, her brain twisted by some unfortunate miscalculation of brain chemicals at birth, her narcissism and pathological whoriness made worse by the many long years she spent shoveling hardcore narcotics into every crevice of her body, like she was trying to fill the empty spaces with numbing lubricants. She's the only girl I can think of who seems to have aspired to be Nancy Spungen when she grew up. (Fun Fact: Love was in the film Sid & Nancy, and really did want the part of Nancy, but accepted a lesser role as Gretchen, one of Nancy's whorey junkie friends - wow, there's a stretch).

I don't know Courtney Love personally, so perhaps my assessment of her is unfair and without merit. But sorry, that's the impression she's always made on me. I mean, did you guys ever see her crashing the interview with Madonna and Kurt Loder in 95? God, I cringed for her. And she seemed not to have a single fucking clue of how nauseatingly awkward she was being.

Maybe I am being mean. And maybe she doesn't deserve it. But the point is: opinions are legal, regardless of what Love may think.

Sarah Scott as Courtney Love

Anyway, Courtney Love is not the primary focus of Soaked In Bleach, a 2015 docudrama of the events leading up to and immediately following the suicide of grunge icon Kurt Cobain. Not even Kurt Cobain is the focus here. Soaked In Bleach is the story of Tom Grant, a former Los Angeles detective turned private investigator with an exemplary resume and a spotless reputation. Grant was hired on Easter Sunday 1994 by Courtney Love to track down her missing husband. Grant - who was not only interviewed extensively for this film, shown in archive footage and heard on audio recordings made by him at the time of his investigation, but is also played by Daniel Roebuck in the dramatic recreations. And as we all know, Daniel Roebuck rules. His resemblance to Tom Grant is chilling...almost as chilling as Sarah Scott's portrayal of a babydoll-nightie wearing, knee-high stocking clad, chainsmoking Courtney Love, who rolls around on her messy bed, legs spread wide, while answering Grant's questions, seemingly convinced of her own untouchability and super grunge goddess status. Grant never seems anything but vaguely disgusted by her, but does his job regardless, doing as she asks and putting up with her last minute whims and delusional schemes with the patience of a fucking Saint.

His job was pretty much over only a week later when Cobain's body was discovered in the "greenhouse" - a shitty little disused room over the garage which nobody ever suggested be checked. But Grant did not give up so easily, carrying on his own investigation and drawing some very uncomfortable conclusions. Grant never met Cobain, but came to realize in the days and weeks and years that followed that Kurt was not the helpless, hopeless basket case that Courtney had made him out to be. Yes, Kurt was deeply troubled, very sick and drowning in his addictions, but no one - not one single friend or family member - believed he was ever suicidal. Crime scene photos, autopsy reports and the discovery of a cheat sheet that someone was using to mimic Kurt's handwriting, create enough reasonable doubt to justify a reopening of the case...something that the Seattle PD has yet to do.

Curioser and curioser, Courtney Love has been busy sending Cease & Desist letters to every movie theater who even thinks about showing this film on their big screen. Anyone and everyone on her payroll - lawyers, neighbors, babysitters, etc. - have shut the fuck up and dropped the fuck out. Mind you, it's been 21 years. Courtney Love is 51 now. Her life is half over, if she's lucky and the assload of raw sewage she's been pumping into her bloodstream + the thousands of scorching STDs she's surely contracted don't take their toll sooner rather than later. Sorry, was that mean? Tough titty. If she's innocent, she has nothing to fear and I'll fucking apologize and personally send her a muffin basket. If she's guilty, well, she had it coming didn't she?

This film is an opinion. You can agree with it or not. But you should definitely watch it, if only because Love doesn't want you to.