Saturday, October 30, 2004
October Calendar Men
I know it's late in the month, but a bi friend and his girlfriend are watching "Frisky Summer 2" in the living room (it's her first gay porn film). Watching well-hung Czech and Slovak boys fuck is a bit much right now. Plus, this is the first time I've had all month (due to film festival and other things) to do this.
So here goes:
Abso-fucking-lutely best photo of the month:
Freshmen -- Ryan Alexander. Cute. Amazing soft brown eyes. Smile to die for. A thick rug of pubic hair. A long, fat, gnarled cock. Twinkish. Just sweet as the day is long. Yes, it's that tradition all-white background that I think is about as inventive as sliced bread. But his slightly dark-skin and dark brown hair is set off well against it.
Runners-up:
Naked Youth -- Clint Fox, the foxy porn star, is our man of the month. Very handsome. Nice soft eyes. A gentle smile. A huge, achingly hard uncut prick jutting up to his navel. The problem with the photo is the lighting. It's so soft, the details of cock against skin, ridges in the abs, outline of the tiny pecs -- it's all lost. Too soft-focus for effectiveness.
Bel Ami Classics -- Stefan Anderson, their erstwhile raven-haired stud turned director, is in a classi pose. Laying back in hay, flannel shirt and floppy hat still on, bone-hard prick stabbing wetly into the air, nice thick pubes framing the penis. But that vacant star into the camera, a slightly slumped pose that hide the strength and length of his body, and a dark printing process.
Naked Straight Men -- His name is Brody James, and he's a handsome two-tone blond with an astoundingly handsome penis. Truly one of the most well-formed cocks in the world. But the photograph has that tradition slightly-too-dark look to it, as if every-so-slightly underlit in order to create the cast of shadows across his abs, pecs and biceps. The result is that the background is almost in deep shadow, and the overall impact of the image is one of murkiness.
Decent but nothing to write home about:
Unzipped -- Gay porn star Travis Wade is the man of the month. Travis has this rock-hard, muscular body and a long cock. The problem is that when he's hard, Travis' penis loses much of the impression of size. It's weird. Maybe it's because his balls are so tight they pull up into his body. Maybe it's because his penis never juts upward. Whatever, Travis looks best when his cock is semi-hard and aiming downward at a 25-degree angle. Also, there are six images here -- three of which are too small to mention. Two of the remaining images show Wade as if he's a garage monkey, smeared in grease. The other two show him clean-cut, Brylcreemed and wearing a sailor's dress-white cap. The overall effect is one of confusion. Wade looks best when stylized and clean-cut, and that, sadly, is not the main image.
Advocate Men -- Trent Fosters is the model. He's a sort of handsome-pretty guy with a round face and slightly receding hairline. He's muscular, extremely well-hung, and hairy-chested. There are four images here, three of which are small and at the base of the calendar. Two of the small images are useless. One, showing Fosters laying backward, his erection slung across one hip, is really very good. The main image cannot compare, as it is underlit and Fosters is posed doing a sort of flexed arm-hang. It hides his pecs, distorts his body, and distracts from his long, fat dong slanting downward.
Naked Military Men -- "Diesel" is a handsome brunette with slightly muscular build and big, furry nipples. The kind you want to suck on for a week. He's also got a magnificent whopper standing straight up from his full, furry crotch. The image of this JO star (who has done films for All Worlds Video) is appropriately amateurish-looking. The starkly lit model, the tacky leopard-print sheets, the splayed legs, the raw sexuality -- it all works.
A Taste of Italy -- Gay porn star Victor Racek is the model. I've Blogged about this image before. Unfortunately, the printing on it is dark, and unflattering. But it is still a damn good photograph.
Naked Asia -- Adu's image of Kyle, a Taiwanese stud with a face like a squinty-eyed Tom Welling, is rather dark. (Was it bad printing day this month or what?) He's got a raging erection, and the posing is excellent. But deep shadows tend to hide the left side and rear of the model, and the model is leaning rightward in all three images for this month (which, taken together, makes you want to lean your head right). There are better images of this handsome, gorgeous model elsewhere.
Sam Carson's First Exposure -- This is probably the first really good image in this calendar. The model has a stolid, thick-featured face. His body is perfectly toned, which means that even as he lays backward, ribs sunk into his stomach, you can see the wonderful lines of his pecs. He has an awesome patch of thick, fluffy pubes which surmount a wonderful soft cock and heavy-hanging balls. The background props are, for once, inobtrusive and do not make the model look out of place. Good for you, Sam.
Kristen Bjorn Body Heat -- The model's uniform dark tan, the filtering and the underlighting all conspire to wash detail out of this hunky, hung model's features, body and genitals. The dark tattoo on his right pectoral is what stands out, drawing the eye to it and distracting from the model. More mediocre photography from the House of Bjorn.
Naked Latinos -- Taz is a handsome, elephantine-hung model. He has a dick that simply leaks precum, and thick pubes. The extreme pose of the model (leaning backward, genitals thrust into the camera, huge dripping prick slanting obscenely and lustily across the foreground) works very, very well. The mottled dark blue background serves to heighten the model's dark skin and hair. But the only thing is, the models' blue ski cap makes his head blend into the background, almost as if his head and features were receding into shadow. That's disconcerting. But oh -- what a model!
Adam Film World Gay Adult Video Calendar -- Marco Rochelle is the gay porn star model. He's a thick-featured man who is oddly reminiscent of Jeff Stryker circa 1986. He has a nicely muscular, lightly furred chest and a thick, dark trail of fur on his belly -- on which lays his long, uncut erection. His nice, tight balls hug his body very nicely. It's such a nice pose of a nice model. Too bad the background is so dark, the model tends to blend in.
Ignore them:
Falcon Heroes -- Just the opposite must be said about this image of super-hung Jason Tyler. The image is so washed out, you really don't want to look at it. Tyler's skinny body is draped so rigidly across the chair he's in, it looks like he's being stretched on the rack, not lazily enjoying a boner between his legs.
College Jocks -- Gay porn star Eddie Ryan is a handsome, muscular guy with a stubby, fat, uncut dick. So why pose him so blandly against such a busy background? Who cares? He looks like he's just had 10cc's of Thorazine.
Titan Media -- Gay porn star Jake Marshall is an older porn star with a muscular, hairy chest, goatee and average dick. Again, the pose is so lackluster and so tightly cropped that there is nothing for the eye to latch onto, nothing that says, "Yes, this is interesting, look at me."
Naked Black Men -- Mr. Trinidad is the teenager with the 11" scimitar-like prong. So why Photoshop him against a funky patterned background? Why pose him so stiffly that he looks like a frightened kid right off the bus?
Naked Asian Men -- Gai is the model. With a nice boner and delicate physical frame, he is a wonder to behold. Too bad the deep-black background makes it look as if he's sinking into tar. Unlike Taz's pose in "Naked Latinos," Gai's face is thrust at the camera (not his genitals). Wrong end, boys.
Barrackz Boyz -- Almost worth looking at, but that goofy, oversized dress-white naval cap on this boyish, geeky model with the slender body, farmer's tan and hard penis just destroys whatever natural appeal the model had for the camera.
Kristen Bjorn's Stallions -- A jumble of too-tanned bodies, distracting leather accoutrements, goofy, distorted poses and a forced kiss make for a lousy image. Did a drunk high school kid shoot this? (No, a drunk high school kid would have done better.)
Naked Muscle -- Hunky gay porn star Jim Slade is shown against the same appalling green bushes that have ruined most of the photos in this calendar. The standard sideways pose, erection jutting into the air, half-smile and blank eyes make this not worth it. You know, this guy is a great porn star with strong sexual acting skills. But this photograph makes him look dull and undesirable.
Special Award for "What the FUCK Were They Thinking?":
Bel Ami's New Generation -- Roman Malik is a stunningly handsome young man. He has a superb, squared-off, muscular body. He has a sweet dick that just demands gentle caressing. This is a guy who deserves lots of love. Yet, he is posed against a pink fluorescent wall, an orange-and-yellow checkboard, and a white background. His amazing body is covered in a bright blue muscle-tee and black jeans. The flood of color is overwhelming. The decision to hide his body behind clothing is puzzling beyond belief. And the model's penis is so deeply buried in the opening of his jeans that it appears to be all of four inches long.
Whoever shot this photograph should be flogged. Roman Malik deserves 10,000 times better.
So here goes:
Abso-fucking-lutely best photo of the month:
Freshmen -- Ryan Alexander. Cute. Amazing soft brown eyes. Smile to die for. A thick rug of pubic hair. A long, fat, gnarled cock. Twinkish. Just sweet as the day is long. Yes, it's that tradition all-white background that I think is about as inventive as sliced bread. But his slightly dark-skin and dark brown hair is set off well against it.
Runners-up:
Naked Youth -- Clint Fox, the foxy porn star, is our man of the month. Very handsome. Nice soft eyes. A gentle smile. A huge, achingly hard uncut prick jutting up to his navel. The problem with the photo is the lighting. It's so soft, the details of cock against skin, ridges in the abs, outline of the tiny pecs -- it's all lost. Too soft-focus for effectiveness.
Bel Ami Classics -- Stefan Anderson, their erstwhile raven-haired stud turned director, is in a classi pose. Laying back in hay, flannel shirt and floppy hat still on, bone-hard prick stabbing wetly into the air, nice thick pubes framing the penis. But that vacant star into the camera, a slightly slumped pose that hide the strength and length of his body, and a dark printing process.
Naked Straight Men -- His name is Brody James, and he's a handsome two-tone blond with an astoundingly handsome penis. Truly one of the most well-formed cocks in the world. But the photograph has that tradition slightly-too-dark look to it, as if every-so-slightly underlit in order to create the cast of shadows across his abs, pecs and biceps. The result is that the background is almost in deep shadow, and the overall impact of the image is one of murkiness.
Decent but nothing to write home about:
Unzipped -- Gay porn star Travis Wade is the man of the month. Travis has this rock-hard, muscular body and a long cock. The problem is that when he's hard, Travis' penis loses much of the impression of size. It's weird. Maybe it's because his balls are so tight they pull up into his body. Maybe it's because his penis never juts upward. Whatever, Travis looks best when his cock is semi-hard and aiming downward at a 25-degree angle. Also, there are six images here -- three of which are too small to mention. Two of the remaining images show Wade as if he's a garage monkey, smeared in grease. The other two show him clean-cut, Brylcreemed and wearing a sailor's dress-white cap. The overall effect is one of confusion. Wade looks best when stylized and clean-cut, and that, sadly, is not the main image.
Advocate Men -- Trent Fosters is the model. He's a sort of handsome-pretty guy with a round face and slightly receding hairline. He's muscular, extremely well-hung, and hairy-chested. There are four images here, three of which are small and at the base of the calendar. Two of the small images are useless. One, showing Fosters laying backward, his erection slung across one hip, is really very good. The main image cannot compare, as it is underlit and Fosters is posed doing a sort of flexed arm-hang. It hides his pecs, distorts his body, and distracts from his long, fat dong slanting downward.
Naked Military Men -- "Diesel" is a handsome brunette with slightly muscular build and big, furry nipples. The kind you want to suck on for a week. He's also got a magnificent whopper standing straight up from his full, furry crotch. The image of this JO star (who has done films for All Worlds Video) is appropriately amateurish-looking. The starkly lit model, the tacky leopard-print sheets, the splayed legs, the raw sexuality -- it all works.
A Taste of Italy -- Gay porn star Victor Racek is the model. I've Blogged about this image before. Unfortunately, the printing on it is dark, and unflattering. But it is still a damn good photograph.
Naked Asia -- Adu's image of Kyle, a Taiwanese stud with a face like a squinty-eyed Tom Welling, is rather dark. (Was it bad printing day this month or what?) He's got a raging erection, and the posing is excellent. But deep shadows tend to hide the left side and rear of the model, and the model is leaning rightward in all three images for this month (which, taken together, makes you want to lean your head right). There are better images of this handsome, gorgeous model elsewhere.
Sam Carson's First Exposure -- This is probably the first really good image in this calendar. The model has a stolid, thick-featured face. His body is perfectly toned, which means that even as he lays backward, ribs sunk into his stomach, you can see the wonderful lines of his pecs. He has an awesome patch of thick, fluffy pubes which surmount a wonderful soft cock and heavy-hanging balls. The background props are, for once, inobtrusive and do not make the model look out of place. Good for you, Sam.
Kristen Bjorn Body Heat -- The model's uniform dark tan, the filtering and the underlighting all conspire to wash detail out of this hunky, hung model's features, body and genitals. The dark tattoo on his right pectoral is what stands out, drawing the eye to it and distracting from the model. More mediocre photography from the House of Bjorn.
Naked Latinos -- Taz is a handsome, elephantine-hung model. He has a dick that simply leaks precum, and thick pubes. The extreme pose of the model (leaning backward, genitals thrust into the camera, huge dripping prick slanting obscenely and lustily across the foreground) works very, very well. The mottled dark blue background serves to heighten the model's dark skin and hair. But the only thing is, the models' blue ski cap makes his head blend into the background, almost as if his head and features were receding into shadow. That's disconcerting. But oh -- what a model!
Adam Film World Gay Adult Video Calendar -- Marco Rochelle is the gay porn star model. He's a thick-featured man who is oddly reminiscent of Jeff Stryker circa 1986. He has a nicely muscular, lightly furred chest and a thick, dark trail of fur on his belly -- on which lays his long, uncut erection. His nice, tight balls hug his body very nicely. It's such a nice pose of a nice model. Too bad the background is so dark, the model tends to blend in.
Ignore them:
Falcon Heroes -- Just the opposite must be said about this image of super-hung Jason Tyler. The image is so washed out, you really don't want to look at it. Tyler's skinny body is draped so rigidly across the chair he's in, it looks like he's being stretched on the rack, not lazily enjoying a boner between his legs.
College Jocks -- Gay porn star Eddie Ryan is a handsome, muscular guy with a stubby, fat, uncut dick. So why pose him so blandly against such a busy background? Who cares? He looks like he's just had 10cc's of Thorazine.
Titan Media -- Gay porn star Jake Marshall is an older porn star with a muscular, hairy chest, goatee and average dick. Again, the pose is so lackluster and so tightly cropped that there is nothing for the eye to latch onto, nothing that says, "Yes, this is interesting, look at me."
Naked Black Men -- Mr. Trinidad is the teenager with the 11" scimitar-like prong. So why Photoshop him against a funky patterned background? Why pose him so stiffly that he looks like a frightened kid right off the bus?
Naked Asian Men -- Gai is the model. With a nice boner and delicate physical frame, he is a wonder to behold. Too bad the deep-black background makes it look as if he's sinking into tar. Unlike Taz's pose in "Naked Latinos," Gai's face is thrust at the camera (not his genitals). Wrong end, boys.
Barrackz Boyz -- Almost worth looking at, but that goofy, oversized dress-white naval cap on this boyish, geeky model with the slender body, farmer's tan and hard penis just destroys whatever natural appeal the model had for the camera.
Kristen Bjorn's Stallions -- A jumble of too-tanned bodies, distracting leather accoutrements, goofy, distorted poses and a forced kiss make for a lousy image. Did a drunk high school kid shoot this? (No, a drunk high school kid would have done better.)
Naked Muscle -- Hunky gay porn star Jim Slade is shown against the same appalling green bushes that have ruined most of the photos in this calendar. The standard sideways pose, erection jutting into the air, half-smile and blank eyes make this not worth it. You know, this guy is a great porn star with strong sexual acting skills. But this photograph makes him look dull and undesirable.
Special Award for "What the FUCK Were They Thinking?":
Bel Ami's New Generation -- Roman Malik is a stunningly handsome young man. He has a superb, squared-off, muscular body. He has a sweet dick that just demands gentle caressing. This is a guy who deserves lots of love. Yet, he is posed against a pink fluorescent wall, an orange-and-yellow checkboard, and a white background. His amazing body is covered in a bright blue muscle-tee and black jeans. The flood of color is overwhelming. The decision to hide his body behind clothing is puzzling beyond belief. And the model's penis is so deeply buried in the opening of his jeans that it appears to be all of four inches long.
Whoever shot this photograph should be flogged. Roman Malik deserves 10,000 times better.
Labels: calendars, photography
Monday, October 25, 2004
Let me plug a terrific site: GLBTQ Cinema.
I like it because it has a discussion group for GLBT films. There's a master index to films reviewed on the site, and a neat set of screen-cap images so you can see what things really look like in GLBT film.
I like it.
I recommend it.
I like it because it has a discussion group for GLBT films. There's a master index to films reviewed on the site, and a neat set of screen-cap images so you can see what things really look like in GLBT film.
I like it.
I recommend it.
Film Fest "Embarassment Trivia"!
Let's play "trivial pursuit" with the film festival! Here are various rumors, innuendo, crises, tidbits and bits of dishy dirt that I learned this week. Answer the questions right, and win a prize!
1) Name the director who stormed into the lobby of the Lincoln Theatre during the screening of his film and screamed, "They are fucking up my picture!" -- all because about a foot of image was above and below the screen.
2) Name the supposedly "straight" worker who received oral sex from a festival ticket-holder during a screening (instead of doing his job).
3) Name the film where a filmmaker's "friend" went through the ticket line at least 10 times, obtaining multiple ballots in order to try to "stuff the ballot box" so his friend's short film would win an audience award.
4) Name the actor attending the film festival who turned to a festival volunteer and asked where he could get a well-hung hooker for the night.
5) Name the festival volunteer who got shit-faced before one event, requiring several volunteers to hold him down/"comfort him" while non-volunteers (roped into helping at the last second) had to rush around with trays of food and do his job for him.
6) Name the festival worker who quit mid-festival in a pique of anger because he did not feel he was getting enough "respect" by patrons for his behind-the-scenes job.
7) Name the director who quietly tried to give festival programmers a re-edited ("no, really, it's much better") cut of her film mere moments before the screening began.
8) Name the director who snarled, after a lackluster Q&A session, "Your audience is a bunch of ignorant shitholes."
9) Name the festival volunteer caught trying to load five cases of vodka into his best friend's car.
10) Name the movie that depicted gay sex in silhouette, during which a patron shouted, "Turn up the contrast!"
11) Name the "relationship" movie during which a patron shouted, "This sucks!"
12) Name the movie where a patron, in the Absolute vodka tent afterward, turned to an actor who had appared in the film and said, "That was the worst piece of shit I've ever seen."
13) Name the item a festival patron was caught trying to steal from the Plant-a-Seed silent auction table.
14) Name the festival fund-raising program about which a festival patron inquired: "So, I can meet gay teenagers through this, right?"
15) Name the movie and/or program during which an older festival-goer attempted to fondle a younger festival-goer. (Bonus points if you can name which choice curse word the younger person shouted.)
1) Name the director who stormed into the lobby of the Lincoln Theatre during the screening of his film and screamed, "They are fucking up my picture!" -- all because about a foot of image was above and below the screen.
2) Name the supposedly "straight" worker who received oral sex from a festival ticket-holder during a screening (instead of doing his job).
3) Name the film where a filmmaker's "friend" went through the ticket line at least 10 times, obtaining multiple ballots in order to try to "stuff the ballot box" so his friend's short film would win an audience award.
4) Name the actor attending the film festival who turned to a festival volunteer and asked where he could get a well-hung hooker for the night.
5) Name the festival volunteer who got shit-faced before one event, requiring several volunteers to hold him down/"comfort him" while non-volunteers (roped into helping at the last second) had to rush around with trays of food and do his job for him.
6) Name the festival worker who quit mid-festival in a pique of anger because he did not feel he was getting enough "respect" by patrons for his behind-the-scenes job.
7) Name the director who quietly tried to give festival programmers a re-edited ("no, really, it's much better") cut of her film mere moments before the screening began.
8) Name the director who snarled, after a lackluster Q&A session, "Your audience is a bunch of ignorant shitholes."
9) Name the festival volunteer caught trying to load five cases of vodka into his best friend's car.
10) Name the movie that depicted gay sex in silhouette, during which a patron shouted, "Turn up the contrast!"
11) Name the "relationship" movie during which a patron shouted, "This sucks!"
12) Name the movie where a patron, in the Absolute vodka tent afterward, turned to an actor who had appared in the film and said, "That was the worst piece of shit I've ever seen."
13) Name the item a festival patron was caught trying to steal from the Plant-a-Seed silent auction table.
14) Name the festival fund-raising program about which a festival patron inquired: "So, I can meet gay teenagers through this, right?"
15) Name the movie and/or program during which an older festival-goer attempted to fondle a younger festival-goer. (Bonus points if you can name which choice curse word the younger person shouted.)
Sunday, October 24, 2004
Reel Affirmations Film Festival, Day 10 -- Final Post:
"But I want children."
"Do you want to see them...melt?"
It's hard to be objective about opening and closing night films. After all, these are invariably comedies (comedies make for happier audiences) with uplifting messages (uplifting messages make for happier audiences) with lots of name-brand stars in cameo or small roles (name-brand stars make for happier audiences) and high production values (high production values make for happier audiences).
This studied manipulation triggers a natural response to be harsh and judgmental in me. I don't like being manipulated.
That being said, I still don't like "Straight-Jacket."
Directed and written by Richard Day, based on his play of the same name, the film tries to skewer the studio era in Hollywood. Guy Stone (veteran actor Matt Letscher) is intended to be a Rock Hudson knock-off. But both the script and Letscher end up channeling a smarmy, cruel, baritone-voiced version of George Hamilton instead, which makes for both an unpleasant character and an unpleasant performance. Rather than skewering '50s stereotypes, the film creates a modern caricature that bears no resemblance to a 1950s Hollywood star.
Indeed, the film runs into problems almost immediately. Guy Stone is such a reprehensible human being that the audience has trouble liking this waste of human skin. Unlike a Rock Hudson who was sweetly promiscuous, Guy Stone is a hateful person who knowingly uses and then throws away the sweet, handsome young men who share his bed every few hours.
Stage actor Michael Emerson appears as Victor, Stone's Georgia-born butler with the cultivated, upper-class accent. Victor is an unoriginal character: The sarcastic butler with the venomous tongue. Far more interesting servants have been brought to life -- Robert Picardo's bitingly funny Emergency Medical Holographic Program aka The Doctor on the first season of "Star Trek: Voyager"; Daniel Davis' cutting and observant Niles the Butler on "The Nanny"; and Joseph Marcell's annoyed and earthy Jeffrey Butler the Butler on "The Fresh Prince of Bel Air." Although Emerson provides adequate characterization and brings some verve to Victor, the lines are simply not that funny. Victor should have stinging lines, but in fact has merely funny ones.
Veronica Cartwright portrays Jerry, Stone's celibate lesbian agent and manager. Cartwright is very good, probably the best thing in the film. But the director doesn't quite know what to do with her. Cartwright's delivery is slightly off, and she fumbles a few lines. The fault lies in the dialogue, which is a bit clumsy. Too often, lines flow into one another rather than start and stop. Director-writer Day used to write for TV shows such as "Mad About You" and "The Larry Sanders Show." His most recent project was the poorly received "Good Morning, Miami." Gone is the snappy writing of the earlier shows. Instead, the rambling dialogue and scenic set-ups of "Miami" is present, and the film suffers for it.
Victor Raider-Wexler, a veteran actor of film and television, is perfect as Saul, the pompous and selfish studio executive. It's a role Raider-Wexler has played to perfection many times, and it is almost as if the role were written for him.
Carrie Preston, a young actress known primarily for her supporting roles in B pictures, is Sally -- Saul's ditzy blonde secretary and the woman who figures most prominently in Guy's life. Sadly, The script and Day's direction call for Preston to portray Sally as if she were Ellen Greene in "The Little Shop of Horrors" -- an unoriginal chracterization that, once more, does not lend itself well to creating a likeable character for the audience to relate to. Preston's Sally is good for a laugh, but little else.
Newcomer Adam Greer plays Rick Foster, the liberal author whose book, "Blood Mines," is being made into a Guy Stone film. Greer is lost in this movie. He cannot act, and relies heavily on his supposed good looks. I found him a bit off-putting. He seems to have had a nose job that makes the bridge of his nose end below his eyes, and he has an oddly elongated face and strong jaw that makes me focus more on his features than on what he is saying or doing. (Greer also has a weirdly constructed body. Apparently, he was cast more for his big, brown eyes, black hair, square features and tightly toned and broad-shouldered body. From the front, Greer looks to have a heavily muscled body. From the side, one realizes it is all tone and no mass. It's distracting.)
Rounding out the cast is veteran actor Jack Plotnick, a veteran actor probably best known for portraying Deputy Mayor Allan Finch for a season on "Buffy the Vampire Slayer." (Fellow "Buffy" alum Tom Lenk also appears briefly as a goofy special-effects technician.) Plotnick plays Freddie Stevens, a B-picture star who has communist and sexual pecadilloes. Sadly, Plotnick has almost no comic timing. The character of Freddie Stevens is, like Guy Stone, written more like a modern-day Hollywood actor (he's fascinated by pot, tanning salons, body waxing and so on), and the way the character is written does nothing for the film.
Like many recent films, "Straight-Jacket" is a "dramedy" -- a comedy film which switches messily to a drama about two-thirds of the way through the film. And, like almost all dramedies, "Straight-Jacket" fails miserably.
The film opens with Guy Stone kicking a hot young stud out of bed. The jokes come fast and furious, and the script and direction (thankfully) permit the audience time to laugh before the next line comes. Despite the expensive use of Skywalker Sound, the sound quality of the film leaves a lot of be desired. While Letscher's comically too-deep voice is clear enough, Emerson's Victor remains soft and mumbly when there isn't a close-up. The over-use of the musical soundtrack creates a distracting amount of cues as well -- and for no good purporse, it seems.
Stone meets with Jerry and Saul in Saul's office, where Sally moons visibly over Guy. Sally is good for some laughs, but it is difficult to see how Sally mimics or imitates either a '50s studio secretary or a Doris Day-type starlet wanna-be. Indeed, the character is more silly than satirical or observant of '50s mores.
After kicking Sally out, Guy learns that he's up for the part of Ben-Hur in Saul's forthcoming remake of the picture. (Why there are production drawsing for "Ben-Hur" on Saul's office wall is mystifying. The number of drawings also changes in subseuqent scenes, an obvious continuity error.) Saul has been considering B-actor Freddie Stevens for the role, but Stevens' star has been sinking and Saul is going to continue using him on "Captain Astro" serials instead. (Yet another mis-guided nod to the '50s: With the advent of television, serials were rare by the 1950s. They were more common in the '30s and '40s. Indeed, television and its impact on Hollywood is notably missing in this film.) Worse, the FBI has been nosing about the studio looking for Communists. Stevens is a noted Red and has an addiction to marijuana ("I would never have sold it to those kids had I known it was pot!"). Saul is thinking of turning him over to the feds, just to get them off his back.
Celebrating his good fortune, Guy heads for a local nondescript gay bar to pick up a date. Freddie follows him. Once Guy is inside, Freddie calls the police and gets a good picture of Guy being led out in handcuffs which he then turns over to the tabloids.
The following day, Saul is ready to let Guy hang in the wind and give Freddie the "Ben-Hur" role. But Jerry comes up with a plan: Give the tabloids something better. At first, they scheme to give them squeaky-clean actress Betty Bright. ("Tell them she's addicted to smack." "Betty Bright is addicted to smack?" "She will be when I'm done with her.") But when Sally moons over Guy Stone one more time, Saul and Jerry concoct a scheme to have Guy marry Sally. Rather than tell Sally the truth about Guy's homosexuality and have to bribe her to keep her mouth shut, Jerry and Saul decide it would be easier to keep her in the dark. In nine months, Guy will head to Europe. When "Ben-Hur" is released in a year, he'll be able to divorce Sally and go back to his philandering ways.
The wedding occurs, and Guy and Sally set up house. Before you can say "plastic-covered furniture," Sally has torn Guy's trendy, modernist home apart and turned it into a prototypical 1950s house torn from the pages of "Better Homes & Gardens" magazine. This transformation could have held a lot of comic and satirical potential. I'm reminded of the dead-on ribbing that "Little Shop of Horrors" delivered -- complete with TV dinners, Howdy Doody on TV, print poodle skirts and separate beds. Instead, "Straight-Jacket" decides to have a troop of homosexual moving-men troop through the house. The subsequent transformation is incomplete and half-assed, almost as if the production ran out of money to fully transform the Guy Stone House set into a true 1950s home reminiscent of "Happy Days."
Naturally, Sally pressures Guy to eat her goopy, cheese-laden dinners and marshmallow-and-gelatin desserts, give her children (Guy dissuades her by claiming he won't have children for the Reds to nuke) and to "spend time at home when you're not at the office or hunting." It's an oddly incomplete picture of the 1950s. (I half-expected Guy to mention "going to the club," as any good 1950s husband might. Only, it never happened. There was much comic potential there, but it was never followed up on.)
Guy's salvation comes when he realizes that '50s husbands "lay down the rules" for their wives. Subsequently, he orders Sally never to root through his things, never look in the crumpled paper bags in the back of his closet -- and to get separate beds and bedrooms. Sally, discouraged, agrees. The problem here is that, once more, Guy comes off cruel and vicious rather than authoritatively satirical. Compare the way "Straight-Jacket" tackles its subject matter to the way that "The Naked Gun" does. When Lt. Drebbin is speaking at the press conference, he discusses security for the forthcoming visit by the Queen of England. He casually mentions that "no matter how silly the idea of a queen is to us, we must be gracious and considerate hosts." Drebbin's appallingly tactless comment is meant seriously and graciously by the goofball lieutenant. Guy Stone's orders, however, are not in tune with '50s-style husbandry but rather are manipulative. Once more, Stone comes off selfish and cold, and his treatment of Sally is cruel rather than funny. It's not even black humor, it's just brutality.
Things get a bit complicated when Guy runs into the handsome novelist Rick Foster. Foster wrote a book about a unionization drive among mine workers, and the book is being turned into Guy's next movie. Now, this makes no sense, plot-wise. I thought Guy was supposed to be preparing for "Ben-Hur"? Why is he suddenly doing another movie? Second, the dialogue indicates that a fair amount of time has passed. Yet there are no visual or behavioral clues to indicate this. The result is that I'm a bit startled by the time-shift.
Rick is liberal and principled -- everything Guy is not. In addition, Rick is handsome and muscular -- everything Guy lusts for. FBI investigations into the studio lead Saul to order script rewrites, to tone down the progressive elements of Rick's movie. Guy decides to try to seduce Rick by inviting him over to his home.
Naturally, Rick is gay and butch. Guy's cosmopolitan ways have little effect on him. Yet, inexplicably, Guy charms the pants (literally) off Rick. This whole bit makes no sense. Rick is principled -- except when it comes to the scheming, manipulative Guy. Rick is liberal and hates materialism -- except when it comes to the wealthy, materialistic Guy. Had Rick somehow been depicted as bowled over by Guy's beauty or open homosexuality, or for any reason for that matter, it might have made sense. But there is no good reason, and the film just collapses.
So begins a long series of montage images, as Guy and Rick's romance blossoms and Sally becomes increasingly depressed and lonely.
Soon, it is almost time for Guy to leave for Italy to begin filming "Ben-Hur." Guy plans to take Rick along. But Rick is having second-thoughts. Once more, the film treats these characters as if they were modern men: Rick wants Guy to be an open homosexual, like himself. This makes absolutely no sense. Had the script called for both men to hide their sexuality, hilarity would have ensued. We could have seen endless vignettes about Truman Capote-like authors talking to Rick. We could have had references to Flannery O'Connor or endless jokes about "Papa" Hemingway's butch masculinity. But no. The film degenerates into a preachy tale about coming out -- something that was inconceivable in the 1950s.
Inexplicably, Freddie Stevens has not been turned over to the FBI yet. He's still hanging around, and as the filming date for "Ben-Hur" approaches he becomes more and more upset. Guy decides to hold a release party for his mine-worker film at his home. There, he and Rick meet in a back bedroom and make love. An unfortunate series of events leads Sally to burst in on them and Freddie to get a picture of it.
Guy is ruined. He's kicked out of his home and moves in with Rick. They suffer from gaybashings and other harassment. But together, they begin writing a theatrical play called "Dreamcrushers," in which two gay lovers are outed and their dreams crushed. Sally becomes a lush. Freddie moves in with her, and wins the part of Ben-Hur.
Needless to say, it's not the end of the world. Guy's outing has only emboldened the FBI, which is breathing heavily down the studio's neck. For some inexplicable reason, Saul and Jerry decide to resurrect Guy's career by claiming it was all a hoax. The studio will televise an FBI hearing into homosexuals and Communism in Hollywood. There, Guy will claim it was all a hoax designed to expose the real criminal -- Freddie Stevens.
Guy is ecstatic and wants to destroy Stevens. But Rick sees this as yet another lie, one which will put Guy back into the closet. Guy is deeply conflicted. He goes to see Sally, who has taken to making lemonade out of vodka rather than water. Guy heads home, only to find that Rick has been the victim of a gay-bashing. Devastated by the change in his ex-wife and the attack on Rick, Guy resolves to do good.
At the hearing, Guy decides to tell the truth. In what is supposed to be a moving and emotional statement of his beliefs, he admits that he was a homosexual and a Communist. (The audience is supposed to go "Awww!" when he does this.)
But before Guy can defend these beliefs, Sally intervenes. She claims that she was part of a vast conspiracy to seduce Hollywood's leading men and turn them into homosexual Communists. She fingers Freddie as the main culprit. The FBI leads Freddie off in handcuffs, and Guy is safe. Saul is so impressed with Sally's acting that he declares her his new star.
None of this makes any sense, naturally. Guy is still outed, but for some reason this has no effect on his career. Rick and Guy see no problem with Sally lying to protect them, and so the moral quandaries raised earlier in the film just disappear. All's well that ends well, as societal homophobia is just finessed away. Even Jerry meets a drag queen-cum-Saul's wife, who golfs.
Unfortunately, none of the production values manage to save this film. The cinematography by Michael Pinkey is pedestrian. At times, the film almost looks like a filmed play rather than a motion picture (notably the scenes in Saul's office). It's uniformly restricted to medium shots, and incredibly static. The editing by Chris Conlee doesn't do the film any justice, either. Long scenes which would benefit from the insertion of close-ups or shifts in point of view remain uncut. Whether this is due to lack of coverage or bad editing is not clear, but the overall effect is, once again, to create a sense of lethargy.
The film relies heavily on CGI effects of Guy's home, created by visual effect designer Thomas Dickens. But the CGI looks clumsy and hokey, and it is very noticeably amateurish.
My overall impression of this film is that the jokes are cheap and easy, the plot muddled, the characterizations wildly inconsistent and way off the mark, the satire nonexistent, the performances overbroad and the comic timing off. It's almost an amateurish film. It is as if someone took a high school production and threw $10 million at it.
This film is one of the first to come out of Here! TV -- the new all-gay cable channel. If this is the best they can do, they are in deep trouble.
Perhaps the truest comment came from the Reel Affirmations audience. It is notoriously difficult for any film to do better in the audience rankings than the closing night film. As noted at the top of this post, the closing night film is invariably a comedy with high production values. Being freshest in the mind of the audience, audiences almost always give it very high marks (whether it deserves it or not). But this time, the closing night film did not get the audience's highest marks. That honor went to "Brother to Brother," a film which had screened to a small audience on a Thursday night.
That says something about the dreck that is "Straight-Jacket."
"But I want children."
"Do you want to see them...melt?"
It's hard to be objective about opening and closing night films. After all, these are invariably comedies (comedies make for happier audiences) with uplifting messages (uplifting messages make for happier audiences) with lots of name-brand stars in cameo or small roles (name-brand stars make for happier audiences) and high production values (high production values make for happier audiences).
This studied manipulation triggers a natural response to be harsh and judgmental in me. I don't like being manipulated.
That being said, I still don't like "Straight-Jacket."
Directed and written by Richard Day, based on his play of the same name, the film tries to skewer the studio era in Hollywood. Guy Stone (veteran actor Matt Letscher) is intended to be a Rock Hudson knock-off. But both the script and Letscher end up channeling a smarmy, cruel, baritone-voiced version of George Hamilton instead, which makes for both an unpleasant character and an unpleasant performance. Rather than skewering '50s stereotypes, the film creates a modern caricature that bears no resemblance to a 1950s Hollywood star.
Indeed, the film runs into problems almost immediately. Guy Stone is such a reprehensible human being that the audience has trouble liking this waste of human skin. Unlike a Rock Hudson who was sweetly promiscuous, Guy Stone is a hateful person who knowingly uses and then throws away the sweet, handsome young men who share his bed every few hours.
Stage actor Michael Emerson appears as Victor, Stone's Georgia-born butler with the cultivated, upper-class accent. Victor is an unoriginal character: The sarcastic butler with the venomous tongue. Far more interesting servants have been brought to life -- Robert Picardo's bitingly funny Emergency Medical Holographic Program aka The Doctor on the first season of "Star Trek: Voyager"; Daniel Davis' cutting and observant Niles the Butler on "The Nanny"; and Joseph Marcell's annoyed and earthy Jeffrey Butler the Butler on "The Fresh Prince of Bel Air." Although Emerson provides adequate characterization and brings some verve to Victor, the lines are simply not that funny. Victor should have stinging lines, but in fact has merely funny ones.
Veronica Cartwright portrays Jerry, Stone's celibate lesbian agent and manager. Cartwright is very good, probably the best thing in the film. But the director doesn't quite know what to do with her. Cartwright's delivery is slightly off, and she fumbles a few lines. The fault lies in the dialogue, which is a bit clumsy. Too often, lines flow into one another rather than start and stop. Director-writer Day used to write for TV shows such as "Mad About You" and "The Larry Sanders Show." His most recent project was the poorly received "Good Morning, Miami." Gone is the snappy writing of the earlier shows. Instead, the rambling dialogue and scenic set-ups of "Miami" is present, and the film suffers for it.
Victor Raider-Wexler, a veteran actor of film and television, is perfect as Saul, the pompous and selfish studio executive. It's a role Raider-Wexler has played to perfection many times, and it is almost as if the role were written for him.
Carrie Preston, a young actress known primarily for her supporting roles in B pictures, is Sally -- Saul's ditzy blonde secretary and the woman who figures most prominently in Guy's life. Sadly, The script and Day's direction call for Preston to portray Sally as if she were Ellen Greene in "The Little Shop of Horrors" -- an unoriginal chracterization that, once more, does not lend itself well to creating a likeable character for the audience to relate to. Preston's Sally is good for a laugh, but little else.
Newcomer Adam Greer plays Rick Foster, the liberal author whose book, "Blood Mines," is being made into a Guy Stone film. Greer is lost in this movie. He cannot act, and relies heavily on his supposed good looks. I found him a bit off-putting. He seems to have had a nose job that makes the bridge of his nose end below his eyes, and he has an oddly elongated face and strong jaw that makes me focus more on his features than on what he is saying or doing. (Greer also has a weirdly constructed body. Apparently, he was cast more for his big, brown eyes, black hair, square features and tightly toned and broad-shouldered body. From the front, Greer looks to have a heavily muscled body. From the side, one realizes it is all tone and no mass. It's distracting.)
Rounding out the cast is veteran actor Jack Plotnick, a veteran actor probably best known for portraying Deputy Mayor Allan Finch for a season on "Buffy the Vampire Slayer." (Fellow "Buffy" alum Tom Lenk also appears briefly as a goofy special-effects technician.) Plotnick plays Freddie Stevens, a B-picture star who has communist and sexual pecadilloes. Sadly, Plotnick has almost no comic timing. The character of Freddie Stevens is, like Guy Stone, written more like a modern-day Hollywood actor (he's fascinated by pot, tanning salons, body waxing and so on), and the way the character is written does nothing for the film.
Like many recent films, "Straight-Jacket" is a "dramedy" -- a comedy film which switches messily to a drama about two-thirds of the way through the film. And, like almost all dramedies, "Straight-Jacket" fails miserably.
The film opens with Guy Stone kicking a hot young stud out of bed. The jokes come fast and furious, and the script and direction (thankfully) permit the audience time to laugh before the next line comes. Despite the expensive use of Skywalker Sound, the sound quality of the film leaves a lot of be desired. While Letscher's comically too-deep voice is clear enough, Emerson's Victor remains soft and mumbly when there isn't a close-up. The over-use of the musical soundtrack creates a distracting amount of cues as well -- and for no good purporse, it seems.
Stone meets with Jerry and Saul in Saul's office, where Sally moons visibly over Guy. Sally is good for some laughs, but it is difficult to see how Sally mimics or imitates either a '50s studio secretary or a Doris Day-type starlet wanna-be. Indeed, the character is more silly than satirical or observant of '50s mores.
After kicking Sally out, Guy learns that he's up for the part of Ben-Hur in Saul's forthcoming remake of the picture. (Why there are production drawsing for "Ben-Hur" on Saul's office wall is mystifying. The number of drawings also changes in subseuqent scenes, an obvious continuity error.) Saul has been considering B-actor Freddie Stevens for the role, but Stevens' star has been sinking and Saul is going to continue using him on "Captain Astro" serials instead. (Yet another mis-guided nod to the '50s: With the advent of television, serials were rare by the 1950s. They were more common in the '30s and '40s. Indeed, television and its impact on Hollywood is notably missing in this film.) Worse, the FBI has been nosing about the studio looking for Communists. Stevens is a noted Red and has an addiction to marijuana ("I would never have sold it to those kids had I known it was pot!"). Saul is thinking of turning him over to the feds, just to get them off his back.
Celebrating his good fortune, Guy heads for a local nondescript gay bar to pick up a date. Freddie follows him. Once Guy is inside, Freddie calls the police and gets a good picture of Guy being led out in handcuffs which he then turns over to the tabloids.
The following day, Saul is ready to let Guy hang in the wind and give Freddie the "Ben-Hur" role. But Jerry comes up with a plan: Give the tabloids something better. At first, they scheme to give them squeaky-clean actress Betty Bright. ("Tell them she's addicted to smack." "Betty Bright is addicted to smack?" "She will be when I'm done with her.") But when Sally moons over Guy Stone one more time, Saul and Jerry concoct a scheme to have Guy marry Sally. Rather than tell Sally the truth about Guy's homosexuality and have to bribe her to keep her mouth shut, Jerry and Saul decide it would be easier to keep her in the dark. In nine months, Guy will head to Europe. When "Ben-Hur" is released in a year, he'll be able to divorce Sally and go back to his philandering ways.
The wedding occurs, and Guy and Sally set up house. Before you can say "plastic-covered furniture," Sally has torn Guy's trendy, modernist home apart and turned it into a prototypical 1950s house torn from the pages of "Better Homes & Gardens" magazine. This transformation could have held a lot of comic and satirical potential. I'm reminded of the dead-on ribbing that "Little Shop of Horrors" delivered -- complete with TV dinners, Howdy Doody on TV, print poodle skirts and separate beds. Instead, "Straight-Jacket" decides to have a troop of homosexual moving-men troop through the house. The subsequent transformation is incomplete and half-assed, almost as if the production ran out of money to fully transform the Guy Stone House set into a true 1950s home reminiscent of "Happy Days."
Naturally, Sally pressures Guy to eat her goopy, cheese-laden dinners and marshmallow-and-gelatin desserts, give her children (Guy dissuades her by claiming he won't have children for the Reds to nuke) and to "spend time at home when you're not at the office or hunting." It's an oddly incomplete picture of the 1950s. (I half-expected Guy to mention "going to the club," as any good 1950s husband might. Only, it never happened. There was much comic potential there, but it was never followed up on.)
Guy's salvation comes when he realizes that '50s husbands "lay down the rules" for their wives. Subsequently, he orders Sally never to root through his things, never look in the crumpled paper bags in the back of his closet -- and to get separate beds and bedrooms. Sally, discouraged, agrees. The problem here is that, once more, Guy comes off cruel and vicious rather than authoritatively satirical. Compare the way "Straight-Jacket" tackles its subject matter to the way that "The Naked Gun" does. When Lt. Drebbin is speaking at the press conference, he discusses security for the forthcoming visit by the Queen of England. He casually mentions that "no matter how silly the idea of a queen is to us, we must be gracious and considerate hosts." Drebbin's appallingly tactless comment is meant seriously and graciously by the goofball lieutenant. Guy Stone's orders, however, are not in tune with '50s-style husbandry but rather are manipulative. Once more, Stone comes off selfish and cold, and his treatment of Sally is cruel rather than funny. It's not even black humor, it's just brutality.
Things get a bit complicated when Guy runs into the handsome novelist Rick Foster. Foster wrote a book about a unionization drive among mine workers, and the book is being turned into Guy's next movie. Now, this makes no sense, plot-wise. I thought Guy was supposed to be preparing for "Ben-Hur"? Why is he suddenly doing another movie? Second, the dialogue indicates that a fair amount of time has passed. Yet there are no visual or behavioral clues to indicate this. The result is that I'm a bit startled by the time-shift.
Rick is liberal and principled -- everything Guy is not. In addition, Rick is handsome and muscular -- everything Guy lusts for. FBI investigations into the studio lead Saul to order script rewrites, to tone down the progressive elements of Rick's movie. Guy decides to try to seduce Rick by inviting him over to his home.
Naturally, Rick is gay and butch. Guy's cosmopolitan ways have little effect on him. Yet, inexplicably, Guy charms the pants (literally) off Rick. This whole bit makes no sense. Rick is principled -- except when it comes to the scheming, manipulative Guy. Rick is liberal and hates materialism -- except when it comes to the wealthy, materialistic Guy. Had Rick somehow been depicted as bowled over by Guy's beauty or open homosexuality, or for any reason for that matter, it might have made sense. But there is no good reason, and the film just collapses.
So begins a long series of montage images, as Guy and Rick's romance blossoms and Sally becomes increasingly depressed and lonely.
Soon, it is almost time for Guy to leave for Italy to begin filming "Ben-Hur." Guy plans to take Rick along. But Rick is having second-thoughts. Once more, the film treats these characters as if they were modern men: Rick wants Guy to be an open homosexual, like himself. This makes absolutely no sense. Had the script called for both men to hide their sexuality, hilarity would have ensued. We could have seen endless vignettes about Truman Capote-like authors talking to Rick. We could have had references to Flannery O'Connor or endless jokes about "Papa" Hemingway's butch masculinity. But no. The film degenerates into a preachy tale about coming out -- something that was inconceivable in the 1950s.
Inexplicably, Freddie Stevens has not been turned over to the FBI yet. He's still hanging around, and as the filming date for "Ben-Hur" approaches he becomes more and more upset. Guy decides to hold a release party for his mine-worker film at his home. There, he and Rick meet in a back bedroom and make love. An unfortunate series of events leads Sally to burst in on them and Freddie to get a picture of it.
Guy is ruined. He's kicked out of his home and moves in with Rick. They suffer from gaybashings and other harassment. But together, they begin writing a theatrical play called "Dreamcrushers," in which two gay lovers are outed and their dreams crushed. Sally becomes a lush. Freddie moves in with her, and wins the part of Ben-Hur.
Needless to say, it's not the end of the world. Guy's outing has only emboldened the FBI, which is breathing heavily down the studio's neck. For some inexplicable reason, Saul and Jerry decide to resurrect Guy's career by claiming it was all a hoax. The studio will televise an FBI hearing into homosexuals and Communism in Hollywood. There, Guy will claim it was all a hoax designed to expose the real criminal -- Freddie Stevens.
Guy is ecstatic and wants to destroy Stevens. But Rick sees this as yet another lie, one which will put Guy back into the closet. Guy is deeply conflicted. He goes to see Sally, who has taken to making lemonade out of vodka rather than water. Guy heads home, only to find that Rick has been the victim of a gay-bashing. Devastated by the change in his ex-wife and the attack on Rick, Guy resolves to do good.
At the hearing, Guy decides to tell the truth. In what is supposed to be a moving and emotional statement of his beliefs, he admits that he was a homosexual and a Communist. (The audience is supposed to go "Awww!" when he does this.)
But before Guy can defend these beliefs, Sally intervenes. She claims that she was part of a vast conspiracy to seduce Hollywood's leading men and turn them into homosexual Communists. She fingers Freddie as the main culprit. The FBI leads Freddie off in handcuffs, and Guy is safe. Saul is so impressed with Sally's acting that he declares her his new star.
None of this makes any sense, naturally. Guy is still outed, but for some reason this has no effect on his career. Rick and Guy see no problem with Sally lying to protect them, and so the moral quandaries raised earlier in the film just disappear. All's well that ends well, as societal homophobia is just finessed away. Even Jerry meets a drag queen-cum-Saul's wife, who golfs.
Unfortunately, none of the production values manage to save this film. The cinematography by Michael Pinkey is pedestrian. At times, the film almost looks like a filmed play rather than a motion picture (notably the scenes in Saul's office). It's uniformly restricted to medium shots, and incredibly static. The editing by Chris Conlee doesn't do the film any justice, either. Long scenes which would benefit from the insertion of close-ups or shifts in point of view remain uncut. Whether this is due to lack of coverage or bad editing is not clear, but the overall effect is, once again, to create a sense of lethargy.
The film relies heavily on CGI effects of Guy's home, created by visual effect designer Thomas Dickens. But the CGI looks clumsy and hokey, and it is very noticeably amateurish.
My overall impression of this film is that the jokes are cheap and easy, the plot muddled, the characterizations wildly inconsistent and way off the mark, the satire nonexistent, the performances overbroad and the comic timing off. It's almost an amateurish film. It is as if someone took a high school production and threw $10 million at it.
This film is one of the first to come out of Here! TV -- the new all-gay cable channel. If this is the best they can do, they are in deep trouble.
Perhaps the truest comment came from the Reel Affirmations audience. It is notoriously difficult for any film to do better in the audience rankings than the closing night film. As noted at the top of this post, the closing night film is invariably a comedy with high production values. Being freshest in the mind of the audience, audiences almost always give it very high marks (whether it deserves it or not). But this time, the closing night film did not get the audience's highest marks. That honor went to "Brother to Brother," a film which had screened to a small audience on a Thursday night.
That says something about the dreck that is "Straight-Jacket."
Labels: gay cinema
Reel Affirmations Film Festival, Day 10 -- Part 2:
"Fakts still exist, even if they are ignored."
Two years ago, a tidal wave of depressing GLBT films hit the film festival market. Most of them were extremely well-made, which led Reel Affirmations to book them into the festival. This, in turn, caused a very strong backlash from festival-goers -- the vast majority of whom came to the festival to see uplifting and positive images of gay men...not poisoners, psychotics, serial killers and mutilators. The reaction was so strong that festival staff had to apologize from the podium.
The 4 p.m. program on Saturday, October 23, was titled "Men on the Verge." This title had nothing to do with the short films screened, however. In fact, festival staff admitted from the stage that these films were really the best-produced films in the festival. One wonders, then, just what this program was meant to be. It seems to be an affliction of most of the short programs this year.
More, there seems to have been a secondary infection as well: Almost all of these films were real downers. While I am not averse to depressing film, it gets to be a bit much when blasted by it for 90 minutes. Programmers need to acknowledge that a well-rounded program might not necessarily include the best films of the year...that, in order to make a program better, a film with slightly lower production values, poorer acting or a more impoverished script may be necessary in order to alleviate the overall despairing tone of a program.
But anyway, here is my take on "Men on the Verge":
In particular, I noticed that many of the shorts this year were not produced in 2004. Many were as old as 2001! In some ways, I am a bit troubled by this.
A festival programmer told me this week that they requested 400 short films. But only 150 screeners ever arrived. That's astonishing. One has to wonder exactly what GLBT filmmakers were thinking. Are they idiots? Reel Affirmations is the third-largest GLBT film festival in the United States in terms of attendance. One would think that a filmmaker would be glad to send a screener around. After all, a screener need only be a VHS copy of a film. With one master, it's easy to duplicate more screeners -- for only the cost of a blank VHS tape.
I am deeply troubled by the reaction of GLBT filmmakers in this regard. I believe that this says something about them -- something about their commitment to their audiences, and something about their commitment to their art. It is not something positive at all.
The next time I hear a GLBT filmmaker complain about support from gay audiences, I am going to respond with derision. I just don't believe it.
The lack of recent GLBT shorts also says something, I think, about the changing nature of filmmaking. Short films used to be a training ground for filmmakers who wanted to learn their craft before tackling feature-length scripts and films. For film school graduates, short films are the sole vehicle for their senior thesis. Subsequently, GLBT-themed shorts were never in short supply (no pun intended).
But the lack of short films made in the last 18 months says something about the size of the pool on which to draw.
It worries me. It indicates that fewer and fewer short films are going to be of recent vintage. It worries me because the best short films of the past have already been screened, and that film festival programmers are going to be drawing on the second-best films of the past in order to fill out short film programs. It worries me because it means that short film programs will be fewer in nature -- which means that more features will be needed, and that means features of lower quality.
Too, most of the short films we saw this year were foreign in nature. Britain, France, Australia, Norway -- these are the countries producing short films now. And almost all of these short films were financed with state money. What does this say about the availability of money for American-made short films? What does it say about how this will truncate the "voice" of American cinema? I think none of the answers are positive, and that should worry anyone who loves film.
I hope that next year's festival proves that my fears are completely unfounded.
"Fakts still exist, even if they are ignored."
Two years ago, a tidal wave of depressing GLBT films hit the film festival market. Most of them were extremely well-made, which led Reel Affirmations to book them into the festival. This, in turn, caused a very strong backlash from festival-goers -- the vast majority of whom came to the festival to see uplifting and positive images of gay men...not poisoners, psychotics, serial killers and mutilators. The reaction was so strong that festival staff had to apologize from the podium.
The 4 p.m. program on Saturday, October 23, was titled "Men on the Verge." This title had nothing to do with the short films screened, however. In fact, festival staff admitted from the stage that these films were really the best-produced films in the festival. One wonders, then, just what this program was meant to be. It seems to be an affliction of most of the short programs this year.
More, there seems to have been a secondary infection as well: Almost all of these films were real downers. While I am not averse to depressing film, it gets to be a bit much when blasted by it for 90 minutes. Programmers need to acknowledge that a well-rounded program might not necessarily include the best films of the year...that, in order to make a program better, a film with slightly lower production values, poorer acting or a more impoverished script may be necessary in order to alleviate the overall despairing tone of a program.
But anyway, here is my take on "Men on the Verge":
- "Two Minutes After Midnight" (Seamus Rea, director and writer; 12 min.) -- Directed by a Briton and filmed in Australia under the auspices of the UCLA Film, Theater and Television School, this film is a predictable if funny fairy-tale about an average young man who can't get the handsome muscle-boy of his dreams to do anything but spit invective at him. He flees to the bathroom, where he meets a guardian angel who gives him a magic ring. Twist it three times, and you'll turn into the guy your dreamboat wants most. One, two, three -- and Our Hero has turned into a golden-haired god. But the muscleboy turns out to be a shallow narcissist. Our Hero spits invective at him. But, upon seeing yet another hot guy, Our Hero returns to the bathroom. One, two three -- and Our Hero turns into a woman! "Just like me to pick the only straight guy in the joint." The film is pretty predictable from here on out. Our Hero turns into Mom, an old sugar-daddy, a leatherman, a rubber fetishist and even Adolf Hitler. Hours pass. With the final twist, Our Hero leaves the bathroom -- but looking just like himself. Oh no: It's two minutes past midnight! Dejected, our hero leaves the club. As he walks past a handsome young man, the man turns to his friend and says, "He's perfect...but he never showed any interest in me." (Take note of the lover who breaks up a kiss between a handsome black stud and his boyfriend in the background.) The few verbal jokes are funny, and the editing works extremely well to present a fast and furious series of sight-gags at the crucial moment. But the film's moralizing rankles. Is the film saying that handsome men are never nice? Or that fetishes are not attractive? Or that average guys must "stay in your league"? The film is trying to say "be true to yourself." But there are mixed messages here which I find unpalatable, and that diminishes the film after the series of sight-gags.
- "A Wonderful Day" (Robbie Baldwin, director and writer; 13 min.) -- A young drag queen is performing in a club when he gets a phone call informing him that his sick mother is finally dying. Off he rushes. In the cab, he tries desperately to remove his make-up so that his mother won't realize he's a gay drag-queen. The sympathetic cab driver stops to let the man wash it off, and he even loans the kid his own clothes after the drag-queen realizes he forgot his masculine drag back at the club. Throughout the ride in the cab, the two listen to the radio as Australian swimmer Ian Thorpe prepares to win gold in the Olympics. The young drag queen remembers how, as a young boy, his mother encouraged him to overcome his fears and take a plunge off the high-dive. The young man's sister arrives, and so do two drag queens from the club. The sister is horrified to see who her brother associates with. As the hospital nurses crowd around the TV to watch the Olympics, the mother begins to die. The son tearfully confesses that he's gay and a drag queen to his mother, who whispers her love and acceptance of her son as the others cheer for the winning Olympian. When the mother dies, everyone realizes how insensitive they were. The son remembers how he took the dive, and how his sister loved him afterward. I'm not sure that this film has much to say. Coming out to a dying parent is a scene that's been played out in a number of gay films, and the use of flashbacks to a parent's earlier encouragement as a buttress for one's coming out is another previously-seen device. The film also seems to be laying it on a bit thick. The son isn't merely gay, he's a gay drag-queen -- as if that is somehow much worse. (What is the film saying about drag-queens? I'm not sure that I agree with that message.) Other elements of the film seem implausible and/or hokey: The too-accepting heterosexual cab driver who ends up wearing a dress for a stranger in trouble, the loving comraderie of the drag performers, the callousness of the oncology ward RNs, the comparison between coming out and Olympic achievement. Some viewers defend the film by arguing that it must be based on a true story and how dare anyone criticize a true story. But I don't know that it is a true story, for one thing. I have to simply take the film as it is. Second, true stories do not necessarily have to be good stories. It is a filmmaker's job to pick the elements that are best, and put only those on screen. While "A Wonderful Day" is well-made and photographed, I can't say that it's a great film.
- "What Grown-Ups Know" (Jonathan Wald, director and writer; 30 min.) -- Based on a short story written by the director's best friend, the film follows Roy (21-year-old, talented actor Stephen James King, who looks all of 15) and his slut of a mother, Elizabeth, on a cross-country flight from Roy's father. Elizabeth (beautiful veteran actress Susie Lindeman, amazingly transformed into a consumptive, turkey-necked hag) is part hooker, part insecure psychotic, part drunk and very, very ill. Her teenage son, Roy, is a cute boy who has an Oedipal attachment to his mother. Just why they are on the road won't be explained until the film's final moments. We first see the two as they flee a motel without paying the bill. The two take a break at a rest stop, where Roy's homosexual desires come flooding to the surface at the sight of sex-hungry, lonely, predatorial men cruising for fresh meat. Roy attempts to solicit sex from a man in a restroom stall, but his mother's calls force him to forego gratification. Roy and Elizabeth soon arrive at an almost-abandoned trailer park, where the park owner is the same man Roy almost had sex with earlier. Elizabeth and Roy convince the man, Maurice (played with broken-down despair by the terrific Aussie TV and film actor Daniel Roberts), to let them stay so long as Roy remains at the trailer park during the day. It's Christmas, which Down Under means steaming hot weather. Elizabeth gets a job as a department store Santa, while Roy attempts to seduce Maurice. But Maurice is having none of it. Elizabeth's worsening illness threatens to cost her her job, and the money she needs to pay Maurice the rent on their broken-down trailer. So Elizabeth gives Maurice her wedding ring. Losing the symbol of his parents' marriage is too much for Roy, who desperately wants the world to be perfect and secure. He finally seduces Maurice. Roy learns that Maurice, too, once had a family. But when his wife learned of his homosexuality, she accused him of molesting their young boy and divorced him. When Elizabeth, too, attempts to seduce Maurice, Roy cannot believe his eyes. But Maurice rejects her. Elizabeth attempts to flee the trailer park in pride, and Roy tells her that he's seduced Maurice and finally found someone to love. Elizabeth spits back that no man will ever love Roy, just as Roy's father never loved her. And then the awful truth comes out: Roy's father rejected Elizabeth when she became ill (with cancer? with HIV?). She tooks the pills, she did the treatments...and then her hair fell out and he kicked her out. Roy refuses to believe his mother. He flees to Maurice, who tells Roy that he cannot love him and that Roy should return to his mother. She's dying, and needs him. Devastated, Roy does the only thing he can: He returns to his mother and admits that he, too, has been rejected by a man. Comrades in arms once more, Elizabeth takes her son back. This short film may, at first, seem luridly melodramatic: The rejected and ill mother, the teenaged son looking for a man's love to provide security in the world, the wrongly accused homosexual man who sees in a teenager a chance to regain the son he lost, the trailer parks, the illness, the two whores (mother and son). But it's not. The characterization is deft and detailed. Elizabeth seems a caricature of a human being, but it is an act -- one she drops when she finally has to stop pretending and confront Roy with the truth about his father and her oncoming death. It is wrenching, watching a human being adopt the most deranged and fantastic behavior in order to cling to hope. Stephen James King's performance as Roy, however, is the real centerpiece of the film. On screen in almost every scene, he portrays Roy as human but troubled. The depth of Roy's insecurity, of his deep-rooted, almost insane, need for love, only slowly comes to the surface in King's performance. As Roy reacts to Maurice's presence, his painful, aching need rises to the surface. The film's climax is superbly well-written, and works beautifully to bring the pieces together sensibly and meaninfully. Elements of the film which seem incurably silly or unreal (particularly Elizabeth's baby-talk, nick-names for Roy, and obsessively slutty behavior) are transformed into powerfully moving characterizations. In some ways, I was reminded of the absurd characters in Eugene O'Neill's "The Iceman Cometh" -- cardboard caricatures at first, but later seen as deeply troubled, despairing human beings coping as best they can with a world which has torn them apart and left them hopeless. This is really a terrific film.
- "Short, White and Pleated" (Georgina Lock, director and writer; 10 min.) -- Sam (really handsome newcome Sam Talbot) is a lackluster squash player. His coach, Mark, only has eyes for Tamsin, a buxom, beautiful female student. It's your typical gay triangle as Sam is clumsy at sports and Tamsin looks down her nose at him while enjoying muscular, handsome Mark's attentions. Then, one day, the women are forced to use the men's locker room. Tamsin leaves behind her short, white pleated skirt. Sam is enthralled, and puts it on. Mark catches him wearing it. But instead of ridiculing him, Mark is attracted to the man in the skirt. Although Tamsin comes back for her skirt, Sam manages to obtain posession of it again by spilling soda on it. Pledging to get it dry-cleaned, Sam wears it for Mark. They make love in the showers. Sam's fascination with the skirt is almost fetishistic, while Mark's lust for Sam in a skirt is powerful and overwhelming. Tamsin's jealousy roars to the surface. When Sam no longer has any excuse for obtaining the skirt, Mark unceremoniously dumps him. The bereft Sam is left alone in the showers. At first, the film plays Sam's fascination with the skirt for laughs. Mark's sudden lust for a transvestite (Sam in the skirt) reverses this dynamic, and turns the film into a lusty sexual adventure instead. The change in tone is a bit abrupt, but it works nonetheless. The best thing about the film, however, is Mark's sudden rejection of Sam once Sam is a "mere homosexual" again. It's so rare for a film to deal with the aftereffects of fetishism on relationships. Healthy fetishism doesn't objectify human beings. But when a straight man loves the fetish and not the person in it, there can be terrible emotional ramifications. It's the lot of many young gay men, who suddenly find that the other boy didn't like him for him, he liked him for the easy sex or the "humiliating" things he would do in bed, or the things (transvestitism, leather fetish, etc.) that the gay man brought to the relationship. It's a painful lesson, and a side of gay relationships rarely seen on film. It's far more common for films to simply depict shallow men having sex with sensitive lovers who end up with broken hearts. Yes, that happens. But the relationship between fetishists is much more complex, which is why this film is welcome. That it is so effective in depicting this relationship is even better. Watch, too, for the simply terrific acting that Sam Talbot brings to the closeted gay character of Sam. His facial expressions are acting gold! His body language, especially in the final shower scene is heart-wrenching. Talbot is superb in this film. You want to watch it over and over, just to see more of his supremely detailed, subtle performance.
- "The Judas Kiss" (Seamus Rea, director and writer; 12 min.) -- Filmed simultaneously with "Two Minutes After Midnight," "The Judas Kiss" picks up that background lover's quarrel that we saw in the background of the previous film. A handsome raven-haired stud kisses his boyfriend and goes off for beers. On his way back, he spots his blond, cute lover kissing a barechested, muscular black stud. What follows is a 10-minute sonic and visual meditation on betrayal. As the "Scherza Infida" aria from Handel's opera, "Ariodante," plays (sung by countertenor David Daniels) , the film attempts to portray the betrayal this kiss entails. Tongues are shown slipping in and out of mouths. The lovers' previous life together had its danger-signs (one was an intellectual and reader; the other a materialistic narcissist). The betrayed lover's eyes brim with tears. The betrayed lover reminisces about his beloved father, and how his father's death made him feel. Over and over, melancholy images are shown -- rain, grey-granite buildings, meditative or longing looks. In slow motion, the lover confronts his cuckold. They break up in the club. The film ends in silence as the betrayed lover smokes a cigarette in bed, only the glowing ember on the tip remaining visible as the film fades to black. It is a real tour-de-force of filmmaking. So often, sound film attempts to use musical cues to tell the audience how to feel. Over-cuing a film can be just as bad as having bad or no sound. "Forcing" the audience to feel through manipulative music can also destroy a film's impact. But "The Judas Kiss" is different. It is a purely cinematic film, in that its use of music is upfront and intentional. Music is no background here; it is not intended to augment the visual. Rather, there are only two elements here -- the aural and the visual. And the aural is an integral part of the storytelling. Indeed, the film goes so far as to provide a subtitle translation of the Italian opera. In many ways, this film is almost an advertisement for opera, and the way that opera and operatic stories contain powerful emotions truths that are reflected even in non-operatic incidents, such as the break-up of two lovers in an Australian discotheque. The visual elements in the film are very good. While eyes brimming with tears and longing looks out over rain-swept vistas are typical heartbreak images, there are other strong, inventive visuals here that provide new insight into the urban heart. I was particularly impressed with the use of cityscapes (notably, the courthouse building) to provide emotional cues about hardness of heart, justice, cold-heartedness and desolation that I've never seen before. The comparison of the lover's break-up to that of death is not new, but comparing it to the father-figure is. I'm not quite sure what to make of that, but it elicited a host of unique emotions from the audience (since it aroused different feelings in different viewers). While not narratively effective, "The Judas Kiss" is a superb bit of filmmaking that deserves watching.
- "Harvey Krumpet" (Adam Elliot, director and writer; 23 min.) -- This is not a gay-themed short. But the director, Adam Elliot, is an openly gay filmmaker who won the Academy Award in 2004 for this animated short film. As noted from the podium prior to its screening, the Reel Affirmations film festival seeks to screen films that are not only about gay people, but also of interest to them. And this film, by an openly gay filmmaker, meets that criteria. Now, so does "Gone with the Wind," but the film festival hasn't screened that. The themes contained in "Harvey Krumpet" are, so it is claimed, gay-friendly themes -- an outsider triumphs against adversity and the vicissitudes of life by being himself. But then, so does "The Women" -- and the film festival hasn't screened that, either. This is a superb short that is well-deserving of an Oscar. Narrated by Geoffrey Rush (who does a competent if unremarkable job), the film follows the life story of a Polish boy born to a lumberjack and his crazy, illiterate wife. Ill-educated at home and suffering from Tourette's, Harvey flees World War II and ends up in Australia. He works hard, but has a bad accident and must have a metal plate put in his head. He's hit by lightning and the plate becomes magnetized. He gets cancer and has a testicle removed, but then his karma changes and he marries a nurse. They adopt a Thalidomide baby, and Harvey becomes an animal rights activist and nudist. Harvey's wife dies, and his daughter grows up to be a famous American lawyer battling for the rights of the disabled. Harvey begins suffering from Alzheimer's, and has a series if hysterical adventures. He slowly sits, waiting to die, but being true to himself despite it all. The end. There are a huge number of visual and verbal jokes in the film, all of which are hysterically funny. The film is poignant, if depressing. The film's central theme (stay true to yourself to be happy) is sometimes lost in all the black humor about Harvey's life, but it resurfaces and is apparent again by the end of the short. The problem is that this is a universal theme, not a gay one. Although it nicely bookends the program with "Two Minutes After Midnight," I wasn't quite sure that the film was the only choice open to the program team. Still, it is rare to find an Oscar-winning film screened at a gay film festival, and I was still glad to see this short (which never, to my knowledge, played theatrically in the U.S.).
In particular, I noticed that many of the shorts this year were not produced in 2004. Many were as old as 2001! In some ways, I am a bit troubled by this.
A festival programmer told me this week that they requested 400 short films. But only 150 screeners ever arrived. That's astonishing. One has to wonder exactly what GLBT filmmakers were thinking. Are they idiots? Reel Affirmations is the third-largest GLBT film festival in the United States in terms of attendance. One would think that a filmmaker would be glad to send a screener around. After all, a screener need only be a VHS copy of a film. With one master, it's easy to duplicate more screeners -- for only the cost of a blank VHS tape.
I am deeply troubled by the reaction of GLBT filmmakers in this regard. I believe that this says something about them -- something about their commitment to their audiences, and something about their commitment to their art. It is not something positive at all.
The next time I hear a GLBT filmmaker complain about support from gay audiences, I am going to respond with derision. I just don't believe it.
The lack of recent GLBT shorts also says something, I think, about the changing nature of filmmaking. Short films used to be a training ground for filmmakers who wanted to learn their craft before tackling feature-length scripts and films. For film school graduates, short films are the sole vehicle for their senior thesis. Subsequently, GLBT-themed shorts were never in short supply (no pun intended).
But the lack of short films made in the last 18 months says something about the size of the pool on which to draw.
It worries me. It indicates that fewer and fewer short films are going to be of recent vintage. It worries me because the best short films of the past have already been screened, and that film festival programmers are going to be drawing on the second-best films of the past in order to fill out short film programs. It worries me because it means that short film programs will be fewer in nature -- which means that more features will be needed, and that means features of lower quality.
Too, most of the short films we saw this year were foreign in nature. Britain, France, Australia, Norway -- these are the countries producing short films now. And almost all of these short films were financed with state money. What does this say about the availability of money for American-made short films? What does it say about how this will truncate the "voice" of American cinema? I think none of the answers are positive, and that should worry anyone who loves film.
I hope that next year's festival proves that my fears are completely unfounded.
Reel Affirmations Film Festival, Day 10:
The winners of the various awards are:
More later.
The winners of the various awards are:
- Best Feature Film (audience award) -- "Brother to Brother"
- Best Documentary (jury award) -- "Colonel Jin Xing"
- Best Women's Short (jury award) -- "Leave It"
- Best Men's Short (jury award) -- "Harvie Krumpet"
More later.
Saturday, October 23, 2004
Reel Affirmations Film Festival, Day Nine:
"And this one's smoking a joint!"
Two good things in the last 24 hours: First, the vivacious B. gave me a ride home last night, so instead of a 45-minute ride of torture on the ever-late Metro, wracked with fever and suffering sniffles, I got a pleasant 20-minute ride home with my friend. Second, the convenience store in the basement of my building finally decided to stock Diet Coke. I bought four 2-liter bottles this morning.
I got 9 hours of sleep, and I'm ready for the final day of the film festival. But first, last night's stuff:
Bear Cub (Cachorro)
First, let me say that I don't need any more proselytizing by Larry Guillmette from the podium. He's the former chairman of the board of One in Ten, the organization which sponsors Reel Affirmations. He has no role now, except as a volunteer (he's handling the Absolut vodka tent in the rear). Half the time, he won't take responsibility for anything (when asked where a certain OiT individual was, he snarled, "Ask someone who works for One in Ten"). The other half, he acts like he's still the chairman (as he did last night).
But, on to the movie: Directed by the veteran gay indie filmmaker Luis Miguel Albaladejo and co-written by Luis Miguel Albaladejo and Salvador Garcia Ruiz, based on Albaladejo's 1996 short film of the same name, this motion picture is, at its heart, really a pretty commonly-used story: A perpetual adolescent (Pedro) finds himself taking care of his sister's precocious son (Bernardo). Pedro has to make a number of adjustments in his life in order to be a good parent. There are the standard humorous scenes of Pedro being an arch-prude when it comes to drugs and sex, followed the standard humorous scenes of a too-adult Bernardo discussing drugs and sex. Soon, a nasty relative (Bernardo's maternal grandmother) enters the picture. She uncovers Pedro's nonconformist lifestyle, and threatens to have Bernardo taken away. A battle ensues, Bernardo is removed from Pedro's life, Pedro and Bernardo suffer heavily, the grandmother realizes she's done something horrible, and by the end of the film Bernardo is back with Pedro.
Pretty standard stuff, eh?
But sometimes the most standard plot elements can be transcended by terrific writing and acting. This is the case with "Bear Cub (Cachorro)".
There are two keys to the film. One is Jose Luis Garcia Perez (Pedro), a 32-year-old relative newcomer to acting. Because he is on screen in almost every scene, his role is key to the film. He handles his gentle moments with Bernardo with real emotion, empathy and naturalness. This is not to say that Garcia Perez is by any means perfect in the role. The character of Pedro is written as a bit of a hothead, and Garcia Perez comes off cruel and unnecessarily vicious when he is required to be angry. Additionally, the script makes Pedro's change from sex-hungry, drug-taking libertine to responsible, loving adult seem relatively smooth and effortless. It shouldn't be; Pedro should have struggled to rein in his free-wheeling qualities.
The second key is David Castillo, the stunning young actor making his feature-film debut as the nine-year-old Bernardo. Castillo is given a difficult task. Bernardo cannot be the typical precocious American brain-child (e.g., Macaulay Culkin in "Home Alone" or Dakota Fanning in "Uptown Girls"). He can't be too smarmy, too brainy, too adult. It would blow the whole feel of the film. And he's not -- which is why this film works. You realize that, despite Bernardo's worldliness, he's still just a scared kid. His fear of leaving his mother (Violeta, played with breezy but superficial wackiness by Elvira Lindo) is palpable -- and a bit out of character, until the audience later realizes that Bernardo's father died from a drug overdose and that his mother is an addict as well. Watch closely: Throughout the film, Bernardo keeps touching the watch his mother gave him, almost as if it were a worry-bead.
It's this very delicate, subtle acting that really helps raise the film from its more mundane roots and into the realm of downright good cinema.
The film has its comic moments (it's being sold as a comedy). But it is really the underlying sub-theme of parenting vs. gay lifestyle that holds the film together. This isn't just a "modern twist on the old tale," either. In a lesser film, the gay elements would simply have been layered on top and never made an essential part of the plot. But in "Bear Cub (Cachorro)", these elements are key to the narrative, and this makes the film much more of a "message" picture than at first blush.
It is not simply that Pedro enjoys having three-ways (the film opens with a graphic sex scene that includes a shot of an erect penis), a daily doobie or haunts underpasses for public sex. The film directly challenges the audience's expectations that such behavior is normal and moral. When one of Pedro's friends rolls a joint in front of Bernardo, Pedro comically lashes out at him. Bernardo comically replies that he knows how to roll a joint because his mother taught him. It's funny, but a too-easy laugh. Later, however, the audience is confronted with the stark reality that drug use is grounds for losing custody of one's child. What is acceptable behavior in the gay community is not accpetable outside that community.
Later, Pedro is given a "night off" by his friends. He heads for a sex club, and then a highway underpass. There, he has sex in public with an unknown man. Unfortunately, Bernardo's fraternal grandmother, Dona Teresa (played with lusty prudishness by the fantastic Empar Ferrer), has set a private detective on Pedro's tail. He photographs the men having sex, and Dona Teresa uses this against Pedro. Once more, the promiscuity admired and accepted in the gay community is shown to be in direct contravention of the larger society's moral -- and, more importantly, legal -- standards.
When even the incriminating photographs do not move Pedro to give up custody of Bernardo, Dona Teresa then obtains Pedro's medical records. We learn Pedro is HIV-positive, and that his lover, Eduardo, died of AIDS five years ago. Unfortunately, Pedro -- who is a doctor -- has never told his patients that he his HIV-positive. Dona Teresa threatens to disclose this fact unless she obtains primary custody of Bernardo. Once more, the audience must confront an ugly truth: HIV and AIDS are accepted as normal in the gay community. But outside that community, HIV is threatening and the source of fear-mongering. Pedro, for his part, knows this and hid the truth about his seroconversion status.
Although it is largely unremarked upon by the film, Pedro decides to protect himself by giving up Bernardo rather than seeing his medical practice destroyed and his patients sue him for distress.
But this is where "Bear Cub (Cachorro)" largely falls apart. Typically, Bernardo suffers heavily for his change in custody. His grandmother sends him off to a boarding school that teaches conservative social mores and English as a second language. There, Bernardo wilts -- lonely, depressed, abandoned. Pedro, too, enters a lengthy depression and seeks solace in greater amounts of meaningless sex (this is depicted as public sex, as if public sex was, essentially, meaningless -- a bit of moralizing the film could have done without). His depression causes health problems for Pedro, and he gets pneumonia. Dona Teresa uses Pedro's illness against him, telling Bernardo that Pedro is dying and that he cannot see his beloved uncle.
The one redeeming quality of the final 20 minutes of the film is Bernardo's reaction to Dona Teresa's cruel lies. Bernardo angrily tells her that he already knew that Pedro had HIV. His mother had it, and his mother told him that Pedro had it. Indeed, Bernardo was born with the HIV antibody in his system and drugs and homeopathic medicine eliminated the antibody after a few years.
Dona Teresa is shocked. But, in a way, it is the progressive, loving, life-affirming free-love community that Violeta and Pedro were part of striking back at the moralistic, prudish legalism represented by Dona Teresa. When no one has secrets, no one can be hurt. Bernardo sees Dona Teresa's cruelty for what it is, and he hates her for it. Dona Teresa loses Bernardo's love forever.
This one scene is the only thing holding the final moments of the film together. It is almost as if the writers didn't know how to end the story. The typical "feel-good" conclusion would have Dona Teresa admitting her error (or dying), and Bernardo returning to the loving arms of his uncle Pedro. But in attempting to evade that trite trap, the writers don't seem to know where to go.
Part of their answer is to engage in a sudden bit of "lessons learned" that doesn't really fit in the film. There is a sudden shift in perspective that they use to accomplish this. Instead of a third-person perspective (which has been used for the previous 115 minutes), the filmmakers adopt a first-person narrative (each character talking to the camera, reading aloud letters they have written to other characters). The narrative shift is intended to make time pass more swiftly (three years pass in the final 15 minutes). It is also permits each character to admit their faults (notably, Violeta -- who disappeared from 90 percent of the movie only to return, awkwardly, at the end).
Despite this shift, the film never quite manages to avoid the pat ending. Dona Teresa does die -- albeit after torturing Bernardo for four years. Bernardo weeps for his grandmother, whom he has finally come to love (although it's impossible to see how that happened). Pedro weeps for the child that might have been, for Bernardo has become less progressive in many ways (although, apparently, a bisexual). And off Bernardo and Pedro go...to where and to what is unclear. (Did Pedro win custody of Bernardo again?)
It is this unsatisfying conclusion to the film that harms the picture more than anything. True, there are other problems. Dona Teresa obviously is a scheming bitch who will stop at nothing (including seducing an elementary school teacher to spy on Violeta's child, despite legal orders for Dona Teresa to keep away from him) to be with her grandson. Yet, Pedro seems ignorant of this and does not realize that Dona Teresa may well try to blackmail him in order to obtain custody of the boy. For all his awareness of how his HIV status could harm him, Pedro doesn't seem aware that his drug use and promiscuity could be used against him. And so much of the film's custody-battle could have been moot had Pedro simply obtained a custody agreement from his imprisoned sister.
However, these problems are really obvious only in retrospect. The film does a superb job of crafting a believable world that makes sense, of sneaking important issues into the plot without being obvious or preachy about it, and in eliciting fine performances out of the key actors that create moving, honest portrayals of human beings in conflict.
I recommend it.
Cowboys and Angels
It's almost unheard of to find a gay-themed movie out of Ireland. But here it is. Wunderkind David Gleeson wrote and directed this, his first feature-film (shot entirely in his native Limerick). 26-year-old Michael Legge (Older Frank in "Angela's Ashes", and having kept off the 30 pounds he lost for that film) plays Shane, a sweet and artistic but fearful young man who is a bit of a mama's boy and geek. Having lost his father in a DUI motor vehicle accident, 18-year-old Shane abandoned college for a secure civil service job. Now, a year later, Shane seeks to move out of his mother's house and into an apartment in the city. But apartments are expensive and not easy to come by.
Soon, however, Shane hooks up with an old schoolmate, Vincent (adorable 23-year-old newcomer Allen Leech). Vincent graduated three years before Shane, and has been attending a local art college. The two move in together.
Vincent is the stereotypical homosexual -- flamboyant, well-dressed, stylish, a good dancer, popular, materialistic. Shane is almost the direct opposite, which tells you right away where this film is headed.
It's not long before Shane is homesick. Limerick is a violent, impersonal place. Shane knows no one. Vincent, however, is picking up tricks right and left (including a handsome older man) and coming home at 8 a.m. Shane's homesickness is worsened by the confessions of Jerry (played with quiet and gentle desperation by the terrific veteran actor Frank Kelly), a civil servant who shares Shane's cubicle. Jerry is on the verge of retirement. But Jerry never married, never had children, and never followed his life's dreams. Now, his life spent, Jerry is overwhelmed by regrets -- regrets which prey on Shane's loneliness.
Shane soon stumbles on a cache of drugs in his apartment building (the incident is not as cheesy or trite as it sounds). When building tenants almost discover him with the drugs, Shane takes them so he won't be caught. But when Keith, the drug dealer, finds his stash missing, he knows it had to be someone in the building who took them. Keith finds Shane attempting to return the drugs, and decides to co-opt the insecure young man.
Shane and Vincent eventually bond, with Shane admitting that he admires the way Vincent easily fits in. (It's a moment of dialogue that had the largely gay audience laughing out loud.) Vincent encourages Shane to try harder, and that means following your dreams and being yourself.
Following Vincent's advice, Shane decides to apply for art school. But the fees and cost of books is horrendously high. Shane makes a fateful decision, and agrees to be a "mule" for one of Keith's drug shipments.
Shane travels to Dublin, where he meets two of Keith's drug buddies. They give him a shipment of hashish and heroin to take back to Limerick. But as the three joyride in a stolen car through rural Dublin, they smash into another vehicle. Horrified (as his father died in a similar accident), Shane is frozen. But the two dealers brutally beat one of the crash victims when he attempts to call for an ambulance for his injured female companion.
Back in Limerick, Shane makes his drop and is rewarded with 800 punts for his trouble.
Shane swallows his fears and horror at what he's done, and asks Vincent to turn him into a stylish social butterfly. Vincent gleefully agrees.
Shane is transformed, and soon draws the attention of Vincent's beautiful blond girlfriend, Gemma. But needing more cash to fund his social experiment, Shane starts helping Keith and his buddies push drugs on other college kids. Shane himself begins a downward spiral into drug use. When Vincent confronts him, and Shane admits that he's been dealing drugs for money. Appalled, Vincent storms out.
Vincent, however, remains unaware of Shane's larger troubles. He's struggling to complete his senior project -- a fashion show for which he has yet to complete any designs. Although Shane is aware of Vincent's need for assistance, he neglects his new friend as he continues to snort, smoke and pop his way through life.
Things come to a head one night in a local dance club. Shane takes a new pill, but it makes him loose control rather than mellow out. Shane spies Vincent and Gemma dancing, and his drug-induced paranoia leads him to attack Vincent. Gemma punches him out, and Shane is bounced from the club. That night, Keith takes Shane back to the apartment -- unaware that Gemma and Vincent are sleeping in Vincent's bedroom. Gemma tries to seduce Vincent, and Keith tries to seduce Shane. But both men reject these advances. It's a moment of truth for each, being true to themselves for once.
The next day, Shane reconciles with Vincent and helps him with his senior project.
But events begin spiralling out of control. Shane attempts to destroy the drugs in his possesion, but completes only half the task when the police burst into the apartment. Finding heroin, pot and crack cocaine, they arrest Shane and Vincent. The two spend the night in jail.
Certain they will be indicted for drug dealing and possession, the two are hauled before a local Detective Inspector -- who, it turns out, is the same man Vincent fucked a few weeks before. The closeted detective lets them go (a ludicrous turn of events).
Off they rush to Vincent's fashion show. It's a wild success -- and stars Shane as the super-model surrounded by hot women in tight clothes.
All's well that ends well: Shane surprises Vincent by using his remaining drug money to buy Vincent an open-ended ticket to New York City, the place Vincent has dreamed of going to pursue his dream of being a fashion designer. Shane decides to abandon his cushy civil service job in favor of art school, and he finally hooks up with the beautiful Gemma.
Shane's learned his lesson: Money and drugs don't make you fit in. Only being true to yourself will get you happiness and what you wish for.
Notice the problems? They're pretty obvious in the film. Once more, a film tries to be a "dramedy" -- mixing comic laughs with serious drama in a mish-mash. The worst example of this is during the drug bust in the boys' apartment. It's supposed to be a serious moment, the devastation of all their dreams. Shane, in particular, is in deep trouble. He's been part of a hit-and-run. He's obstructed justice by not reporting the crime. He's obstructed justice by not reporting the beating. He's engaged in drug possession and drug use and drug transportation and the sale of drugs. He's guilty of assault and battery himself. And he's guilty of destruction of evidence. Yet, the film tries to lighten the mood by cracking jokes (a policeman grabs the stunned Vincent's wrist and declares: "And this one's smoking a joint!"). The audience really can't take any of the "bad" things in the movie seriously (including the film's anti-drug and be-true-to-yourself messages) when it treats them so cavalierly.
But a deeper problem is the uneven characterization in the film. Shane is played by the extremely likeable, decidedly cute -- and terribly talented -- Michael Legge. But there don't seem to be good reasons for what Shane does in the film. Shane tells Vincent that the death of his father had a deep impact on him. Shane should be a rather anti-drunk driving advocate. (He appears to be: He refuses to go to pubs, despite Vincent's encouragement, and is terrified by public drunkeness.) Yet, Shane almost casually tosses away his aversion toward inebriation in order to earn the money to go to art school. Shane's actions wouldn't seem so out of character had Shane's desperation, loneliness and despair seemed deeper and more soul-wrenching. But Shane is depicted as merely being homesick. And why is Shane so deeply influenced by Vincent? After all, Shane barely knows him. Shane's despair is not so apparently awful that Shane would latch onto just any popular person he encountered...and yet, he does so. This would have made more sense had the film spent more time making Vincent into a seemingly impossibly powerful, respected, popular person. But, in fact, Vincent is depicted as a bit insecure, too sweet to be really socially powerful, and not as personally influential or charismatic as he should be in order for Shane to respond as he does.
That exposes a much deeper problem in the film, which is the short shrift given the character of Vincent. Vincent is almost a stereoptyical homosexual, a caricature which does little to advance the plausibility of the main story. Indeed, while the heterosexual characters (primarily Shane) seem real and fleshed-out, Vincent remains a goody-two-shoes stereotype. He has no internal life to speak of, and his friendship with Shane remains inexplicable. Indeed, the film's big emotional moment comes when Shane attempts to reconcile with Vincent. And Vincent just takes him back -- which implies that Vincent is some sort of cardboard character who does what the author wants him to, or Vincent is a doormat of a human being who loves forgiving the abusive friends he has.
It's these sort of problems that the film stumbles over repeatedly. And although "Cowboys and Angels" is pleasant enough (and, thank god!, Irish in origin), well-acted, funny and interesting, the film really doesn't hold together in the end. By the time Shane and Vincent are released from jail (the coincidence of the inspector being Vincent's trick is just too implausible, and their release is farcical), the audience has largely given up on trying to make sense of things or care about the characters. There's plenty of heart here, but the script needed a lot of re-thinking. I look forward to David Gleeson's next film, however, and to more from Michael Legge and Allen Leech.
"And this one's smoking a joint!"
Two good things in the last 24 hours: First, the vivacious B. gave me a ride home last night, so instead of a 45-minute ride of torture on the ever-late Metro, wracked with fever and suffering sniffles, I got a pleasant 20-minute ride home with my friend. Second, the convenience store in the basement of my building finally decided to stock Diet Coke. I bought four 2-liter bottles this morning.
I got 9 hours of sleep, and I'm ready for the final day of the film festival. But first, last night's stuff:
Bear Cub (Cachorro)
First, let me say that I don't need any more proselytizing by Larry Guillmette from the podium. He's the former chairman of the board of One in Ten, the organization which sponsors Reel Affirmations. He has no role now, except as a volunteer (he's handling the Absolut vodka tent in the rear). Half the time, he won't take responsibility for anything (when asked where a certain OiT individual was, he snarled, "Ask someone who works for One in Ten"). The other half, he acts like he's still the chairman (as he did last night).
But, on to the movie: Directed by the veteran gay indie filmmaker Luis Miguel Albaladejo and co-written by Luis Miguel Albaladejo and Salvador Garcia Ruiz, based on Albaladejo's 1996 short film of the same name, this motion picture is, at its heart, really a pretty commonly-used story: A perpetual adolescent (Pedro) finds himself taking care of his sister's precocious son (Bernardo). Pedro has to make a number of adjustments in his life in order to be a good parent. There are the standard humorous scenes of Pedro being an arch-prude when it comes to drugs and sex, followed the standard humorous scenes of a too-adult Bernardo discussing drugs and sex. Soon, a nasty relative (Bernardo's maternal grandmother) enters the picture. She uncovers Pedro's nonconformist lifestyle, and threatens to have Bernardo taken away. A battle ensues, Bernardo is removed from Pedro's life, Pedro and Bernardo suffer heavily, the grandmother realizes she's done something horrible, and by the end of the film Bernardo is back with Pedro.
Pretty standard stuff, eh?
But sometimes the most standard plot elements can be transcended by terrific writing and acting. This is the case with "Bear Cub (Cachorro)".
There are two keys to the film. One is Jose Luis Garcia Perez (Pedro), a 32-year-old relative newcomer to acting. Because he is on screen in almost every scene, his role is key to the film. He handles his gentle moments with Bernardo with real emotion, empathy and naturalness. This is not to say that Garcia Perez is by any means perfect in the role. The character of Pedro is written as a bit of a hothead, and Garcia Perez comes off cruel and unnecessarily vicious when he is required to be angry. Additionally, the script makes Pedro's change from sex-hungry, drug-taking libertine to responsible, loving adult seem relatively smooth and effortless. It shouldn't be; Pedro should have struggled to rein in his free-wheeling qualities.
The second key is David Castillo, the stunning young actor making his feature-film debut as the nine-year-old Bernardo. Castillo is given a difficult task. Bernardo cannot be the typical precocious American brain-child (e.g., Macaulay Culkin in "Home Alone" or Dakota Fanning in "Uptown Girls"). He can't be too smarmy, too brainy, too adult. It would blow the whole feel of the film. And he's not -- which is why this film works. You realize that, despite Bernardo's worldliness, he's still just a scared kid. His fear of leaving his mother (Violeta, played with breezy but superficial wackiness by Elvira Lindo) is palpable -- and a bit out of character, until the audience later realizes that Bernardo's father died from a drug overdose and that his mother is an addict as well. Watch closely: Throughout the film, Bernardo keeps touching the watch his mother gave him, almost as if it were a worry-bead.
It's this very delicate, subtle acting that really helps raise the film from its more mundane roots and into the realm of downright good cinema.
The film has its comic moments (it's being sold as a comedy). But it is really the underlying sub-theme of parenting vs. gay lifestyle that holds the film together. This isn't just a "modern twist on the old tale," either. In a lesser film, the gay elements would simply have been layered on top and never made an essential part of the plot. But in "Bear Cub (Cachorro)", these elements are key to the narrative, and this makes the film much more of a "message" picture than at first blush.
It is not simply that Pedro enjoys having three-ways (the film opens with a graphic sex scene that includes a shot of an erect penis), a daily doobie or haunts underpasses for public sex. The film directly challenges the audience's expectations that such behavior is normal and moral. When one of Pedro's friends rolls a joint in front of Bernardo, Pedro comically lashes out at him. Bernardo comically replies that he knows how to roll a joint because his mother taught him. It's funny, but a too-easy laugh. Later, however, the audience is confronted with the stark reality that drug use is grounds for losing custody of one's child. What is acceptable behavior in the gay community is not accpetable outside that community.
Later, Pedro is given a "night off" by his friends. He heads for a sex club, and then a highway underpass. There, he has sex in public with an unknown man. Unfortunately, Bernardo's fraternal grandmother, Dona Teresa (played with lusty prudishness by the fantastic Empar Ferrer), has set a private detective on Pedro's tail. He photographs the men having sex, and Dona Teresa uses this against Pedro. Once more, the promiscuity admired and accepted in the gay community is shown to be in direct contravention of the larger society's moral -- and, more importantly, legal -- standards.
When even the incriminating photographs do not move Pedro to give up custody of Bernardo, Dona Teresa then obtains Pedro's medical records. We learn Pedro is HIV-positive, and that his lover, Eduardo, died of AIDS five years ago. Unfortunately, Pedro -- who is a doctor -- has never told his patients that he his HIV-positive. Dona Teresa threatens to disclose this fact unless she obtains primary custody of Bernardo. Once more, the audience must confront an ugly truth: HIV and AIDS are accepted as normal in the gay community. But outside that community, HIV is threatening and the source of fear-mongering. Pedro, for his part, knows this and hid the truth about his seroconversion status.
Although it is largely unremarked upon by the film, Pedro decides to protect himself by giving up Bernardo rather than seeing his medical practice destroyed and his patients sue him for distress.
But this is where "Bear Cub (Cachorro)" largely falls apart. Typically, Bernardo suffers heavily for his change in custody. His grandmother sends him off to a boarding school that teaches conservative social mores and English as a second language. There, Bernardo wilts -- lonely, depressed, abandoned. Pedro, too, enters a lengthy depression and seeks solace in greater amounts of meaningless sex (this is depicted as public sex, as if public sex was, essentially, meaningless -- a bit of moralizing the film could have done without). His depression causes health problems for Pedro, and he gets pneumonia. Dona Teresa uses Pedro's illness against him, telling Bernardo that Pedro is dying and that he cannot see his beloved uncle.
The one redeeming quality of the final 20 minutes of the film is Bernardo's reaction to Dona Teresa's cruel lies. Bernardo angrily tells her that he already knew that Pedro had HIV. His mother had it, and his mother told him that Pedro had it. Indeed, Bernardo was born with the HIV antibody in his system and drugs and homeopathic medicine eliminated the antibody after a few years.
Dona Teresa is shocked. But, in a way, it is the progressive, loving, life-affirming free-love community that Violeta and Pedro were part of striking back at the moralistic, prudish legalism represented by Dona Teresa. When no one has secrets, no one can be hurt. Bernardo sees Dona Teresa's cruelty for what it is, and he hates her for it. Dona Teresa loses Bernardo's love forever.
This one scene is the only thing holding the final moments of the film together. It is almost as if the writers didn't know how to end the story. The typical "feel-good" conclusion would have Dona Teresa admitting her error (or dying), and Bernardo returning to the loving arms of his uncle Pedro. But in attempting to evade that trite trap, the writers don't seem to know where to go.
Part of their answer is to engage in a sudden bit of "lessons learned" that doesn't really fit in the film. There is a sudden shift in perspective that they use to accomplish this. Instead of a third-person perspective (which has been used for the previous 115 minutes), the filmmakers adopt a first-person narrative (each character talking to the camera, reading aloud letters they have written to other characters). The narrative shift is intended to make time pass more swiftly (three years pass in the final 15 minutes). It is also permits each character to admit their faults (notably, Violeta -- who disappeared from 90 percent of the movie only to return, awkwardly, at the end).
Despite this shift, the film never quite manages to avoid the pat ending. Dona Teresa does die -- albeit after torturing Bernardo for four years. Bernardo weeps for his grandmother, whom he has finally come to love (although it's impossible to see how that happened). Pedro weeps for the child that might have been, for Bernardo has become less progressive in many ways (although, apparently, a bisexual). And off Bernardo and Pedro go...to where and to what is unclear. (Did Pedro win custody of Bernardo again?)
It is this unsatisfying conclusion to the film that harms the picture more than anything. True, there are other problems. Dona Teresa obviously is a scheming bitch who will stop at nothing (including seducing an elementary school teacher to spy on Violeta's child, despite legal orders for Dona Teresa to keep away from him) to be with her grandson. Yet, Pedro seems ignorant of this and does not realize that Dona Teresa may well try to blackmail him in order to obtain custody of the boy. For all his awareness of how his HIV status could harm him, Pedro doesn't seem aware that his drug use and promiscuity could be used against him. And so much of the film's custody-battle could have been moot had Pedro simply obtained a custody agreement from his imprisoned sister.
However, these problems are really obvious only in retrospect. The film does a superb job of crafting a believable world that makes sense, of sneaking important issues into the plot without being obvious or preachy about it, and in eliciting fine performances out of the key actors that create moving, honest portrayals of human beings in conflict.
I recommend it.
Cowboys and Angels
It's almost unheard of to find a gay-themed movie out of Ireland. But here it is. Wunderkind David Gleeson wrote and directed this, his first feature-film (shot entirely in his native Limerick). 26-year-old Michael Legge (Older Frank in "Angela's Ashes", and having kept off the 30 pounds he lost for that film) plays Shane, a sweet and artistic but fearful young man who is a bit of a mama's boy and geek. Having lost his father in a DUI motor vehicle accident, 18-year-old Shane abandoned college for a secure civil service job. Now, a year later, Shane seeks to move out of his mother's house and into an apartment in the city. But apartments are expensive and not easy to come by.
Soon, however, Shane hooks up with an old schoolmate, Vincent (adorable 23-year-old newcomer Allen Leech). Vincent graduated three years before Shane, and has been attending a local art college. The two move in together.
Vincent is the stereotypical homosexual -- flamboyant, well-dressed, stylish, a good dancer, popular, materialistic. Shane is almost the direct opposite, which tells you right away where this film is headed.
It's not long before Shane is homesick. Limerick is a violent, impersonal place. Shane knows no one. Vincent, however, is picking up tricks right and left (including a handsome older man) and coming home at 8 a.m. Shane's homesickness is worsened by the confessions of Jerry (played with quiet and gentle desperation by the terrific veteran actor Frank Kelly), a civil servant who shares Shane's cubicle. Jerry is on the verge of retirement. But Jerry never married, never had children, and never followed his life's dreams. Now, his life spent, Jerry is overwhelmed by regrets -- regrets which prey on Shane's loneliness.
Shane soon stumbles on a cache of drugs in his apartment building (the incident is not as cheesy or trite as it sounds). When building tenants almost discover him with the drugs, Shane takes them so he won't be caught. But when Keith, the drug dealer, finds his stash missing, he knows it had to be someone in the building who took them. Keith finds Shane attempting to return the drugs, and decides to co-opt the insecure young man.
Shane and Vincent eventually bond, with Shane admitting that he admires the way Vincent easily fits in. (It's a moment of dialogue that had the largely gay audience laughing out loud.) Vincent encourages Shane to try harder, and that means following your dreams and being yourself.
Following Vincent's advice, Shane decides to apply for art school. But the fees and cost of books is horrendously high. Shane makes a fateful decision, and agrees to be a "mule" for one of Keith's drug shipments.
Shane travels to Dublin, where he meets two of Keith's drug buddies. They give him a shipment of hashish and heroin to take back to Limerick. But as the three joyride in a stolen car through rural Dublin, they smash into another vehicle. Horrified (as his father died in a similar accident), Shane is frozen. But the two dealers brutally beat one of the crash victims when he attempts to call for an ambulance for his injured female companion.
Back in Limerick, Shane makes his drop and is rewarded with 800 punts for his trouble.
Shane swallows his fears and horror at what he's done, and asks Vincent to turn him into a stylish social butterfly. Vincent gleefully agrees.
Shane is transformed, and soon draws the attention of Vincent's beautiful blond girlfriend, Gemma. But needing more cash to fund his social experiment, Shane starts helping Keith and his buddies push drugs on other college kids. Shane himself begins a downward spiral into drug use. When Vincent confronts him, and Shane admits that he's been dealing drugs for money. Appalled, Vincent storms out.
Vincent, however, remains unaware of Shane's larger troubles. He's struggling to complete his senior project -- a fashion show for which he has yet to complete any designs. Although Shane is aware of Vincent's need for assistance, he neglects his new friend as he continues to snort, smoke and pop his way through life.
Things come to a head one night in a local dance club. Shane takes a new pill, but it makes him loose control rather than mellow out. Shane spies Vincent and Gemma dancing, and his drug-induced paranoia leads him to attack Vincent. Gemma punches him out, and Shane is bounced from the club. That night, Keith takes Shane back to the apartment -- unaware that Gemma and Vincent are sleeping in Vincent's bedroom. Gemma tries to seduce Vincent, and Keith tries to seduce Shane. But both men reject these advances. It's a moment of truth for each, being true to themselves for once.
The next day, Shane reconciles with Vincent and helps him with his senior project.
But events begin spiralling out of control. Shane attempts to destroy the drugs in his possesion, but completes only half the task when the police burst into the apartment. Finding heroin, pot and crack cocaine, they arrest Shane and Vincent. The two spend the night in jail.
Certain they will be indicted for drug dealing and possession, the two are hauled before a local Detective Inspector -- who, it turns out, is the same man Vincent fucked a few weeks before. The closeted detective lets them go (a ludicrous turn of events).
Off they rush to Vincent's fashion show. It's a wild success -- and stars Shane as the super-model surrounded by hot women in tight clothes.
All's well that ends well: Shane surprises Vincent by using his remaining drug money to buy Vincent an open-ended ticket to New York City, the place Vincent has dreamed of going to pursue his dream of being a fashion designer. Shane decides to abandon his cushy civil service job in favor of art school, and he finally hooks up with the beautiful Gemma.
Shane's learned his lesson: Money and drugs don't make you fit in. Only being true to yourself will get you happiness and what you wish for.
Notice the problems? They're pretty obvious in the film. Once more, a film tries to be a "dramedy" -- mixing comic laughs with serious drama in a mish-mash. The worst example of this is during the drug bust in the boys' apartment. It's supposed to be a serious moment, the devastation of all their dreams. Shane, in particular, is in deep trouble. He's been part of a hit-and-run. He's obstructed justice by not reporting the crime. He's obstructed justice by not reporting the beating. He's engaged in drug possession and drug use and drug transportation and the sale of drugs. He's guilty of assault and battery himself. And he's guilty of destruction of evidence. Yet, the film tries to lighten the mood by cracking jokes (a policeman grabs the stunned Vincent's wrist and declares: "And this one's smoking a joint!"). The audience really can't take any of the "bad" things in the movie seriously (including the film's anti-drug and be-true-to-yourself messages) when it treats them so cavalierly.
But a deeper problem is the uneven characterization in the film. Shane is played by the extremely likeable, decidedly cute -- and terribly talented -- Michael Legge. But there don't seem to be good reasons for what Shane does in the film. Shane tells Vincent that the death of his father had a deep impact on him. Shane should be a rather anti-drunk driving advocate. (He appears to be: He refuses to go to pubs, despite Vincent's encouragement, and is terrified by public drunkeness.) Yet, Shane almost casually tosses away his aversion toward inebriation in order to earn the money to go to art school. Shane's actions wouldn't seem so out of character had Shane's desperation, loneliness and despair seemed deeper and more soul-wrenching. But Shane is depicted as merely being homesick. And why is Shane so deeply influenced by Vincent? After all, Shane barely knows him. Shane's despair is not so apparently awful that Shane would latch onto just any popular person he encountered...and yet, he does so. This would have made more sense had the film spent more time making Vincent into a seemingly impossibly powerful, respected, popular person. But, in fact, Vincent is depicted as a bit insecure, too sweet to be really socially powerful, and not as personally influential or charismatic as he should be in order for Shane to respond as he does.
That exposes a much deeper problem in the film, which is the short shrift given the character of Vincent. Vincent is almost a stereoptyical homosexual, a caricature which does little to advance the plausibility of the main story. Indeed, while the heterosexual characters (primarily Shane) seem real and fleshed-out, Vincent remains a goody-two-shoes stereotype. He has no internal life to speak of, and his friendship with Shane remains inexplicable. Indeed, the film's big emotional moment comes when Shane attempts to reconcile with Vincent. And Vincent just takes him back -- which implies that Vincent is some sort of cardboard character who does what the author wants him to, or Vincent is a doormat of a human being who loves forgiving the abusive friends he has.
It's these sort of problems that the film stumbles over repeatedly. And although "Cowboys and Angels" is pleasant enough (and, thank god!, Irish in origin), well-acted, funny and interesting, the film really doesn't hold together in the end. By the time Shane and Vincent are released from jail (the coincidence of the inspector being Vincent's trick is just too implausible, and their release is farcical), the audience has largely given up on trying to make sense of things or care about the characters. There's plenty of heart here, but the script needed a lot of re-thinking. I look forward to David Gleeson's next film, however, and to more from Michael Legge and Allen Leech.
Thursday, October 21, 2004
Reel Affirmations Film Festival, Day Eight:
I'm sick. Went home at 1 p.m. from work. No films tonight. I had wished to see "Brother to Brother," but no-go.
It's a super, astounding, mesmerizing film about a young black man who is working as a restaurant manager but wants to be a writer. He gets a white boyfriend, who happens to be a waiter in the same restaurant. But he is conflicted over dating a white man; aren't black men good enough for him?
Too, he's discouraged about his writing. Just how can an openly gay black man dating a white boy ever hope to break through as a writer? And are the musings of a black man ever going to get past the daily onslaught of racism that he encounters?
Then things change: The broken-down old rummy who staggers by the restaurant every day see him writing. The rummy isn't just your average mentally-ill bum sucking down the Ripple. It turns out he was a very famous openly gay black man writing spectacular novels during the Harlem Renaissance in the 1930s.
The two begin to have long conversations about what it was like when 5,000 black men a year were lynched in America, when black people had to look at the sidewalk when walking down a public street or risk being attacked for "looking at a white woman," when being openly gay was a death-sentence if you weren't wealthy and white.
Much of the elder writer's reminiscences are told in flashback, with remarkable recreations of the era. These include eye-popping, realistic portrayals of famous black authors, speakers, philosophers and activists. As the elder writer tells about his worsening troubles, time passes. We see the debates inside the African-American community as the Black Muslim religion becomes ascendant, as the civil rights movement moves forward (with openly gay Bayard Rustin as MLK's right-hand man), and as the Black Panthers seek political power.
Twisting through their discussions is the way the political, religious and civil leaders in the black community sought to declare homosexuality a "white man's sexuality" and deny that black people could or wanted to be homosexual.
That, sadly, is what brought the old man low -- attacks and betrayals from his own family, friends and others. When he, too, dated a white man, it was the last straw. It broke him. He betrayed his lover and his craft, and ended up betraying himself. He turned to drink and abandoned writing.
The conclusion is not foregone. It would be too easy to have a happy ending where Our Hero learns his lesson, fucks the hot white guy and becomes a Respected Writer.
I've seen about half this film, and had wished to god that I could have seen the whole thing on the big screen.
But no.
I've slept five hours, and am now upright and feeling better. Took some drugs (thank god for Advil!), and am going to make dinner before watching Robert Donat in "Goodbye, Mr. Chips" on TCM.
Then it's off to bed, so I can go to all three movies on Friday night. I'll be sitting in Row R, smack in the center. See you boys there!
I'm sick. Went home at 1 p.m. from work. No films tonight. I had wished to see "Brother to Brother," but no-go.
It's a super, astounding, mesmerizing film about a young black man who is working as a restaurant manager but wants to be a writer. He gets a white boyfriend, who happens to be a waiter in the same restaurant. But he is conflicted over dating a white man; aren't black men good enough for him?
Too, he's discouraged about his writing. Just how can an openly gay black man dating a white boy ever hope to break through as a writer? And are the musings of a black man ever going to get past the daily onslaught of racism that he encounters?
Then things change: The broken-down old rummy who staggers by the restaurant every day see him writing. The rummy isn't just your average mentally-ill bum sucking down the Ripple. It turns out he was a very famous openly gay black man writing spectacular novels during the Harlem Renaissance in the 1930s.
The two begin to have long conversations about what it was like when 5,000 black men a year were lynched in America, when black people had to look at the sidewalk when walking down a public street or risk being attacked for "looking at a white woman," when being openly gay was a death-sentence if you weren't wealthy and white.
Much of the elder writer's reminiscences are told in flashback, with remarkable recreations of the era. These include eye-popping, realistic portrayals of famous black authors, speakers, philosophers and activists. As the elder writer tells about his worsening troubles, time passes. We see the debates inside the African-American community as the Black Muslim religion becomes ascendant, as the civil rights movement moves forward (with openly gay Bayard Rustin as MLK's right-hand man), and as the Black Panthers seek political power.
Twisting through their discussions is the way the political, religious and civil leaders in the black community sought to declare homosexuality a "white man's sexuality" and deny that black people could or wanted to be homosexual.
That, sadly, is what brought the old man low -- attacks and betrayals from his own family, friends and others. When he, too, dated a white man, it was the last straw. It broke him. He betrayed his lover and his craft, and ended up betraying himself. He turned to drink and abandoned writing.
The conclusion is not foregone. It would be too easy to have a happy ending where Our Hero learns his lesson, fucks the hot white guy and becomes a Respected Writer.
I've seen about half this film, and had wished to god that I could have seen the whole thing on the big screen.
But no.
I've slept five hours, and am now upright and feeling better. Took some drugs (thank god for Advil!), and am going to make dinner before watching Robert Donat in "Goodbye, Mr. Chips" on TCM.
Then it's off to bed, so I can go to all three movies on Friday night. I'll be sitting in Row R, smack in the center. See you boys there!
Wednesday, October 20, 2004
Reel Affirmations Film Festival, Day Seven:
"I'm not the forgiving type."
Sometimes, you just have to say it: THAT FUCKING SUCKED!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! To wit, tonight's program of shorts, "Friends or Lovers?":
What??
Every film said there was a problem with sex. Sorry, I don't want to see a program of shorts that tells me how fucked up sex is going to make me.
Huh??
I don't need five-minute homophobic rants disguised as comic relief. I don't need seven-minute homo-panic screeds disguised as comic relief.
I don't need to have a film show me endless scenes of heterosexual intercourse, while barely showing the lead actor kissing a transsexual. I don't need to have a film show me endless scenes of heterosexual intercourse, while cutting off the gay sex at the lower ribcage. I don't need a film to show me gay sex, but hide it behind shadows and darkness as if it were dirty or wrong.
The audience left this program appalled, and I agree. For once, I found almost nothing redeeming in a short film program. I'm upset, disappointed and angry.
"I'm not the forgiving type."
Sometimes, you just have to say it: THAT FUCKING SUCKED!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! To wit, tonight's program of shorts, "Friends or Lovers?":
- "Ritchie's Itch" (Michael Shea, director; 11 min.) -- Too long by at least five minutes, this little comic short has at least the possibility of being good. Ritchie, a bear of a married man, keeps having a dream in which he's naked and has sex with a guy. He confesses his dream to co-worker Nick, an older guy with a nice body. Nick psycho-analyzes Ritchie all day, even going so far as to expose himself to Ritchie to see if Ritchie gets hard. He doesn't. That night, the dream occurs again -- only this time, to Nick...who wakes up happy that he's having homo-erotic dreams about Ritchie. Sadly, the film never quite lives up to its premise. The dialogue rambles on for ages. A major plot point hinges on the idea that Ritchie's construction union is on his case for being late to work, but the point is barely introduced and is a flimsy rod on which to hang Ritchie's supposed anger. Nick's repeatedly anti-gay comments end up grating, and are not funny. The plot hangs up, narratively, during the over-long discussion in the unfinished kitchen. When Nick exposes himself to Ritchie, the gag is not set up very well and is poorly acted by both performers. The twist ending is confusing rather than clear, almost like a joke you have to explain. There are funny lines in the film, but overall it was a bit of a disappointment.
- "Presents" (Todd Bartoo, director and writer; 6 min.) -- Writer-director-actor Todd Bartoo says he pulled this script out of a pile of ideas when a gay friend asked if Bartoo had something he could act in. "Presents" is the result. A cute little film with only three or four really good gags, it's all about a man who invites his boyfriend and his best female friend over for dinner. He gives the girl a present, but unfortunately it exposes a secret heterosexual love affair. The cheating lovers try to weasel their way out, but then the cuckold pulls out his surprise: He wants to watch. The boyfriend keels over, and then, oddly, so does the best friend. Shock? Maybe. Or maybe it was the rat poison in the spaghetti sauce. It's a cute film with an extremely campy but effective performance by Ted Kozlowski as the cuckold, and a nice turn by producer-actress Gwen Copeland as the power-chick best friend, Liz. (Love those glasses!) But the jokes are a little thin on the ground. And while the sight-gag at the end is nice, the editing and camera work hold the image a bit too long. It's almost as if the film's comic timing were off. Still, it's watchable.
- "W" (Luc Feit, director and writer; 13 min.) -- Pity cute Tilo (the superb Boris Berthelot). His girlfriend, Karen, is sex-hungry and demanding. But Tilo prefers just being her friend. Karen pressures Tilo into having sex with her, but he's really not into it. Off the two head to a local bar. Tilo takes a piss in the downstairs bathroom, but the next thing you know he's being felt up by the bar's transvestite bartender! Tilo can't get enough of the lusty older boy-gal, and visits her time and again while Karen remains blissfully unaware. Or is she? Next thing you know, Karen's sampling the TV's wares, too! A polyamorous relationship forms. The experimentalist nature of the editing and the surrealist, almost symbolist nature of the cinematography, however, make for a confusing set-up and a fractured narrative. The film would have benefitted from a more straight-forward narrative. There are long sequences in which Tilo and Karen prepare for bed and sex (there's a lot of skin here), but the shift in mood from the experimentalist introductory segments to the straight-forward bedroom scenes is jarring. The film's fixation on Tilo induces the audience to believe that he might be a closeted homosexual. But he's bisexual. A more balanced look at the characters might have been helpful. True, a focus on Tilo helps set up the film's central gag (which comes about 60 seconds from the end). But I don't think the gag was essential to the film. It's also not clear what the length (and I mean, lengthy!) concluding shot means. We see Tilo running down a pier in his swimsuit for almost a full minute. What the hell is that supposed to mean?
- "L'Ultima Notte" (Mathieu Guez, director and writer; 18 min.) -- Let's just get one thing clear. No one clapped for this movie. In fact, during the big emotional scenes, people laughed out loud. It is a big, huge, fucking disaster. The almost dialogue-free film concerns a Quebecois couple, Tony (the gorgeous, talented Gregory Barco) and Chloe (the almost childlike Clemence Thioly). The moody Tony is playing with the guts of a wind-up music-box when Chloe enters their hotel room. She's brought Alliocha (ragingly handsome Adrien Laligue), a Russian stud, up with her. Although the film never comes out and says so, it's eventually clear that Chloe has pressured Tony into having a three-way. Tony, for his part, is extremely unhappy with this, but has acquiesced nonetheless. Alliocha speaks no English, but the three get down to some heavy drinking. Soon the clothes come off. They exchange names and ages, and Chloe writes her name in magic-marker on Alliocha's chest. He writes his on Tony's chest, and Tony writes his on Alliocha's. The writing has symbolic significance that will be apparent by the end of the film. Tony and Chloe begin to make out in front of Alliocha, who eventually joins in. Soon, the three are on the bed, Chloe in the middle. She thrusts her hands into each man's briefs, bringing them to full erection. She lays back on the bed, and Alliocha begins making out with and making love to her. Tony is oddly reticent, but soon joins in. Smoothly and quickly, Alliocha begins making out with Tony, too. Eventually, Alliocha penetrates Tony from behind and makes love to him for a long time. Chloe, left out, watches in silence. When it is over, Chloe and Alliocha head for the bathtub, where Chloe caresses and cuddles with the Russian stud. But Tony angrily stalks into the bathroom, scrubs himself red and raw, soaps up and washes off. He spits on Alliocha, and strides back into the bedroom. Alliocha washes off the spittle, and dries off. In the bedroom, Tony weeps inconsolably. Alliocha puts on his clothes, and does not comfort him. Chloe emerges from the bathroom, and pays Alliocha his money. Alliocha leaves, and walks down the street. Later that night, Tony lies in bed...still, quiet, crying. Chloe sits on the edge of the bed. She dresses, and then she, too, begins to weep. The end. In truth, it's almost impossible to know what to make of this film. The set-up is so murky that it is not apparent whether Chloe and Tony are brother and sister, boyfriend and girlfriend, best friends or john and hooker. The stilted, limited dialogue does more to confuse matters than clear them up. The film does settle down once the drinking begins, and things become a bit clearer. But by then, the viewer is so emotionally confused (who do you feel for? who do you root for? do these people matter?) that it is difficult to feel any connection for the characters or what is about to happen. Presented to overwhelmingly gay audiences at GLBT film festivals, the extensive segments of heterosexual intercourse are lengthy and discomforting. In this short program, which was full of bisexuality and heterosexuality, it was yet another hammer-blow to a positive gay sexuality. (By now, we've had to listen to five-minute homophobic rants in "Ritchie's Itch," a gay man who turns hetero in "Presents," and a heterosexual man who goes bisexual -- or at least tranny-sexual -- in "W." And now 10 minutes of straight sex. Where are the gay shorts?) The subsequent transformation of the straight soft-core porn film to two men kissing (there is no soft-core gay porn here) is fraught with complexity that never is resolved. Was Tony bisexual to begin with? Or was he straight? Was he closeted gay or bi? His transition to (at least) bisexuality seems smooth and unconcerned, so it is stretching credulity to think that he was closeted gay or bi, or straight. Alliocha certainly does not rape Tony or force him in any way. Was it that Alliocha fucked Tony up the ass that has Tony so upset? Perhaps Tony simply cannot deal with non-monogamy. For my part, the names on the chests is a clue. Tony wants Alliocha, badly. It is as if he has fallen in love with him at first sight. For her part, Chloe only wants Tony. But Alliocha is bisexual, and will love (or at least fuck) them both. Alliocha's infidelity (he has sex with Chloe, and is more emotionally attracted to her, more at ease with her) seems to break Tony's heart. But if the names on the chests really have meaning in this manner, there is little reason -- either in the narrative or performances -- to believe it other than the written names. In fact, the whole film collapses in a morass of "what ifs" and "but thens" and "supposes". I'm not sure what to read into the fact that Alliocha is Russian or a foreigner (Russians can't love?). Is it that hookers can't love? (That's bullshit.) The director pushes the actors into telegraphing their internal emotions (Tony's sulking while being stimulated , for example). But if the character had really sulked so obviously, no lover or girlfriend would have kept the sex act going. And what are we to make of Chloe's breakdown at the end? The audience has known, even from the moment Alliocha walked in the door, that Tony was unhappy and upset. If Chloe is in love with Tony, and cares so deeply about his feelings, why did she force him to petulantly partake in the menage-a-trois? The one redeeming feature of this film is the acting. Gregory Barco is superb as the heartbroken, homosexual Tony. The almost childlike, forlorn look on his face in the opening scene is acting gold. His emotional breakdown -- an extremely difficult scene for even an experienced, trained actor to pull off realistically -- is heart-rending and raw. There is such realism to his performance. I very much want to see him act again! Adrien Laligue is a bit harder to read, for Alliocha is written to be a stoic, unfeeling robot of a human being. Yet, he has a fluidness to his movement that makes his transition from heterosexual stud putting it to Chloe to bisexual lover of Tony that makes this transition appear seamless, natural and real. That's a crucial point in the film, for any forcedness or straining by either male actor here -- any heterosexual actor's hesitation, for example -- would destroy the believability of the moment. But Laligue pulls it off beautifully. I want to see him act more, as well. Clemence Thioly's performance is good, but she doesn't quite get a firm handle on it. Chloe veers from being a strong-willed but somewhat unfeeling and unaware woman seeking sexual adventure to a confused, insecure girl. She is not aided well by the script, which forces her character to stay in the bathtub, pondering the moment and not reacting to the pitiful sobs of her lover in the other room. Thus, when it comes time for her own character to break down during the night, it's much tougher to believe it. This could have been such a better film.
- "Spokane" (Larry Kennar, director and writer; 29 min.) -- For want of a good editor... Based on a supposedly true story, this film is about a young man, David, who flies into Spokane, Wash., to attend his brother's wedding. There, he meets James. James knows David is gay, but James also doesn't fit well into the married brother's clique of friends. The two get to know each other, and then David suggests they go smoke some weed in James' car. Off they go. Under the influence, James inquires nervously about "how fags do it." The conversation is one almost any gay man has heard, and it provokes a lot of laughter from the audience. James' homo-curiousity is more than obvious, but James is unwilling to run with it. David hijacks the poor schlub, and off they go to a local strip joint. After several hours fondling female strippers' boobs and pouring money down the drain, they head back to David's hotel. David is about to call it a night, when James hugs him friendly-like. Only, there's "a moment." They kiss. David takes James to his hotel room. Here, the film finally falls apart. For more than 15 minutes, David gently and gradually seduces James by playing straight porn on his hotel room TV, getting the hunky straight stud drunk, kissing him, removing his shirt and pants, and then fellating him and putting a condom on him. James doesn't feel comfortable actually having sex, however, so the two men masturbate. The next morning, James sneaks out. The end. Dear Jesus God in Heaven this film was boring. The lighting was so extremely poor throughout that it was nearly impossible to see anything going on in the truck or the hotel room. At one point, as the two naked men are getting it on, an audience member shouted, "Turn up the contrast!" No kidding: A filmmaker who teases the audience by purposefully keeping the lighting crappy so as to hide the nudity of his two actors is engaged in the worse kind of audience-manipulation. Either be honest and keep a stragetically placed thigh or bedsheet over the genitalia, or be honest and show full-frontal nudity. Don't cheat. But in the end, the real flaw with this movie is that there's no reason for it to exist. Is the movie saying something about closeted straight men? Or the nature of gay-straight hook-ups? Are we supposed to care about James, or David for that matter? Other than pure voyeurism, is there any reason why we should be watching this? I don't think so, and that makes me really dislike this film.
- "Stag Party" (Stewart Wade, director and writer; 15 min.) -- It's sort of the classic stag party joke: I got drunk and did it with my best male friend! That's pretty much it for this film. Dan and Beth are about to be married. They host a wedding dinner in their home for friends and family. During the dinner, Beth takes the best man, Steven, out for a quick talk. Beth knows that Steven has had a long-time crush on Dan. She wants assurances that it's over, and Steven admits it is. She also wants Steven to guarantee that Dan will have a good time at tonight's stag party, but that he won't get into any sexual hanky-panky with any stripper. Steven guarantees it. The stag party is wild and wooly, with a Hawaiian stripper. The next morning, Dan wakes up. After a few frantic moments when he believes he's had sex with the stripper, he realizes that he's really been with a naked Steven. Hilarity (I guess) ensues as Dan suffers from repeated homo-panic attacks, and Steven -- still drunk, still sleepy -- tries to provide reassurance. Only, Steven is sure that he's taken one up the ass... As Dan casts about for a quick lie to tell his wife, in walks Dan's brother. Sure enough, little brother is gay. Dan didn't know that, but he's ecstatic that Steven had sex with him. Dan goes to put on some clothes -- and he finds the stripper in the closet, naked and curled up around a champagne bottle. Oh no! He slept with her anyway! Yuk, yuk, yuk. The film has a bunch of very funny lines, including one really great zinger given to Elaine Hendrix, who plays Beth. The film as a whole is really funny. But in retrospect, I wonder what I was laughing at. After all, seven minutes of homo-panic comes very close to being anti-gay. And that's not funny. In many ways, I'm tired of seeing straight people freak out when they think they've had gay sex. Films never show gay people freaking out when they might have had straight sex. It's a self-loathing sort of humor that isn't funny upon reflection. I feel ashamed for having laughed.
What??
Every film said there was a problem with sex. Sorry, I don't want to see a program of shorts that tells me how fucked up sex is going to make me.
Huh??
I don't need five-minute homophobic rants disguised as comic relief. I don't need seven-minute homo-panic screeds disguised as comic relief.
I don't need to have a film show me endless scenes of heterosexual intercourse, while barely showing the lead actor kissing a transsexual. I don't need to have a film show me endless scenes of heterosexual intercourse, while cutting off the gay sex at the lower ribcage. I don't need a film to show me gay sex, but hide it behind shadows and darkness as if it were dirty or wrong.
The audience left this program appalled, and I agree. For once, I found almost nothing redeeming in a short film program. I'm upset, disappointed and angry.
Reel Affirmations Film Festival, Day Six:
I didn't go to any films last night (see my prior post). But I thought I'd offer up some random observations about thing. In no particular order:
I'll hazard a guess that "D.E.B.S." will be the overall festival winner and "Straight-Jacket" the men's feature winner. I'll make no prediction, yet, about men's short.
I didn't go to any films last night (see my prior post). But I thought I'd offer up some random observations about thing. In no particular order:
- I'm always surprised at the diversity of friends most people have. I watched a conservative, young twinky blond walk next to an alterna-punk redhead, with a brunette, long-haired, pierced-and-tattooed grunge-boy also in tow. I watched an older white bearish white guy go arm-in-arm with a handsome, muscle-bound black man and an Italian-American twink. I am envious of the wide diversity of friends most people have. I wish I knew how to make my coterie of friends as diverse.
- Most film-goers go to one or two films a week. They do not see the festival as something film-intensive that they should be attending all week long. I am surprised that people do not take more advantage of what the festival has to offer.
- Most film-goers seem to be making a social occasion out of attendance. They do not rush from work to the theater. They go out for drinks first, or dinner. Or they make a night of it later. I overhead plans being discussed all the time in the Absolut vodka tent out back, and I'm jealous of the very active social life these people seem to have.
- Many of the film-goers seem to have a strong cinematic sense. These are not your average "Last Samurai" bunch, who will be fooled by any piece of dreck which saunters into a theater on a $45 million marketing budget. They have seen good gay cinema before, and they know what they like (although it is not often what I like). Their standards are extremely high.
- Audiences overwhelmingly want very positive, very sexual, very smart portrayals of gay life. They do not want to see gay people die. They do not want to be reminded of the travails of gay life. Everyone has to triumph. They are not averse to complex characterizations. They are averse to having gay people lose.
- There is a real yearning to see more "real" gay people than "actors." Film festival goers are largely older, out-of-shape men who have been out a long time. Yes, they flock to films which features cute, slender guys showing off their bodies on film. (That's why French, Italian, German and Spanish films do so well.) But their response to films like "Bear Cub (Cachorro)", "A Bear's Story" and "The Milkman" are far deeper and more appreciative. (Their responses to leather films are mixed. Often, leather films include heavier, older men as extras. But the main characters tend to be porn star/bodybuilders who they cannot identify with except as lust-objects. Thus, while they appreciate leather films more than films which simply show naked or nearly-naked twinks, there are limits to their appreciation.) You'd think there would be more films out there for this audience. But there are not.
I'll hazard a guess that "D.E.B.S." will be the overall festival winner and "Straight-Jacket" the men's feature winner. I'll make no prediction, yet, about men's short.
Tuesday, October 19, 2004
Reel Affirmations Film Festival, Day Five:
"...and eminently flexible."
Sci-Fi Fag Theater
I wasn't quite sure what to make of this. While science fiction and homosexuality have gone hand-in-hand for a half-century or more (all those Kirk & Spock stories are testament to that), it's fairly uncommon for sci-fi to make an appearance in gay film.
In fact, only two of the five short films in this program were really sci-fi themed. But they were excellent! The others were mere fantasy, but there were no slouches there, either.
The films shown were:
But the quality of filmmaking was very high, and all of these shorts finely crafted. There isn't a real clinker in the bunch.
There are two films I wish to see Tuesday night. One is Maurice Jamal's "The Ski Trip" -- an all-black feature about a young black professional who is dumped by his long-time boyfriend. To nurse his wounds, he takes a bunch of his friends to a ski lodge for a vacation. Comedy and healing ensue. I also want to see "Harry and Max." Although it's gotten a lot of bad reviews, the film intrigues me. Harry is a member of a successful boy-band, but his career is sliding into the toilet. Max, his younger brother, has just formed his own boy-band and released a wildly successful single. The demands of touring and adolescent have made Harry and Max drift apart. They decide to take a camping trip into the mountains, to get their friendship back on track. But the complicating factor is that Harry and Max had an incestuous homosexual relationship when they were younger. Will it rekindle? Will it destroy them? Well, my attitude is that "incest is best."
But, sadly, I am not going Tuesday night. I have not had a night off in five days. I need to go home, do laundry, pick up my prescription, clean house, do dishes, make dinner and relax. I'll be seeing another program of shorts Wednesday night, and skipping the awesome "Illusive Tracks" on Wednesday at 9 p.m. (I can't take any more of these nights where I get home at 11:45 p.m., eat a sandwich for dinner and then go to bed to get up at 6:30 a.m. again.)
I'm also going to a lot of films alone. My friend Richie told me he was going to attend some films, but he's never called me back about any of them. My friend Lester was going to go, too, but never did. Colin is a lost cause when it comes to gay film (too straight, too nervous about it). Brian and J-L often sit next to me for films, but we are not meeting up for dinner or anything either ahead of time or afterward. We sit next to one another, but we're not "going" together. (They are so busy, it's hard to set something up.)
Film is far more fun when you make a night of it. It's a very social event. Or, rather, it can be.
My film-going is not social at all, and it's wearing on me.
I'm also learning that having a boyfriend at home who can handle half the duties of life-living can make a huge difference in how much work you can do or how many films you can go to. I'm film trafficking, as well as going to the festival. And having to do the mundane stuff of my day-job and house-holding. It's killing me.
So no films Tuesday.
"...and eminently flexible."
Sci-Fi Fag Theater
I wasn't quite sure what to make of this. While science fiction and homosexuality have gone hand-in-hand for a half-century or more (all those Kirk & Spock stories are testament to that), it's fairly uncommon for sci-fi to make an appearance in gay film.
In fact, only two of the five short films in this program were really sci-fi themed. But they were excellent! The others were mere fantasy, but there were no slouches there, either.
The films shown were:
- "Tempting Fate" (Lex Lindsay and Clare Butler, director-writers; 15 min.) -- A handsome but slightly insecure young man goes to a tarot card reader at a local Renaissance faire. (You know, at first, all I could think of was Lisa Simpson seeing her future via a tarot card reader in "Lisa's Wedding.") Biker-looking, brooding and defensive, he thinks the card-reading is hokey. The psychic is handsome, with huge liquid-brown eyes and long, flowing hair. As the card-reading progresses, the cards reveal a markedly accurate picture of the young man's personality, past and possibly his future. Then the cards reveal that the two are destined to be lovers. A pick-up line? Or the truth? Well, they do hook up. There is a funny visual moment there; "When the tent's a-rockin', don't come knockin'." But when the handsome man attempts to leave, the psychic pursues him out the tent door. The film shifts gear here, turning into a series of surreal chases through discos, mansions, stairwells, hotel corridors and more. When the tables are turned on the psychic, he confronts a choice: Just how much of his future is predetermined? In its final moments, the film is an interesting meditation on emotional baggage, personal history and the unconscious choices people make as they seek love and companionship. The key to the film is writer-director-actor Lex Lindsay's performance as the tarot card reader. Lindsay effectively portrays the slightly campy psychic, but as a man playing a game with his clients. There's another set of emotions running under his character's surface, emotions you see in his eyes and the subtle movements of his face. Later, when the psychic has finished sleeping with the customer, there's a relaxation, a ease of movement, a less campy and more honest character that Lindsay permits to come to the surface. It's this human portrayal that makes the film work.
- "The Milkman" (Ken Takahashi, director and writer; 8 min) -- Films about "bears" and chubby-chasers are not common in gay cinema. Only a few films come to mind -- "Bear Cub (Cachorro)" and "A Bear's Story." Indeed, the films which are out there are about bears -- furry (often overweight) men. For men who are simply obese, I cannot think of a a "chubby-chaser film" that humanly depicts the sexual desire some slender men feel for severely overweight men. Until now. "The milkman" stands out front of a grocery store, day after day, handing out small bottles of milk. He's ignored (or abused, in this case by a sneering, cute, slender teenager). Hair shaggy and falling in his face, glasses too big and heavy and slipping off his nose, body straining against the tent of his clothing -- the milkman is a seemingly pathetic, desperate person. That is, until a handsome young man comes along. He takes some milk, and gulps it down. When he hands back the bottle, the two men's hands touch -- and electricity surges between them. The younger man walks off, but the older man follows. There's a comic moment when the obese man cannot fit into the younger man's station-wagon and so must sit in the open trunk. Off they drive to the resaurant where the young man works. What follows is probably the most sensitive, honest portrayal of the sexual lust young, slender men feel for older, obese men. The scene works almost exclusively because of the honest acting performance that young Jon Oullette gives. His character seems genuinely if tentatively attacted to the obese milkman. His hands shake gently as they explore the milkman's body. Subsequently, actor Serge Garrott gasps in shock and awe when Oullette strips off his clothes to real his bony, slender, toned teenage body. But the real test here comes when Oullette kisses Garrott. His tongue clearly slips in and out of the obese man's mouth. This is no heterosexual pretending to be gay, or a handsome, teenaged actor trying hard to fake a sexual lust for an obese, older man. Oullette gives a completely realistic performance, and it absolutely justifies everything in the film. When the teen kneels to perform oral sex, he runs his hand over the older man's chest. He feels something...something wet. He stands. He grasps the older man's nipple -- and receives a face-full of breast milk. Yes, it's funny. Yes, it is grotesque. Yes, it's creepy (you quickly realize that it's breast milk that the man has been handing out at the grocery store). There is shock and slight disgust on Oullette's face, but also a dawning realization. The film's final shot of the teen curled up, baby-like, in his "daddy's" arms, nursing away, completes the transformation. I'm not sure that the film's comic moments really fit with the honest sexuality in the film. But if you can get past the film's final breast-milk moments, you'll realize that director Ken Takahashi is saying something about the nature of role-played "daddy-son" relationships, the exchange of body fluids (many gay men think nothing of drinking down semen) and acceptance.
- "Tomo" (Paul Catling, director; 20 min.) -- An astronaut and his robotic companion are trapped on an ice-planet, where their relationship slowly unravels. Astounding special effects -- far superior to almost anything we've seen come out of Hollywood (that is not an exaggeration) -- make this film work. Tomo ("companion" in Japanese) becomes increasingly effeminate and campy as the days stretch into weeks. His relationship to his human master gradually deteriotates into abuse and cruelty; when the astronaut idly tosses pebbles at Tomo, Tomo ties him to the ground for a day. In flashback, the audience slowly comes to understand that the ship's crash is extremely mysterious and that the astronaut blames himself for causing the death of his co-pilot. Too, there are hints in the astronaut's log that perhaps Tomo's attraction to his human partner began much sooner than anyone realizes. The astronaut finally decides to head back to the ship to see if any rescue transmitters can be salvaged. But betrayal is all he finds: He realizes that Tomo caused the crash in order to strand the two of them together, alone. He realizes Tomo hid the rescue transmitter, in order to forestall any rescue that would separate them. And he realizes that Tomo loves him. But it's all too late. Tomo has destroyed the transmitter and slit his own hydraulic cables in despair. For my money, "Tomo" is about 5 minutes too long. The character development is uneven and unclear, and the film's opening sequence doesn't really introduce the plot, characters or situation too clearly. It is also not exactly clear why Tomo does some of the things he does. Why does Tomo imitate the astronaut when he sees the human masturbating? Does Tomo want to be more human-like? Perhaps. But Tomo also seems to not care. Other elements in the film -- such as the fishing sequence, with its grotesque poking of the fish's eye, and the opening and closing credits showing heterosexual robot-sex -- seem unnecessary. When all is said and done, "Tomo" draws rather heavily on "2001: A Space Odyssey" for its insane-robot theme. But more disturbing is "Tomo's" depiction of a gay robot as insane. The robot couldn't just be gay? The robot couldn't just have done one thing wrong (crashed the ship, or hidden the rescue beacon), it had to have done many psychotic, abusive things? Had Tomo been a human being, I doubt this film would have been as well-received. And therein lies a big problem for the film, for its message is much more complex and disturbing than many audiences seem to realize.
- "Oedipe (n+1)" (Eric Rognard, director and writer; 27 min.) -- One of two French entries in this program, "Oedipe" is, obviously, a variation on the Oedipal myth. Based on the novel by Jean-Jacques Nguyen, the film is set in the distant future where The Circle -- a new race of genetically- and mechanically-enhanced human beings -- have seized most of the world's resources for themselves and built magnificent cities. (Paris of the future is depicted several times in amazing matte paintings and CGI effects.) We're introduced to Thomas Steiner, a handsome young man who died and has been brought back to life by his mother and the New Life Corporation. But from the get-go, Thomas is remembering things that his mother claims never happened. Among these is Kazo, a handsome young gay man who is "outside the Circle" who appears to have been Thomas' lover. But Thomas' mother claims there was no Kazo, no gay lover or gay lifestyle -- and that, in fact, Thomas is engaged to a young woman. Naturally, Thomas tries to recreate his old life, despite his mother's interference. Thomas even goes so far as to head out into the "Outer Circle" to find Kazo. Instead, he meets resistance at every turn: No one named Kazo, no Chinese restaurant where they used to hang out, no street where Kazo lived. Thomas is assaulted on the street and his hand cut off. It's not a big deal in this society, where severed limbs can be regrown in a day. But it's just too coincidental for Thomas. He returns home to find that someone wants to meet him in a virtual reality bar. He goes there -- only to encounter himself! The conspiracy is exposed (as if we didn't see it coming a mile off): Thomas' mother hates Thomas' homosexuality and his gay lover, Louis. Knowing that Thomas' multi-millioniare mother would probably seek to have Thomas killed and then "reinstantiated" (brought back to life with altered memories), Thomas downloaded virtual copies of his own and Louis' personalities. The memory of Kazo was a ruse Thomas' mind constructed to distract her from the real lover, Louis. Sadly, it is too late. Mother has hired an assassin to break into Thomas' apartment with the severed hand. Thomas is murdered, and his mother attempts to recreate her son once more...this time, "better." "Oedipe" has very high production values, with an exciting soundtrack, excellent set design, and direction and editing are far superior to almost anything you might expect from a short film. The acting, too -- which relies heavily on French veteran Jalil Lespert -- is very good. But the script telegraphs Mme. Steiner's conspiracy far too much. A feature-length film might be better able to conceal and misdirect these elements so that Thomas' missing life seems less conspiratorial and more natural, and Mme. Steiner's complicity in the crime less obvious (or even concealed). I should also say that audience reaction to this film was less than stellar. Many gay audiences attend gay film festivals in order to see positive portrayals of gay and lesbian characters, portrayals they cannot see elsewhere in cinema. Yet, this film depicted homosexuality as worthy of murder, conspiracy and manipulation. Thomas never has a chance against his wealthy, knowledgeable, psychotic mother. Thomas' second death is blithely accepted by the authorities, even though it is obviously murder. Audiences were happy with the film's sci-fi elements, but very condemnatory about its anti-gay (sic) theme.
- "Paradisco" (Stephane Ly-Cuong, director and co-writer; 17 min) -- "Paradisco" is a welcome tonic to the "sex = death" neo-prudery that passes for gay sexuality today. Francois (the handsome veteran French theater and film actor Jerome Pradon) has picked up a young stud, Nicolas (cute as a button newcomer Nicolas Larzul). The next morning, Francois' effeminate American friend (the almost unrecognizable Anthony Rapp ["Adventures in Babysitting," "Dazed and Confused," "Road Trip," "Cruise Control," "A Beautiful Mind"]) shows up and dishes over the delectable stud. "Skilled, long-lasting and eminently flexible" is the conclusion Francois draws. But the stud is awake, and has overheard. Although not upset by the discussion of his sexual skills, Nicolas is dismissive of Francois' friend. He also notices that Francois is moving; Francois admits that it is time to move on. Although he's had some great disco parties in the house, it is time to let the past go. Nicolas chides Francois gently for his affection for disco music. But Francois tells Nicolas that the era of disco was special. Nicolas says that Francois is "so old," but still looks wonderful despite his age. Francois tells Nicolas that back in the late 1970s, he looked even better... and back in time the two go, to New Year's Eve, 1979. Francois' home is full of party-goers, dancing to disco music. But one by one, Francois points out all the friends who have died. It's sobering. Nicolas is appalled, and looks as if he is about to tell Francois that they should have known better. But Francois points out the people who have survived, too -- including the now-much-younger, handsome, sexy American who Nicolas had been so dismissive of a short time ago. As the dancers dance, they sing a song celebrating disco. It's a revolution, a way of expressing yourself, a way of being free, a way of finding yourself. New families are created on the dance floor, new ways of being and seeing and loving. Nicolas becomes enthralled. Francois takes Nicolas to the bedroom, where they listen as Francois' best friend fucks behind the closed door. The song continues, with the dancers blissfully unaware of the epidemic of death and hatred that will cut them down in the next few years. Finally, Nicolas asks to see this best friend. Francois gestures to the landing -- where we see that the best friend looks just like Nicolas. And then the dream ends. The startling similarity between the now-dead best friend and Nicolas has jerked Francois and Nicolas back to reality. His judgmentalism about sex, age, disco and free love washed away by the trip through time, Nicolas tells Francois that he very much wants to see him again. In some ways, "Paradisco" is one of the new post-AIDS films. It takes the "Austin Powers" approach to the era of free love: It was all about choices, baby. If we'd known what was coming, we'd have been more responsible; after all, it was all about choices. That defense of the era of free love is not very convincing, for judgmental moralist would simply respond, "But I told you so." But in its way, "Paradisco" at least fumbles for a defense; many others have simply not tried, or actively condemned the era of free-love as being irresponsible, destructive and all about treating people as flesh-holes for sex rather than as individuals. In regards to this final critique, "Paradisco" vociferously denies that the free-love era was in any way dehumanizing. To the contrary, it enabled people to find love, companionship and a sense of belonging without the constant cruising, tricking and hooking up that characterize the new millennium -- or which characterize the way Francois and Nicolas met. Indeed, the American's comments about Nicolas are more humiliating and regressive than anything which would ever have been uttered on the disco floor. And that is perhaps the really terrific thin about "Paradisco": The film has so much to offer audiences, but it does so through song, performance, characterization, behavior and setting than it does through preachy dialogue. The film's effectiveness comes through only after you've thought and felt about it for a while, not because a character says so. To me, that's the sign of good filmmaking.
But the quality of filmmaking was very high, and all of these shorts finely crafted. There isn't a real clinker in the bunch.
There are two films I wish to see Tuesday night. One is Maurice Jamal's "The Ski Trip" -- an all-black feature about a young black professional who is dumped by his long-time boyfriend. To nurse his wounds, he takes a bunch of his friends to a ski lodge for a vacation. Comedy and healing ensue. I also want to see "Harry and Max." Although it's gotten a lot of bad reviews, the film intrigues me. Harry is a member of a successful boy-band, but his career is sliding into the toilet. Max, his younger brother, has just formed his own boy-band and released a wildly successful single. The demands of touring and adolescent have made Harry and Max drift apart. They decide to take a camping trip into the mountains, to get their friendship back on track. But the complicating factor is that Harry and Max had an incestuous homosexual relationship when they were younger. Will it rekindle? Will it destroy them? Well, my attitude is that "incest is best."
But, sadly, I am not going Tuesday night. I have not had a night off in five days. I need to go home, do laundry, pick up my prescription, clean house, do dishes, make dinner and relax. I'll be seeing another program of shorts Wednesday night, and skipping the awesome "Illusive Tracks" on Wednesday at 9 p.m. (I can't take any more of these nights where I get home at 11:45 p.m., eat a sandwich for dinner and then go to bed to get up at 6:30 a.m. again.)
I'm also going to a lot of films alone. My friend Richie told me he was going to attend some films, but he's never called me back about any of them. My friend Lester was going to go, too, but never did. Colin is a lost cause when it comes to gay film (too straight, too nervous about it). Brian and J-L often sit next to me for films, but we are not meeting up for dinner or anything either ahead of time or afterward. We sit next to one another, but we're not "going" together. (They are so busy, it's hard to set something up.)
Film is far more fun when you make a night of it. It's a very social event. Or, rather, it can be.
My film-going is not social at all, and it's wearing on me.
I'm also learning that having a boyfriend at home who can handle half the duties of life-living can make a huge difference in how much work you can do or how many films you can go to. I'm film trafficking, as well as going to the festival. And having to do the mundane stuff of my day-job and house-holding. It's killing me.
So no films Tuesday.
Monday, October 18, 2004
Reel Affirmations Film Festival, Day Four -- Part 2:
"It took me a long time to stop being afraid."
Best of the Fest
I'm a big fan of short films. I think they are inventive. The nature of the short constrains the filmmaker, bringing out the best in their creativity and forcing the dregs onto the cutting-room floor.
Every year for the past four years, Reel Affirmations has offered a "Best of the Fest" program. The festival used to offer a "Best Men's Shorts" and "Best Women's Shorts" program. But after a year in which the men's shorts were crappy, the festival programmers decided to combine the two into a "best of the fest" program that featured great short films -- no matter what the theme or audience.
This year's entries were:
"It took me a long time to stop being afraid."
Best of the Fest
I'm a big fan of short films. I think they are inventive. The nature of the short constrains the filmmaker, bringing out the best in their creativity and forcing the dregs onto the cutting-room floor.
Every year for the past four years, Reel Affirmations has offered a "Best of the Fest" program. The festival used to offer a "Best Men's Shorts" and "Best Women's Shorts" program. But after a year in which the men's shorts were crappy, the festival programmers decided to combine the two into a "best of the fest" program that featured great short films -- no matter what the theme or audience.
This year's entries were:
- "Memoirs of an Evil Stepmother" (Cherien Dabis, director and writer; 18 min.) -- Cherien Dabis sold her first script, "Little Black Boot," to the nonprofit lesbian collective POWER UP in 2001. But at the time, POWER UP would not permit writers to also direct their work. Subsequently, Dabis wrote "Memoirs of an Evil Stepmother" -- which became her directorial debut. It is a clever updating of the Snow White fairy tale, only this time the evil stepmother is a has-been soap opera actress whose daughter is taking her place. It's clever, but the film never quite manages to find its footing. Really witty updating of the main elements of the fairy-tale are lacking. Jane Lynch ("Best in Show," "A Mighty Wind") is superb, but the rest of the cast is mediocre.
- "Blue-Eyed Moon" (Pencho Kunchev, director and writer and animator; 9 min.) -- This animated Bulgarian film takes as its starting point another fairy-tale, this time Greek myths about women transforming into trees, animals and plants in order to escape the predations of men. Beautifully drawn, the short morphs women into trees, tears into streams, faces into mountainsides. The gorgeous classical soundtrack is New Age, and creates a sensory impression of floating, dreamy night-scapes and gentle breezes in the trees. What's most interesting about this short is that the film never really collapses into an anti-male screed (as many of the Greek myths it is based on do). Watch for the scene in which a sleeping woman is illuminated by gentle lightning (yes, gentle lightning!). A man's sleeping figure is combined with hers. It's little things like that which make this film a real delight -- intellectually, aurally and visually.
- "Hummer" (Guinevere Turner, director and writer; 9 min.) -- This is a bit of an odd fish of a film. Narratively, the film is about a woman, Guin (played by writer-director Guinevere Turner), who is unlucky at love. She's started dating a woman who is, in Guin's mind, the perfect match -- although visual flashbacks to the events Guin talks about indicate otherwise! Bee, Guin's shaven-headed best friend, carries a torch for Guin. This is the film's best elements, as heartbeat sounds accompany flashes of Bee gnawing on Guin's ear, kissing her lips, grasping her body. But as soon as eight, 10 or 12 hearbeats flash past, the images are gone. Bee listens attentively to Guin's tale of dating delight. Guin, however, is fascinated by one thing her date does: She hums nonsense tunes. Later that night, Guin hosts a party for some lesbian friends. Each has a big of a fetish -- a foot-tapper, a cell-phone addict, radically monogamous. Guin's date arrives, and relates a tale of how she once was mistaken for a man and gave a gay boy a blowjob in a dark restroom. That tale gives Bee an idea... What's worth mentioning, too, is that this film experiments with lighting. All light in the film is provided by candles or moonlight coming through lightly curtained windows. I'm not sure if this experiment in lighting design really works or not, but it was worth the attempt. The film is heavy on comedy, has flashes of genius in the editing and narrative (love those flashes of obsession!), and has a nice, sweet ending.
- "Just for Leather" (Lawrence Ferrara, director and writer; 5 min.) -- Writer-director Lawrence Ferrara wrote a script, rented camera equipment, hired a crew -- and then found out he didn't have any actors! So he cast himself and a few friends in this nice little film about a man who just likes leather. Unfortunately, the film looks like it was shot on a shoestring. The leather bar set is bare and uncrowded, which sets a funny emotional tone for what's the come. Additionally, the film would have benefitted from more visual in-jokes at the expense of the bear and leather communities to help set the mood. As it is, the film is sort of a one-trick-pony (which I won't give away here, but makes sense if you think about the film's title). It's nice. But it either should have been shorter or more elaborate. Take your pick.
- "Blessing" (Stephen Williams, director; 17 min.) -- Stephen Williams is a Mormon filmmaker from Utah. This is a tight, gentle little film based on an episode from his own life. A gay son, David, comes home after his father's heart-attack. Estranged from his mother and straight-arrow brother, held at arm's length by his loving but distant father, and embraced by his adoring and liberal sister, his arrival is inopportune. But the kindly Mormon bishop is accepting of David's presence. But when David realizes that the bishop and his brother intend to annoint his father with healing oil in order to give him a blessing, David asks to be included. But since David is living in a "state of sin," he cannot participate. In the end, Mormonism is a patriarchal religion. And the decision to include David or not is going to be his father's... The film is obviously heart-felt and real, although some of the dialogue is a bit stilted and awkward. The actress playing David's mother is a bit too stiff and unyielding to be real, but the bishop's role is played beautifully. The nice thing about this film is that even non-Mormons will understand and appreciate the emotional content and message of the film. Anyone familiar with the Isaac-Jacob-Esau story in the Old Testament will find many parallels as well. But for those audience members who are deeply estranged from their families, the film tends to lack resonance. For some, blood-family may not be as important as the created-family that one creates on one's own. But nevertheless, this is a great little film that not only has an element of reality, it has heart.
- "Straight No Chaser" (Barry Alexander Brown, director; 16 min.) -- This is an odd mish-mash of a film. Written by Bronson Pinchot and two others, this film follows the adventures of a comically wild straight man (played by Pinchot) who thinks he has inherited a beauty salon from his uncle. The "Beauty Bar" turns out to be a fantastically profitable gay bar with a hunk of a manager, porn star bartenders, a leather-queen doorman, flirtatious clientele with musclebound and jealous lovers, an attitude-throwing Latino barback and a fortune teller. The lines, jokes and incidents are very funny. Or, they would be if the delivery were a bit clearer and less rushed. The film attempts a rapid-fire delivery of lines. But the actors are, for the most part, not up to the task and many of the jokes get lost in incomprehensibility. Too, many of the jokes tumble over one another, never giving the audience time to stop laughing at the previous joke. Three, four, five jokes go by as the audience is still reacting to the first one. Many of the jokes (both visual and oral) are predicated on a sort of homo-panic as Pinchot is tossed (sometimes literally) from one outrageous queen to the next. For a gay-positive film, homo-panic is a little off-putting. The film never quite really gets its feet underneath it, and then -- boom! -- the film slows down as Pinchot talks to the more sedate (relatively) bar manager. Pinchot dreams of turning the bar into a restaurant or lounge, but is dissuaded by the large amounts of cash flowing through the place. But if the patrons ever found out their new proprietor was straight, the bar would fail. So, in yet another change of pace for the film, the bar manager and Trini (the flamboyant Latino barback) must teach him how to "act gay." The film ends on a predictable, if jerky, point. Overall, it's funny and visually exciting. But there's something lacking here, a point of reference or a character to hold on to which the audience can empathize with.
- "Far West" (Pascal-Alex Vincent, director; 17 min) -- This is a predictable little French film whose main redeeming feature is that it features four gorgeous French boys. Ricky (gorgeous French television star Julien Gauthier) is a high-maintenance Parisian queer-boy who loves nothing more than to spend his time practicing dance-moves for music video auditions. His two lovers -- the darkly handsome French lad, Mika, and the flamboyantly blond Asian, Koko -- stick right by his side. But Ricky has promised his mother that he'll spend two weeks with his grandfather at the family farm near Chartres. Ricky is on civil terms with his granpere, but cannot relate to the rough old farmer. When Ricky realizes that Papy has a hunky, muscular, handsome farm-hand (French TV star Alexis Michalik), he has a sudden desire to stay on the farm... Ricky soon combs down his outlandish hair-do, starts learning how to do chores, and spends his free time repairing an old bicycle. The sudden and surprising arrival of the loud Mika and Koko put a big crimp in Ricky's plans to seduce Jean-Didier, the farmer's helper. The film has a central twist (grandpa and the farm-hand are lovers! oh no!) that can be seen coming a mile off. The reconcilation of grandfather and grandson isn't far behind, along with a little lesson about being yourself and overcoming your fears. The main problem with "Far West" is that it's just too pat, too formulaic, too predictable. The acting is solid, no doubt about that. The comic timing of Gilles Gullain (Mika) and Tony Granger (Koko) is wonderful. There are wonderful touches in the film -- like the wheeling stars behind Ricky's head as he sits in the barn at night, thinking. But the plot just isn't there.
- "The Frog Princess" (Tom Chilcoat, director and writer; 1 min.) -- This is a tiny film that packs a great laugh. A frumpy girl eats spaghetti and meatballs in her dumpy apartment. When she hears the croaking of a frog at her door, she does what any dreamer would do: She kisses it. When Prince Charming appears, she does what any lesbian-dreamer would do: Kiss him and see if she can get a princess instead of a prince! It's delightful, tight, compact and visually full of laughs. There's even an homage to "Lady and the Tramp" at the end.
- "The Nearly Unadventurous Life of Zoe Cadwaulder" (Buboo Kakati, director; 13 min.) -- Pity the poor sad-sack: Zoe Cadwaulder was orphaned at a young age when a meteor fell on her parents as she ran to get her pet chicken, Red. Throughout her life, near-disaster has taken out almost everyone around her whom she ever loved. Even now, Zoe has to avoid falling chandeliers shaken loose by the sex-until-the-walls-shake heterosexual couple above her. One day, Zoe decides to buy a bike helmet for protection. That's when she meets Red, a dyke with fluorescent red hair and a smile to die for. Will Zoe give up her addiction to disaster? Or will karma shake lose a little love for this love-lorn waif? Do you even need to ask? Kellie Simpkins ("A League of Their Own," "The Laramie Project") is the luminous Red, and veteran TV and film actress Melanie Lynskey ("Heavenly Creatures," "But I'm A Cheerleader," "Coyote Ugly," "Sweet Home Alabama," "Two and a Half Men") is the dopey, sad but sweet Zoe. The film has a terrific premise and the various disasters which befall Zoe and those around her are side-splittingly funny. The film opens with a montage of famous diasters...but the narration and editing are rough and awkward, making for a difficult to the present day and Zoe's current predicament. A little polishing, and this film would be a real gem. The film's finale, however, is delightful!
- "Little Black Boot" (Colette Burson, director; 16 min.) -- Sticking with the fairy-tale theme, this is the first short film written by upcoming lesbian director-writer Cherien Dabis. Based on the Cinderella story, Carmen Plumb is our heroine -- an angst-ridden high school teenager deep into the Goth look. She pines for the beautiful, radiant Laurie (played wonderfully by Dania Ramirez ["She Hate Me," "Fat Albert"]). But her evil step-mother (played with gleeful evil by Jane Lynch) and horrid older step-sisters pour venom on her. Only the help of a literal fairy -- her gay friend, Justin -- can help transform Cindy into a gender-bending drag king who can crash the prom. But when Laurie and Cindy connect on the dance floor, it's love at first sight. The high-heels and workman's boots come off to make dancing easier...until Cindy has to rush home at midnight. Will Laurie find out who the "little black boot" belongs to? Is the Pope Catholic? Plumb is simply wonderful as the despairing but not desperate Cindy who stays true to her self despite the odds. There is real emotion running just beneath those chubby cheeks and behind those brown eyes. Dania Ramirez is just as wonderful as the blatino prom queen. Her role could have so easily been harsh, preachy and cold in the hands of another actress. But Ramirez makes Laurie into a real person. There's a power, a rawness, a real desperation to escape the fickle embraces of the jocks and my-trophy-wife wanna-be's. Laurie's desperate need for real love is palpable. The film manages to finesse its way past a conundrum of an ending, which is even more satisfying. While the plot may not be the most inventive, this film is a superb wonder. It really is the best of the fest.
I can't say that, overall, this year's "Best of the Fest" program was better than previous years'. In some ways, it lacked sex, lacked skin, lacked inventive plots, lacked great performances, lacked powerful emotions. But it was there, nonetheless. You saw some skin in "Just for Leather." You saw some inventive plotting in "Memoirs of an Evil Stepmother." You saw some great performances in "Little Black Boot." You saw some powerful emotions in "Blessing." Taken together....eh, it ranks below previous years. But for consistency of effort, it was a good program.
Reel Affirmations Film Festival, Day Four:
"It was my big Dutchman's leg."
Grand ecole
The French film "Grand ecole" aspires to be the sort of existential drama that French New Wave directors produced in the 1950s and 1960s. It pours race, class, economic status, history and sexuality into a big martini shaker and pours out a heady concoction.
But just what the film is, in the end, is not clear at all.
Paul is the hunky son of a Marseilles contractor. Raised to be brilliant (he was pushed to be a straight-A student) but also racist (snubbing Arabs) and classist (snubbing blue-collar workers and the poor), Paul is sent to an elite Parisian college where he is supposed to learn about economics, management and marketing. But Paul isn't his father's son. He's artistically-minded (which should be your first clue about his inner life) and rejects his father's hatreds biases. He reads as much literature as he does marketing case-studies, and he attends human rights, art and political lectures as well as class.
Soon Paul has taken up with Agnes, a young woman who is attending the liberal-arts university next door and who is an avid human rights activist.
One of Paul's roommates is Louis-Arnault, a hunky business major with a penchant for water polo (he comes from a legendarily wealthy background) and girls. The other is the materialistic, shallow, rich boy, Chouquet.
Louis-Arnault is tall, somewhat handsome, well-hung (he's in several shower scenes) and athletic. He frequently hangs around their apartment in boxers alone, distracting Paul (and the audience) to no end.
Louis-Arnault has a stunning girlfriend, the beautiful Emeline, who also attends the school of economics. While Louis-Arnault's and Emeline's relationship seems stable and loving, Paul's relationship with Agnes seems a bit rockier. Paul loves Agnes, but is a little emotionally and physically withdrawn from her. Paul is no closet-case homosexual, however. He has strong sexual urges which Agnes is more than willing to satisfy. But there is still something amis...
It's not long before Paul develops an intense homosexual crush on Louis-Arnault -- even going so far as to steal his used boxers and try on his clothes. It does not help when Louis-Arnault keeps inviting Paul into the lockerroom after water polo practice, where Paul can barely contain himself as 30 naked, muscular, well-hung French collegians cavort in the showers and crack bawdy sexual jokes.
Paul is heading toward a decisive confrontation with Louis-Arnault, it seems, when the hot young Arab, Mecir, arrives.
Mecir is a tall, slender, handsome young Algerian who arrives on campus as part of the work crew constructing and renovating buildings on the school grounds. Paul is powerfully attracted to Mecir, but does nothing about it. He feels too heavily the weight of his father's cruel, racist admonitions to "keep away from the help."
But Agnes is no dummy. She senses Paul's ambivalence and proposes a test: If Paul seduces Louis-Arnault first, Agnes will leave and never say a bad word about it. If Agnes seduces Louis-Arnault first, then Paul must give up his homosexual longings and be exclusively heterosexual and monogamous with her.
The great problem with the film is that it is not entirely clear why Agnes would suggest such a thing. For a girl with a freewheeling, liberal sexuality, it doesn't seem in character for Agnes to be jealous of Paul's lust for Louis-Arnault. Additionally, it is not clear at all why Agnes thinks Paul's lust for Louis-Arnault could ever come to pass. Louis-Arnault would never have sex with a man, and Paul is too chicken-shit to ask him for sex. (One clue to Agnes' motivation may be a conversation she has with Emeline after she has proposed her plan to Paul. Agnes tells Emeline that it turns her on to think of her boyfriend fucking another man. But lust seems a slim thread to hang Agnes' entire plan on. Is she really willing to destroy her entire relationship with Paul because it makes her pussy wet? I don't think so. That would mean Agnes is a cheap psychotic slut. And she's never depicted that way in the film at any other time.)
For his part, Paul never agrees to Agnes' plan -- so just what does Agnes think she is doing?
The film eventually drops the character of Chouquet completely after the halfway mark. That's frustrating. But more, it also reveals a deep weakness in the script. Why have him in it at all, if he's only going to be a backdrop that doesn't matter?
Mecir, however, figures more and more prominently in Paul's sex life and emotions. When Mecir is the victim of some racist comments after a small accident at work, Paul comes racing to his defense. None of Paul's friends do, which points out just what sort of moral driftwood these people are.
To return the favor, Mecir asks Paul out. It's not a date, he explains, jokingly. It's thank you for defending him. Paul resists because of his sexual desire for Mecir, but caves in eventually. They go for dinner, for entertainment -- and then for a quick kiss in the car afterward. But Paul freaks out at the kiss, leaving Mecir to ponder whether Paul is ready for a homosexual relationship.
Soon, however, Paul's desire for Mecir becomes overwhelming and he agrees to meet the hot young Arab again. They go to a cheap seaside hotel, and make love.
Just as the viewer expects religion to become an issue (Mecir is clearly a practicing Muslim), it doesn't. And there is no real reason why it shouldn't have.
Paul's sexual explorations with Mecir lead him to become bolder with Louis-Arnault. He tries on the man's clothes, tries physical contact with him and openly cruises him. Blind to this, Louis-Arnault worsens Paul's sexual longings by continuing to invite Paul into the swim team's lockerroom -- where Paul can barely contain his lust at the sight of 20 magnificent cocksmen playing and giggling in the showers.
Agnes, too, becomes bolder with Louis-Arnault. She schemes to have Louis-Arnault's father, a famous French judge, intervene in a Texas death-row case. The plea for intervention gives her a chance to be with Louis-Arnault much more, and in close physical proximity.
But Agnes can't quite bring herself to consummate her relationship with Louis-Arnault. Even though he comes on to her twice, she continues to push him away.
Paul continues to explore his sexuality with Mecir. Mecir, however, must also deal with his older brother's struggles as a musician and against racism.
The film throws in a minor stabbing (a madman on campus screams racial epithets and stabs Louis-Arnault in the hip) which doesn't serve the plot at all. It does give Agnes a chance to try to force Paul to have sex with the unconscious Louis-Arnault (which is sick and depraved and out of character for her).
The film comes to a head one night when Agnes lets herself into the boys' apartment and attempts to seduce Louis-Arnault. As they are about to consummate their relationship, Emeline awakes. She loudly confronts them. This wakens Paul, who watches silently from his bedroom. Louis-Arnault rejects Agnes, and moves out.
Later, Paul and Louis-Arnault attempt to reconcile. But then Louis-Arnault recognizes Mecir's brother as the assailant. Paul is forced to choose between his lust for Mecir and his crush on Louis-Arnault. Despite Mecir's warning that Louis-Arnault is not worth it, Paul runs after his friend.
The film reaches a second climax when Louis-Arnault moves out of the apartment and into Emeline's home. Paul confronts him, claiming to love him. But Louis-Arnault counters, wondering aloud why stealing his boxers and wearing his clothes isn't enough for Paul. Realizing that Louis-Arnault knew about his crush all along and did nothing, Paul attempts to make Louis-Arnault realize how empty and shallow Emeline is, and how pathetic and barren his life will be without the "rich" and "lusty" literature/music/art that Paul can offer. But it is too late: Louis-Arnault turns and leaves. Paul flings himself into the arms of Agnes.
Agnes has won. But what has she won?
The film ends with Paul heading back to Marseilles, toying with Mecir's gold necklace.
Unfortunately, "Grand ecole" is much more of a mess than I've made it sound here. Perhaps it is the film's subtitles (in white, often against white backgrounds, and not very expertly translated). Perhaps it is the dialogue itself, which is often abstract and metaphorical. But I tend to think that it is the messy, incoherent characterizations that make this film fail to live up to expectations.
Much more satisfying is the film's extensive commentary on the emotional desert that is capitalism, greed and materialism. There is a tremendously important and well-written discussion during the film's second climax that is a real wonder. The grand ideas fly fast and furious, and the writing and acting is pure gold there.
For the most part, however, the film's sexual themes -- which are ostensibly it's raison d'etre -- are muddy. The film's commentaries on race, class, materialism and the burden of history are much clearer and more satisfying. The film manages to examine these issues without slipping into preachiness. There is real subtlety of presentation here which American films could never hope to realize.
Overall, the quality of the acting is rather good. Salim Kechiouche (Mecir) is superb -- slightly understated, emotionally complex, intelligent. Gregori Baquet (Paul) has his moments, but he is a much more verbal than physical actor and has difficulty expressing emotion on his face. Also rising above the fray is Alice Taglioni, who is subtle and powerful as the put-upon Agnes. Generic performances are given by Jocelyn Quivrin (Louis-Arnault) and Elodie Navarre (Emeline).
The direction, cinematography and editing are nothing to write home about.
"Grand ecole" is worth the effort to see, even if it is ultimately an exercise in frustration. But I wouldn't say it is one for the DVD collection.
"It was my big Dutchman's leg."
Grand ecole
The French film "Grand ecole" aspires to be the sort of existential drama that French New Wave directors produced in the 1950s and 1960s. It pours race, class, economic status, history and sexuality into a big martini shaker and pours out a heady concoction.
But just what the film is, in the end, is not clear at all.
Paul is the hunky son of a Marseilles contractor. Raised to be brilliant (he was pushed to be a straight-A student) but also racist (snubbing Arabs) and classist (snubbing blue-collar workers and the poor), Paul is sent to an elite Parisian college where he is supposed to learn about economics, management and marketing. But Paul isn't his father's son. He's artistically-minded (which should be your first clue about his inner life) and rejects his father's hatreds biases. He reads as much literature as he does marketing case-studies, and he attends human rights, art and political lectures as well as class.
Soon Paul has taken up with Agnes, a young woman who is attending the liberal-arts university next door and who is an avid human rights activist.
One of Paul's roommates is Louis-Arnault, a hunky business major with a penchant for water polo (he comes from a legendarily wealthy background) and girls. The other is the materialistic, shallow, rich boy, Chouquet.
Louis-Arnault is tall, somewhat handsome, well-hung (he's in several shower scenes) and athletic. He frequently hangs around their apartment in boxers alone, distracting Paul (and the audience) to no end.
Louis-Arnault has a stunning girlfriend, the beautiful Emeline, who also attends the school of economics. While Louis-Arnault's and Emeline's relationship seems stable and loving, Paul's relationship with Agnes seems a bit rockier. Paul loves Agnes, but is a little emotionally and physically withdrawn from her. Paul is no closet-case homosexual, however. He has strong sexual urges which Agnes is more than willing to satisfy. But there is still something amis...
It's not long before Paul develops an intense homosexual crush on Louis-Arnault -- even going so far as to steal his used boxers and try on his clothes. It does not help when Louis-Arnault keeps inviting Paul into the lockerroom after water polo practice, where Paul can barely contain himself as 30 naked, muscular, well-hung French collegians cavort in the showers and crack bawdy sexual jokes.
Paul is heading toward a decisive confrontation with Louis-Arnault, it seems, when the hot young Arab, Mecir, arrives.
Mecir is a tall, slender, handsome young Algerian who arrives on campus as part of the work crew constructing and renovating buildings on the school grounds. Paul is powerfully attracted to Mecir, but does nothing about it. He feels too heavily the weight of his father's cruel, racist admonitions to "keep away from the help."
But Agnes is no dummy. She senses Paul's ambivalence and proposes a test: If Paul seduces Louis-Arnault first, Agnes will leave and never say a bad word about it. If Agnes seduces Louis-Arnault first, then Paul must give up his homosexual longings and be exclusively heterosexual and monogamous with her.
The great problem with the film is that it is not entirely clear why Agnes would suggest such a thing. For a girl with a freewheeling, liberal sexuality, it doesn't seem in character for Agnes to be jealous of Paul's lust for Louis-Arnault. Additionally, it is not clear at all why Agnes thinks Paul's lust for Louis-Arnault could ever come to pass. Louis-Arnault would never have sex with a man, and Paul is too chicken-shit to ask him for sex. (One clue to Agnes' motivation may be a conversation she has with Emeline after she has proposed her plan to Paul. Agnes tells Emeline that it turns her on to think of her boyfriend fucking another man. But lust seems a slim thread to hang Agnes' entire plan on. Is she really willing to destroy her entire relationship with Paul because it makes her pussy wet? I don't think so. That would mean Agnes is a cheap psychotic slut. And she's never depicted that way in the film at any other time.)
For his part, Paul never agrees to Agnes' plan -- so just what does Agnes think she is doing?
The film eventually drops the character of Chouquet completely after the halfway mark. That's frustrating. But more, it also reveals a deep weakness in the script. Why have him in it at all, if he's only going to be a backdrop that doesn't matter?
Mecir, however, figures more and more prominently in Paul's sex life and emotions. When Mecir is the victim of some racist comments after a small accident at work, Paul comes racing to his defense. None of Paul's friends do, which points out just what sort of moral driftwood these people are.
To return the favor, Mecir asks Paul out. It's not a date, he explains, jokingly. It's thank you for defending him. Paul resists because of his sexual desire for Mecir, but caves in eventually. They go for dinner, for entertainment -- and then for a quick kiss in the car afterward. But Paul freaks out at the kiss, leaving Mecir to ponder whether Paul is ready for a homosexual relationship.
Soon, however, Paul's desire for Mecir becomes overwhelming and he agrees to meet the hot young Arab again. They go to a cheap seaside hotel, and make love.
Just as the viewer expects religion to become an issue (Mecir is clearly a practicing Muslim), it doesn't. And there is no real reason why it shouldn't have.
Paul's sexual explorations with Mecir lead him to become bolder with Louis-Arnault. He tries on the man's clothes, tries physical contact with him and openly cruises him. Blind to this, Louis-Arnault worsens Paul's sexual longings by continuing to invite Paul into the swim team's lockerroom -- where Paul can barely contain his lust at the sight of 20 magnificent cocksmen playing and giggling in the showers.
Agnes, too, becomes bolder with Louis-Arnault. She schemes to have Louis-Arnault's father, a famous French judge, intervene in a Texas death-row case. The plea for intervention gives her a chance to be with Louis-Arnault much more, and in close physical proximity.
But Agnes can't quite bring herself to consummate her relationship with Louis-Arnault. Even though he comes on to her twice, she continues to push him away.
Paul continues to explore his sexuality with Mecir. Mecir, however, must also deal with his older brother's struggles as a musician and against racism.
The film throws in a minor stabbing (a madman on campus screams racial epithets and stabs Louis-Arnault in the hip) which doesn't serve the plot at all. It does give Agnes a chance to try to force Paul to have sex with the unconscious Louis-Arnault (which is sick and depraved and out of character for her).
The film comes to a head one night when Agnes lets herself into the boys' apartment and attempts to seduce Louis-Arnault. As they are about to consummate their relationship, Emeline awakes. She loudly confronts them. This wakens Paul, who watches silently from his bedroom. Louis-Arnault rejects Agnes, and moves out.
Later, Paul and Louis-Arnault attempt to reconcile. But then Louis-Arnault recognizes Mecir's brother as the assailant. Paul is forced to choose between his lust for Mecir and his crush on Louis-Arnault. Despite Mecir's warning that Louis-Arnault is not worth it, Paul runs after his friend.
The film reaches a second climax when Louis-Arnault moves out of the apartment and into Emeline's home. Paul confronts him, claiming to love him. But Louis-Arnault counters, wondering aloud why stealing his boxers and wearing his clothes isn't enough for Paul. Realizing that Louis-Arnault knew about his crush all along and did nothing, Paul attempts to make Louis-Arnault realize how empty and shallow Emeline is, and how pathetic and barren his life will be without the "rich" and "lusty" literature/music/art that Paul can offer. But it is too late: Louis-Arnault turns and leaves. Paul flings himself into the arms of Agnes.
Agnes has won. But what has she won?
The film ends with Paul heading back to Marseilles, toying with Mecir's gold necklace.
Unfortunately, "Grand ecole" is much more of a mess than I've made it sound here. Perhaps it is the film's subtitles (in white, often against white backgrounds, and not very expertly translated). Perhaps it is the dialogue itself, which is often abstract and metaphorical. But I tend to think that it is the messy, incoherent characterizations that make this film fail to live up to expectations.
Much more satisfying is the film's extensive commentary on the emotional desert that is capitalism, greed and materialism. There is a tremendously important and well-written discussion during the film's second climax that is a real wonder. The grand ideas fly fast and furious, and the writing and acting is pure gold there.
For the most part, however, the film's sexual themes -- which are ostensibly it's raison d'etre -- are muddy. The film's commentaries on race, class, materialism and the burden of history are much clearer and more satisfying. The film manages to examine these issues without slipping into preachiness. There is real subtlety of presentation here which American films could never hope to realize.
Overall, the quality of the acting is rather good. Salim Kechiouche (Mecir) is superb -- slightly understated, emotionally complex, intelligent. Gregori Baquet (Paul) has his moments, but he is a much more verbal than physical actor and has difficulty expressing emotion on his face. Also rising above the fray is Alice Taglioni, who is subtle and powerful as the put-upon Agnes. Generic performances are given by Jocelyn Quivrin (Louis-Arnault) and Elodie Navarre (Emeline).
The direction, cinematography and editing are nothing to write home about.
"Grand ecole" is worth the effort to see, even if it is ultimately an exercise in frustration. But I wouldn't say it is one for the DVD collection.
Sunday, October 17, 2004
Reel Affirmations Film Festival, Day Three -- Addendum:
Maybe it's just me. I've seen only a few of the films this year. I've seen none of the "sexy" films -- "Raspberry Reich," Bruce LaBruce's socialist uprising film that contains hard-core gay sex scenes; "On the Downlow," the gay Latino gang film; "The Mudge Boy," sexual and psychological abuse between two young kids in rural America; "Love in Thoughts," two bisexual German collegians exploring each other and women in Weimar Germany; "Noah's Arc," the sexy gay black comedy series strung together into a movie; "Beneath the Surface," a basketball player gets naked to expose himself and his sexuality; "Sugar," where a closeted, sensitive teenager falls for a teenaged street hustler, and they change one another; "The Day Laborers," where a gay Latino immigrant falls for a gay gallery owner, leading to trouble with his macho cousins; "You I Love," where a handsome, hung Russian streetkid falls in with married professional heterosexuals, tearing apart their marriage.
But in the films I have seen, there's little gay sex. And little gay kissing. And little gay contact.
It's very weird. Now, "D.E.B.S." doesn't lend itself too much to that. A full-blown comedy, sex usually won't rear its head in such films. However, the film does contain a number of lesbian kisses (mixed with an equal number of heterosexual kisses), as well as two naked women under the sheets together. It also contains a straight love story. Not a breast in sight, nor any male skin either.
"Dorian Blues" doesn't show its main character kissing. Every time it happens, the film cuts away to another shot for laughs -- once to show Dorian brushing his teeth madly, another time (after sex) to show Dorian scrubbing his body madly. We never see the main character make out with his college boyfriend, either. We see some men kissing in the bar scene near the movie's end, but this is all background action. There are some shirtless shots of Lea Coco ("Nicky"), but almost none of Michael McMillian ("Dorian").
In "HellBent," too, little kissing occurs. Eddie (Dylan Fergus) never gets a kiss, although he tries a couple times just before he and Jake (Bryan Kirkwood) are attacked in the apartment. We never see Chaz (Andrew Levitas) more than shirtless, although he's supposedly a slut. He does, however, kiss two women in the film. Tobey (Matt Phillips) is never kissed, either. (In fact, this super-stud is seen out of drag only in the last few seconds he's alive on screen. His chest is seen only for three or four seconds before the camera cuts away to other action.) Joey (Hank Harris) is kissed by another man softly for a second or two. Most of the kissing is done between George (Miguel Caballero) and Mickey Fike (Sam Levine). They kiss a number of times, and Fike is seen shirtless for a fair amount of time on screen (at least two minutes in toto).
"Testosterone" has the most amount of skin and gay sexuality so far. We see Pablo (Antonio Sabato, Jr.) and Dean (David Sutcliffe) kissing a fair amount. We see both men's chests a lot. We get a two-second butt-shot of Sutcliffe, along with some balls dangling down. But nothing frontal. We see some of Leonardo Brzezicki's chest, and he kisses Sutcliffe a fair amount. We see the bellboy's (Dario Dukah) naked legs and ass a bit while a bare-butt Brzezicki "fucks" him.
But am I missing something?
Gay indie film is usually not this averse to showing tongue-in-mouth kissing, pubes, cocks, balls, asses, legs and torsos.
Indeed, except for "Testosterone," I would have to say that these are -- for the most part -- the most non-gay gay films I've ever seen. And that's saying a lot.
Tonight, I am off to see the French-made "Grand Ecole." Lots of naked boys in the shower at school. The shorts in the "Best of the Fest" program, also tonight, might hold promise as well. (Shorts tend to be more sexy, anyway.)
I hope.
This is a puzzling and not-welcome development, as far as I am concerned. Gay cinema is the one place (sadly) where gay sexuality is welcome. And I am unhappy when it is not present.
Maybe it's just me. I've seen only a few of the films this year. I've seen none of the "sexy" films -- "Raspberry Reich," Bruce LaBruce's socialist uprising film that contains hard-core gay sex scenes; "On the Downlow," the gay Latino gang film; "The Mudge Boy," sexual and psychological abuse between two young kids in rural America; "Love in Thoughts," two bisexual German collegians exploring each other and women in Weimar Germany; "Noah's Arc," the sexy gay black comedy series strung together into a movie; "Beneath the Surface," a basketball player gets naked to expose himself and his sexuality; "Sugar," where a closeted, sensitive teenager falls for a teenaged street hustler, and they change one another; "The Day Laborers," where a gay Latino immigrant falls for a gay gallery owner, leading to trouble with his macho cousins; "You I Love," where a handsome, hung Russian streetkid falls in with married professional heterosexuals, tearing apart their marriage.
But in the films I have seen, there's little gay sex. And little gay kissing. And little gay contact.
It's very weird. Now, "D.E.B.S." doesn't lend itself too much to that. A full-blown comedy, sex usually won't rear its head in such films. However, the film does contain a number of lesbian kisses (mixed with an equal number of heterosexual kisses), as well as two naked women under the sheets together. It also contains a straight love story. Not a breast in sight, nor any male skin either.
"Dorian Blues" doesn't show its main character kissing. Every time it happens, the film cuts away to another shot for laughs -- once to show Dorian brushing his teeth madly, another time (after sex) to show Dorian scrubbing his body madly. We never see the main character make out with his college boyfriend, either. We see some men kissing in the bar scene near the movie's end, but this is all background action. There are some shirtless shots of Lea Coco ("Nicky"), but almost none of Michael McMillian ("Dorian").
In "HellBent," too, little kissing occurs. Eddie (Dylan Fergus) never gets a kiss, although he tries a couple times just before he and Jake (Bryan Kirkwood) are attacked in the apartment. We never see Chaz (Andrew Levitas) more than shirtless, although he's supposedly a slut. He does, however, kiss two women in the film. Tobey (Matt Phillips) is never kissed, either. (In fact, this super-stud is seen out of drag only in the last few seconds he's alive on screen. His chest is seen only for three or four seconds before the camera cuts away to other action.) Joey (Hank Harris) is kissed by another man softly for a second or two. Most of the kissing is done between George (Miguel Caballero) and Mickey Fike (Sam Levine). They kiss a number of times, and Fike is seen shirtless for a fair amount of time on screen (at least two minutes in toto).
"Testosterone" has the most amount of skin and gay sexuality so far. We see Pablo (Antonio Sabato, Jr.) and Dean (David Sutcliffe) kissing a fair amount. We see both men's chests a lot. We get a two-second butt-shot of Sutcliffe, along with some balls dangling down. But nothing frontal. We see some of Leonardo Brzezicki's chest, and he kisses Sutcliffe a fair amount. We see the bellboy's (Dario Dukah) naked legs and ass a bit while a bare-butt Brzezicki "fucks" him.
But am I missing something?
Gay indie film is usually not this averse to showing tongue-in-mouth kissing, pubes, cocks, balls, asses, legs and torsos.
Indeed, except for "Testosterone," I would have to say that these are -- for the most part -- the most non-gay gay films I've ever seen. And that's saying a lot.
Tonight, I am off to see the French-made "Grand Ecole." Lots of naked boys in the shower at school. The shorts in the "Best of the Fest" program, also tonight, might hold promise as well. (Shorts tend to be more sexy, anyway.)
I hope.
This is a puzzling and not-welcome development, as far as I am concerned. Gay cinema is the one place (sadly) where gay sexuality is welcome. And I am unhappy when it is not present.
Reel Affirmations Film Festival, Day Three:
"You want closure?" [slap across the face] "There. That's your closure."
Testosterone
Based on the book by the same name by James Robert Baker, this film by "The Edge of Seventeen" director David Moreton, co-written by newcomer Dennis Hensley, is all about the aftermath of a relationship gone bad.
Tons of spoilers below.
In truth, I'm not just sure what sort of film "Testosterone" is supposed to be. It opens almost like a comedy. Dean Seagrave (the hunky veteran actor David Sutcliffe, looking like Greg Evigan with muscles or a young, chisel-faced Russell Crowe) is a wildly successful graphic artist who, we learn in a series of very funny comic-book-style opening credits, met and fell in love with a hunky Argentinian stud named Pablo Dallesandro. Theirs was six months of wonderful love. Then, one night Pablo went out for cigarettes and never returned.
It's been two weeks, and Dean is out of his mind. He runs into Pablo's wealthy, beautiful mother (played to the bitchy hilt by the legendary indie actress Sonia Braga) at a gallery opening. After being humiliated and undressed in front of everyone, Mrs. Dallesandro hisses that Pablo "is through" with Dean and has returned to Argentina.
No sooner than you can say "Buenas Aires," and Dean's in Argentina. Exhibiting a dry comic with with impeccable timing, Dean suffers through a series of misadventures as he visits Pablo's home and tries to make contact with him again. But it's not use. Dean is so obsessed by Pablo that he doesn't even recognize that the hunky bellboy (wonderfully sexy Dario Dukah) in his hotel is hot for him.
Dean quickly realizes that Sofia (the luminous Celina Font), a waitress at the cafe across the street from Pablo's home, may know more than she is letting on. Sofia is clearly hiding something from Dean, but hapless Dean seems clueless to her sideways glances, heavy-lidded eyes and odd vocal hesitations. Dean begins pressuring her for more information. That's when Marcos (played by the astoundingly handsome, astoundingly talented newcomer Leonardo Brzezicki), her brother shows up. He tails Dean for two days, and finally makes contact.
Already, the audience is aware of things that Dean is not. And this makes for a frustrating film-going experience. Sofia is obviously hiding things. But while this is made patently clear to the audience through Sofia's behavior and statements, Dean seems almost negligently unaware of this. Marcos' presence and his relationship to Sofia (although undefined at first) is thrust into the audience's face. But since Dean remains clueless and the film makes little of these facts (they are not used to create tension, heighten the drama, etc.), the audience feels nothing but frustration. In any spy film, a main character may be followed by another spy. The director will utilize this to heighten the dramatic tension: Will our hero find out he's being followed? Will the shadow manage to escape detection? Will the shadow see our hero meeting with the double-agent, and escape with this knowledge back to his evil master? Or will there be a mad chase through the streets of Cold War Vienna to stop him? In "Testosterone," however, Marcos' shadowing of Dean seems meaningless. It just happens.
In fact, once Dean realizes he's got a tail, Marcos reveals himself to Dean rather quickly.
Dean feels a strong sexual attraction to Marcos. He takes Marcos back to his hotel, and they begin to make out. Dean's obsession with Pablo leads him to keep asking about his ex-lover, and eventually Marcos lets slip that he and Pablo were once lovers, too. They were boyhood friends, and soon were more than that. It ended, Marcos says as Dean undresses him and is about to pull down his boxers, when he found out that Pablo was cheating on him. This makes Dean stop what he's doing. Marcos tells Dean that Pablo is a sex addict, and kept going to bath house. That ended their relationship. "He probably cheated on you, too," Marcos says. Dean throws him out, unwilling to listen.
Marcos runs into the hot bellboy, and takes him into a closet and begins fucking him.
Sexually frustrated, Dean leaves his hotel room -- and spies on Marcos fucking the bellboy. As the bellboy ejaculates beneath him (off-camera, sadly), Marcos turns to see Dean looking at him. "Was it good for you, Dean?" he smirks. Dean stalks off.
What is the audience to make of this?
For one thing, the incident seems just too pat, too set-piece, too coincidental to have really happened. For another, the whole tone of the film has now changed. Instead of a comic mystery about a man hunting down his wayward lover, we now have a serious spy drama with very painful emotional overtones.
For another, it's entirely unclear why Marcos would want to sleep with Dean. True, Marcos admits to having read all of Dean's graphic novels and loving them. But is that the truth? It's difficult to believe him. After all, Marcos seems more spy or Mafia thug than a waitress' brother with a love of manga who's star-fucking a novelist he just met. And Marcos' sudden and brutal sexual encounter with the bellboy seems so cruel (to Dean and to the bellboy) that it, too, is unbelievable.
Dean quickly confronts Sofia again. She admits that Marcos is her brother, that Marcos and Pablo were lovers once, and that Marcos has been tailing Dean. Sofia demands to knw why Dean is in Argentina, and why he wants to talk to Pablo. Dean gives her his answer, but she refuses to believe he just needs closure.
Now -- let me stop right here. At this point, the film essentially loses me. I don't care any more. The movie has just committed the fatal flaw of using one of the most hackneyed plot tricks in the book: The naive innocent just needs one simple thing, but the super-cynical evil-doers can't understand why or don't believe it. His obsession will run headlong into their stonewalling, and they will drive him to horrible measures to obtain the one simple thing he needs. In the process, he will destroy them. He will obtain his one simple thing, then go home. This plot trick has been used a million times in film.
For example, take a look at "The Man Who Knew Too Much." Had the spy, Louis Bernard, simply apologized to the McKennas for abandoning them at dinner instead of angering Jo McKenna so much, she would never have suspected him so much. Had the Draytons simply warned the McKennas off or merely threatened their child, the Dr. McKenna would never have told what he heard from the dying Louis Bernard. But no. Bernard never apologized, leading Jo McKenna to suspect him. The Draytons kidnapped the McKenna child, leading Dr. and Mrs. McKenna to pursue them. As the Ambassasdor later pointed out, "Don't you know that Americans dislike having their children kidnapped?" Kidnapping the child when a simple warning would have done led the innocent (the McKennas) to unravel the best-laid plans of a vast criminal conspiracy.
In a way, "Testosterone" tries to pull off the same trick. Only, I know it's a trick. And I don't like that the film is trying to utilize a plot-twist like this. I see it for what it is, and it takes me out of the movie.
In fact, from this point on, I really don't care what Marcos or Sofia say. Everything is a lie. I know that Dean will find a way to unravel the lie, and that he will destroy everything in his righteous path in order to get his closure.
Sure enough, that's exactly what happens. Sofia tries to put Dean off by saying that Pablo is not at the downtown luxury mansion Dean has been scouting. Dean reasons that Pablo must be at a summer home or other residence. Marcos admits that there is one. Dean convinces Sofia to take him there. Sofia says she will, but instead takes Dean to her own summer home.
It turns that Sofia's family is wealthy, too. It's a fact which raises alarm bells for the audience, but not for dim-witted Dean. After all, rich people tend to know one another. That society is small. But Dean doesn't seem to have a clue. Marcos and Sofia say that Pablo's summer home is still too far off, and that Dean should stay the night. Why Dean believes them is beyond me; they've spent the entire film lying to him, and he knows it.
What follows is one of the film's most hilarious moments. Marcos attempts to seduce Dean again. He tells Dean that there's a ghost in his room (a figurative one, naturally: the ghost of Pablo). He also tells Dean a side-splitting tale about how the bedsheets in Dean's bedroom were made by blind Belgian nuns. As he says this, Marcos pretends to be a blind Belgian nun sewing a sheet. Leonardo Brzezicki lets his face go blank and his eyes drift as he tells the story, his fingers pretending to sew. The pantomime is so funny, I laughed for five minutes!!!!!!!
Ah well. Dean kicks him out.
In the morning, Dean comes down for breakfast. Sofia admits that Pablo's house is a mere three miles away. Dean is upset that she lied, but she says that Marcos was supposed to kill Dean last night. But Marcos has a crush on Dean, and so didn't have the heart.
Dean dismisses her admission as more lies. But given the sinister machinations Sofia and Marcos have engaged in behind Dean's back, the audience sees this as an admission of guilt. Sure enough, as Marcos takes Dean to Pablo's summer home, Dean asks to stop the car and take a leak. As he's pissing, Marcos pulls out a gun and tries to shoot Dean -- but he loses his nerve, and can't do it.
The two men arrive at the summer house. But Pablo is not there. Marcos admits that he knew Pablo was not there, but he wanted Dean to exorcise his demons. Perhaps if Dean saw the tree where Pablo carved their names into the trunk, or saw Pablo's bedroom, Dean would realize it's over.
Now, this makes absolutely no sense.
Marcos takes Dean to Pablo's bedroom. No one has been in residence for a very long time, obviously. Dean and Pablo fight, then make love. Dean falls asleep in Pablo's bed. He's awaken by the sound of a gunshot. He rushes outside -- and finds that Marcos has shot himself in the head. Sofia arrives a short time later. She tells Dean that Marcos killed himself rather than kill Dean.
Once more, this makes absolutely no sense. Why would Marcos want to kill Dean? On whose orders? Was Marcos part of the Argentine Mafia, or the military? Is Pablo part of the Argentine Mafia? What hold would anyone have on Marcos? Is there a similar hold on Sofia?
Dean goes back to town. He takes Marcos' gun, and invades the Dallesandro home. He confronts Pablo's mother, but loses his nerve. He's set upon by thugs, but runs into a cemetery and escapes their superstitious clutches. The next day, Sofia runs into Dean at the cemetery. She's buying a headstone for Marcos. She tells Dean that shes can arrange for Dean to meet Pablo tomorrow at a certain time and place. Dean agrees to her plan.
Again, this makes no sense. It's awfully coincidental. One also has to wonder just how Sofia explained her brother's death to the police. One also has to wonder just what hold Sofia has on Pablo and Mrs. Dallesandro that she could arrange for a meeting. None of these questions enter the hapless Dean's mind, naturally.
By now, Dean has been pushed emotionally to the edge. Almost insane with his obsession, he buys a machete, some duct tape and a picnic cooler. Dean then threatens to kill Sofia unless she arranges the meeting. He accidentally shoots her in the hand. Alarmed, Sofia makes the plans.
Later, Dean phones his editor in Los Angeles and tells her he will be coming home on the 10 p.m. plane.
That early evening, a half-shaven, smelly, wrinkle-clothed Dean waits for Pablo at a museum. He asks a docent for Pablo Dallesandro, and she tells him that Pablo is next door at the church. Dean rushes outside -- to see that Pablo has married Sofia.
Now, the audience immediately suspects something is up. Sofia may have been scheming to keep Dean away while her wedding to Pablo went ahead. That provides some motivation for her actions and statements. But it seems a piss-poor excuse in the end. All this, just to hide the fact that she was to marry Pablo? Bullshit.
But Dean steps right into the cow-patty. He sneaks into the wedding reception in the museum (given his disheveled state, it seems impossible, and once more it does not occur to Dean to question why Sofia would arrange for a meeting at the wedding reception). Dean goes out of his way to taunt Sofia and Pablo, drinking their champagne and cutting their wedding cake. Sofia confronts Dean. Why did she marry him, Dean demands to know. Respectability, Sofia says. I need his money; he needs my good name to legitimize his criminal family in the eyes of the law.
When Pablo goes into a side room for a sexual tryst with a hot waiter, Dean follows. Dean then kidnaps Pablo. Sofia, amazingly, helps him escape.
Dean takes Pablo to the summer home, and tells him that Marcos is dead. Pablo doesn't believe it. Dean demands to know if Pablo loves him. Pablo says that it was a complete fraud, that he never loved Pablo and never loved Dean. He's a sexual addict, and loves no one but himself.
Now, this is supposed to be the movie's big moment. Dean is ready to kill Pablo with the machete. He's kidnapped the son of a major Argentinian crime figure. He himself could be killed by the criminals, or arrested and executed by the police.
Yet, all I can think of is that Pablo suuuuuure managed to hide his mercenary side from Dean for six long months. And that just doesn't make any sense whatsoever.
Cut to: Los Angeles, two weeks later. Dean is showing his latest work to his editor. She loves it. It's all about a gay man whose lover dumps him and flees back to his criminal family in Argentina. The gay man eventually kills his wayward lover. The editor is thrilled with the black-and-white artwork. "And what's with all these splashes of red? I love it!" Dean smiles maniacally.
Dean picks up a package that has arrived for him. In it is the picnic cooler. (We're led to believe that Pablo's head is inside.)
Big twist ending: Back in Argentina, Sofia sits on the steps of her family's summer home. Marcos, her brother, comes out to sit with her on the porch.
Yes, it was all a scam! They drove Dean crazy on purpose, faked Marcos' death to drive Dean further mad, and then purposefully got Dean to the wedding -- knowing that by now, Dean was intending to kidnap Pablo and either get a confession of love or kill him. Knowing Pablo as Marcos knew him, that meant Pablo would spit hate at Dean. Dean would kill him -- leaving Sofia as the martyred wife in charge of Pablo's money. Marcos would have his revenge on Pablo. Sofia and Marcos would have Pablo's money. And neither Dean nor Mrs. Dallesandro would be the wiser.
Bullshit.
No fucking way. You know, it would have taken a super-genius using Mr. Peabody's Wayback Machine in order to come up with a plan so convoluted, so reliant on Dean's mental collapse and ignorance, and so turning on Dean's unforeseen decision to kidnap and kill Pablo, to make this junk-heap of a plot work.
I took a creative writing class in college. One of the things my professor said was to not over-determine the plot. Don't write something that requires so many coincidences that it seems unreasonable. It's one thing to have the cavalry come over the hill in the nick of time. It's another to have the cavalry do so ten times in one film.
"Testosterone" is amazingly over-determined. In retrospect, Sofia and Marcos have such foreknowledge of everything Dean knows and is going to do that it boggles the imagination. Their psychological insight into Dean's mental state and the actions Dean will take as he descends into madness make Freud, Jung and Rogers look like psychic hotline charlatans.
More, the entire film hinges on Dean's decision to get Pablo to confess his love or die. Until that point, everything Sofia and Marcos do really doesn't matter. All their machinations mean nothing; there is no real point to them, once you realize that the whole film hinges on Dean's decision to get love or kill Pablo trying. Indeed, in retrospect, Sofia and Marcos' plottings really don't drive Dean into madness at all. They lie a couple of times to him. They tell him that Pablo is a whore. They take him to Pablo's bedroom. So? If that's all it takes to push a man into homicidal madness, we're all in trouble. And what if Dean had decided to drink himself into oblivion instead? Or what if Dean had simply collapsed into gibbering insanity? Then everything Sofia and Marcos had done would have been for naught. Their grand plot would have meant nothing. No dead Pablo, no revenge on Pablo, no freedom for Sofia, and Marcos still in thrall (somehow) to Pablo. And then what?
The whole thing makes no sense.
As I exited the theater, a friend asked me what I thought of the film.
I hesitated, and then said, "Some individual scenes are really well-written. Some are really funny, and others really poignant. But there's no real plot or movie here. Just a bunch of scenes strung together. And the ending makes no sense."
That's your 35-word review in a nutshell. Too bad.
Addendum: Yes, there is a nude scene with Antonio Sabato, Jr., in this film. It comes about an hour in. Dean is in Sofia's summer home, dreaming of his life with Pablo. He dreams of the time Pablo was naked and gave him a birthday present in bed at night.
Yes, Antonio has a big, 6" soft cock. Uncut. It must be huge when fully hard. Very full, thick bush of jet-black hair. Very smooth, white skin. No hair on the legs.
It lasts for about 2 seconds. Blink, and you will miss it. I bet the DVD will sell 50,000 copies just to people can do a screen-cap of that one two-second shot.
"You want closure?" [slap across the face] "There. That's your closure."
Testosterone
Based on the book by the same name by James Robert Baker, this film by "The Edge of Seventeen" director David Moreton, co-written by newcomer Dennis Hensley, is all about the aftermath of a relationship gone bad.
Tons of spoilers below.
In truth, I'm not just sure what sort of film "Testosterone" is supposed to be. It opens almost like a comedy. Dean Seagrave (the hunky veteran actor David Sutcliffe, looking like Greg Evigan with muscles or a young, chisel-faced Russell Crowe) is a wildly successful graphic artist who, we learn in a series of very funny comic-book-style opening credits, met and fell in love with a hunky Argentinian stud named Pablo Dallesandro. Theirs was six months of wonderful love. Then, one night Pablo went out for cigarettes and never returned.
It's been two weeks, and Dean is out of his mind. He runs into Pablo's wealthy, beautiful mother (played to the bitchy hilt by the legendary indie actress Sonia Braga) at a gallery opening. After being humiliated and undressed in front of everyone, Mrs. Dallesandro hisses that Pablo "is through" with Dean and has returned to Argentina.
No sooner than you can say "Buenas Aires," and Dean's in Argentina. Exhibiting a dry comic with with impeccable timing, Dean suffers through a series of misadventures as he visits Pablo's home and tries to make contact with him again. But it's not use. Dean is so obsessed by Pablo that he doesn't even recognize that the hunky bellboy (wonderfully sexy Dario Dukah) in his hotel is hot for him.
Dean quickly realizes that Sofia (the luminous Celina Font), a waitress at the cafe across the street from Pablo's home, may know more than she is letting on. Sofia is clearly hiding something from Dean, but hapless Dean seems clueless to her sideways glances, heavy-lidded eyes and odd vocal hesitations. Dean begins pressuring her for more information. That's when Marcos (played by the astoundingly handsome, astoundingly talented newcomer Leonardo Brzezicki), her brother shows up. He tails Dean for two days, and finally makes contact.
Already, the audience is aware of things that Dean is not. And this makes for a frustrating film-going experience. Sofia is obviously hiding things. But while this is made patently clear to the audience through Sofia's behavior and statements, Dean seems almost negligently unaware of this. Marcos' presence and his relationship to Sofia (although undefined at first) is thrust into the audience's face. But since Dean remains clueless and the film makes little of these facts (they are not used to create tension, heighten the drama, etc.), the audience feels nothing but frustration. In any spy film, a main character may be followed by another spy. The director will utilize this to heighten the dramatic tension: Will our hero find out he's being followed? Will the shadow manage to escape detection? Will the shadow see our hero meeting with the double-agent, and escape with this knowledge back to his evil master? Or will there be a mad chase through the streets of Cold War Vienna to stop him? In "Testosterone," however, Marcos' shadowing of Dean seems meaningless. It just happens.
In fact, once Dean realizes he's got a tail, Marcos reveals himself to Dean rather quickly.
Dean feels a strong sexual attraction to Marcos. He takes Marcos back to his hotel, and they begin to make out. Dean's obsession with Pablo leads him to keep asking about his ex-lover, and eventually Marcos lets slip that he and Pablo were once lovers, too. They were boyhood friends, and soon were more than that. It ended, Marcos says as Dean undresses him and is about to pull down his boxers, when he found out that Pablo was cheating on him. This makes Dean stop what he's doing. Marcos tells Dean that Pablo is a sex addict, and kept going to bath house. That ended their relationship. "He probably cheated on you, too," Marcos says. Dean throws him out, unwilling to listen.
Marcos runs into the hot bellboy, and takes him into a closet and begins fucking him.
Sexually frustrated, Dean leaves his hotel room -- and spies on Marcos fucking the bellboy. As the bellboy ejaculates beneath him (off-camera, sadly), Marcos turns to see Dean looking at him. "Was it good for you, Dean?" he smirks. Dean stalks off.
What is the audience to make of this?
For one thing, the incident seems just too pat, too set-piece, too coincidental to have really happened. For another, the whole tone of the film has now changed. Instead of a comic mystery about a man hunting down his wayward lover, we now have a serious spy drama with very painful emotional overtones.
For another, it's entirely unclear why Marcos would want to sleep with Dean. True, Marcos admits to having read all of Dean's graphic novels and loving them. But is that the truth? It's difficult to believe him. After all, Marcos seems more spy or Mafia thug than a waitress' brother with a love of manga who's star-fucking a novelist he just met. And Marcos' sudden and brutal sexual encounter with the bellboy seems so cruel (to Dean and to the bellboy) that it, too, is unbelievable.
Dean quickly confronts Sofia again. She admits that Marcos is her brother, that Marcos and Pablo were lovers once, and that Marcos has been tailing Dean. Sofia demands to knw why Dean is in Argentina, and why he wants to talk to Pablo. Dean gives her his answer, but she refuses to believe he just needs closure.
Now -- let me stop right here. At this point, the film essentially loses me. I don't care any more. The movie has just committed the fatal flaw of using one of the most hackneyed plot tricks in the book: The naive innocent just needs one simple thing, but the super-cynical evil-doers can't understand why or don't believe it. His obsession will run headlong into their stonewalling, and they will drive him to horrible measures to obtain the one simple thing he needs. In the process, he will destroy them. He will obtain his one simple thing, then go home. This plot trick has been used a million times in film.
For example, take a look at "The Man Who Knew Too Much." Had the spy, Louis Bernard, simply apologized to the McKennas for abandoning them at dinner instead of angering Jo McKenna so much, she would never have suspected him so much. Had the Draytons simply warned the McKennas off or merely threatened their child, the Dr. McKenna would never have told what he heard from the dying Louis Bernard. But no. Bernard never apologized, leading Jo McKenna to suspect him. The Draytons kidnapped the McKenna child, leading Dr. and Mrs. McKenna to pursue them. As the Ambassasdor later pointed out, "Don't you know that Americans dislike having their children kidnapped?" Kidnapping the child when a simple warning would have done led the innocent (the McKennas) to unravel the best-laid plans of a vast criminal conspiracy.
In a way, "Testosterone" tries to pull off the same trick. Only, I know it's a trick. And I don't like that the film is trying to utilize a plot-twist like this. I see it for what it is, and it takes me out of the movie.
In fact, from this point on, I really don't care what Marcos or Sofia say. Everything is a lie. I know that Dean will find a way to unravel the lie, and that he will destroy everything in his righteous path in order to get his closure.
Sure enough, that's exactly what happens. Sofia tries to put Dean off by saying that Pablo is not at the downtown luxury mansion Dean has been scouting. Dean reasons that Pablo must be at a summer home or other residence. Marcos admits that there is one. Dean convinces Sofia to take him there. Sofia says she will, but instead takes Dean to her own summer home.
It turns that Sofia's family is wealthy, too. It's a fact which raises alarm bells for the audience, but not for dim-witted Dean. After all, rich people tend to know one another. That society is small. But Dean doesn't seem to have a clue. Marcos and Sofia say that Pablo's summer home is still too far off, and that Dean should stay the night. Why Dean believes them is beyond me; they've spent the entire film lying to him, and he knows it.
What follows is one of the film's most hilarious moments. Marcos attempts to seduce Dean again. He tells Dean that there's a ghost in his room (a figurative one, naturally: the ghost of Pablo). He also tells Dean a side-splitting tale about how the bedsheets in Dean's bedroom were made by blind Belgian nuns. As he says this, Marcos pretends to be a blind Belgian nun sewing a sheet. Leonardo Brzezicki lets his face go blank and his eyes drift as he tells the story, his fingers pretending to sew. The pantomime is so funny, I laughed for five minutes!!!!!!!
Ah well. Dean kicks him out.
In the morning, Dean comes down for breakfast. Sofia admits that Pablo's house is a mere three miles away. Dean is upset that she lied, but she says that Marcos was supposed to kill Dean last night. But Marcos has a crush on Dean, and so didn't have the heart.
Dean dismisses her admission as more lies. But given the sinister machinations Sofia and Marcos have engaged in behind Dean's back, the audience sees this as an admission of guilt. Sure enough, as Marcos takes Dean to Pablo's summer home, Dean asks to stop the car and take a leak. As he's pissing, Marcos pulls out a gun and tries to shoot Dean -- but he loses his nerve, and can't do it.
The two men arrive at the summer house. But Pablo is not there. Marcos admits that he knew Pablo was not there, but he wanted Dean to exorcise his demons. Perhaps if Dean saw the tree where Pablo carved their names into the trunk, or saw Pablo's bedroom, Dean would realize it's over.
Now, this makes absolutely no sense.
Marcos takes Dean to Pablo's bedroom. No one has been in residence for a very long time, obviously. Dean and Pablo fight, then make love. Dean falls asleep in Pablo's bed. He's awaken by the sound of a gunshot. He rushes outside -- and finds that Marcos has shot himself in the head. Sofia arrives a short time later. She tells Dean that Marcos killed himself rather than kill Dean.
Once more, this makes absolutely no sense. Why would Marcos want to kill Dean? On whose orders? Was Marcos part of the Argentine Mafia, or the military? Is Pablo part of the Argentine Mafia? What hold would anyone have on Marcos? Is there a similar hold on Sofia?
Dean goes back to town. He takes Marcos' gun, and invades the Dallesandro home. He confronts Pablo's mother, but loses his nerve. He's set upon by thugs, but runs into a cemetery and escapes their superstitious clutches. The next day, Sofia runs into Dean at the cemetery. She's buying a headstone for Marcos. She tells Dean that shes can arrange for Dean to meet Pablo tomorrow at a certain time and place. Dean agrees to her plan.
Again, this makes no sense. It's awfully coincidental. One also has to wonder just how Sofia explained her brother's death to the police. One also has to wonder just what hold Sofia has on Pablo and Mrs. Dallesandro that she could arrange for a meeting. None of these questions enter the hapless Dean's mind, naturally.
By now, Dean has been pushed emotionally to the edge. Almost insane with his obsession, he buys a machete, some duct tape and a picnic cooler. Dean then threatens to kill Sofia unless she arranges the meeting. He accidentally shoots her in the hand. Alarmed, Sofia makes the plans.
Later, Dean phones his editor in Los Angeles and tells her he will be coming home on the 10 p.m. plane.
That early evening, a half-shaven, smelly, wrinkle-clothed Dean waits for Pablo at a museum. He asks a docent for Pablo Dallesandro, and she tells him that Pablo is next door at the church. Dean rushes outside -- to see that Pablo has married Sofia.
Now, the audience immediately suspects something is up. Sofia may have been scheming to keep Dean away while her wedding to Pablo went ahead. That provides some motivation for her actions and statements. But it seems a piss-poor excuse in the end. All this, just to hide the fact that she was to marry Pablo? Bullshit.
But Dean steps right into the cow-patty. He sneaks into the wedding reception in the museum (given his disheveled state, it seems impossible, and once more it does not occur to Dean to question why Sofia would arrange for a meeting at the wedding reception). Dean goes out of his way to taunt Sofia and Pablo, drinking their champagne and cutting their wedding cake. Sofia confronts Dean. Why did she marry him, Dean demands to know. Respectability, Sofia says. I need his money; he needs my good name to legitimize his criminal family in the eyes of the law.
When Pablo goes into a side room for a sexual tryst with a hot waiter, Dean follows. Dean then kidnaps Pablo. Sofia, amazingly, helps him escape.
Dean takes Pablo to the summer home, and tells him that Marcos is dead. Pablo doesn't believe it. Dean demands to know if Pablo loves him. Pablo says that it was a complete fraud, that he never loved Pablo and never loved Dean. He's a sexual addict, and loves no one but himself.
Now, this is supposed to be the movie's big moment. Dean is ready to kill Pablo with the machete. He's kidnapped the son of a major Argentinian crime figure. He himself could be killed by the criminals, or arrested and executed by the police.
Yet, all I can think of is that Pablo suuuuuure managed to hide his mercenary side from Dean for six long months. And that just doesn't make any sense whatsoever.
Cut to: Los Angeles, two weeks later. Dean is showing his latest work to his editor. She loves it. It's all about a gay man whose lover dumps him and flees back to his criminal family in Argentina. The gay man eventually kills his wayward lover. The editor is thrilled with the black-and-white artwork. "And what's with all these splashes of red? I love it!" Dean smiles maniacally.
Dean picks up a package that has arrived for him. In it is the picnic cooler. (We're led to believe that Pablo's head is inside.)
Big twist ending: Back in Argentina, Sofia sits on the steps of her family's summer home. Marcos, her brother, comes out to sit with her on the porch.
Yes, it was all a scam! They drove Dean crazy on purpose, faked Marcos' death to drive Dean further mad, and then purposefully got Dean to the wedding -- knowing that by now, Dean was intending to kidnap Pablo and either get a confession of love or kill him. Knowing Pablo as Marcos knew him, that meant Pablo would spit hate at Dean. Dean would kill him -- leaving Sofia as the martyred wife in charge of Pablo's money. Marcos would have his revenge on Pablo. Sofia and Marcos would have Pablo's money. And neither Dean nor Mrs. Dallesandro would be the wiser.
Bullshit.
No fucking way. You know, it would have taken a super-genius using Mr. Peabody's Wayback Machine in order to come up with a plan so convoluted, so reliant on Dean's mental collapse and ignorance, and so turning on Dean's unforeseen decision to kidnap and kill Pablo, to make this junk-heap of a plot work.
I took a creative writing class in college. One of the things my professor said was to not over-determine the plot. Don't write something that requires so many coincidences that it seems unreasonable. It's one thing to have the cavalry come over the hill in the nick of time. It's another to have the cavalry do so ten times in one film.
"Testosterone" is amazingly over-determined. In retrospect, Sofia and Marcos have such foreknowledge of everything Dean knows and is going to do that it boggles the imagination. Their psychological insight into Dean's mental state and the actions Dean will take as he descends into madness make Freud, Jung and Rogers look like psychic hotline charlatans.
More, the entire film hinges on Dean's decision to get Pablo to confess his love or die. Until that point, everything Sofia and Marcos do really doesn't matter. All their machinations mean nothing; there is no real point to them, once you realize that the whole film hinges on Dean's decision to get love or kill Pablo trying. Indeed, in retrospect, Sofia and Marcos' plottings really don't drive Dean into madness at all. They lie a couple of times to him. They tell him that Pablo is a whore. They take him to Pablo's bedroom. So? If that's all it takes to push a man into homicidal madness, we're all in trouble. And what if Dean had decided to drink himself into oblivion instead? Or what if Dean had simply collapsed into gibbering insanity? Then everything Sofia and Marcos had done would have been for naught. Their grand plot would have meant nothing. No dead Pablo, no revenge on Pablo, no freedom for Sofia, and Marcos still in thrall (somehow) to Pablo. And then what?
The whole thing makes no sense.
As I exited the theater, a friend asked me what I thought of the film.
I hesitated, and then said, "Some individual scenes are really well-written. Some are really funny, and others really poignant. But there's no real plot or movie here. Just a bunch of scenes strung together. And the ending makes no sense."
That's your 35-word review in a nutshell. Too bad.
Addendum: Yes, there is a nude scene with Antonio Sabato, Jr., in this film. It comes about an hour in. Dean is in Sofia's summer home, dreaming of his life with Pablo. He dreams of the time Pablo was naked and gave him a birthday present in bed at night.
Yes, Antonio has a big, 6" soft cock. Uncut. It must be huge when fully hard. Very full, thick bush of jet-black hair. Very smooth, white skin. No hair on the legs.
It lasts for about 2 seconds. Blink, and you will miss it. I bet the DVD will sell 50,000 copies just to people can do a screen-cap of that one two-second shot.
Saturday, October 16, 2004
Reel Affirmations Film Festival, Day Two, Part 2:
"Don't worry, he's as harmless as a carrot now."
HellBent
Yes, tons of spoilers below.
"HellBent" is an awesome little slasher/horror film. First-time writer-director Paul Etheredge-Ouzts (a veteran art staff member of a number of mainstream films, including "JFK," "I Shot Andy Warhol" and "Things You Can Tell Just By Looking At Her" as well as producer/first-unit cinematographer for "Circuit") has crafted a stylish and very visual film that is pure Halloween fun.
"HellBent" is about a young computer expert, Eddie (newcomer Dylan Fergus, who is channeling "Smallville's" Tom Welling big-time), who is helping solve software problems with the Los Angeles police department (where his sister is a cop). Eddie shot his eye out a couple years ago while in cop school, and so has a lot of unfulfilled dreams. Eddie's dad was an officer who died in the line of duty, and Eddie wants nothing so much as to follow in his father's footsteps.
Eddie is handsome, muscular and hunky. But he's also shy, not very confident and a bit lacking in self-esteem due to his glass eye. Consequently, Eddie has a thing for "rough trade."
The film opens with hairy-chested super-hunk Mickey Fike (played by veteran gay indie film actor Sam Levine) and his new trick George (played by the handsome Latino actor Miguel Caballero) goofing off in the woods on Mickey's birthday. They begin to make love in George's car. Mickey leans out the window while George fellates him -- and then WHAMMO! Mickey's head is cut off by a scythe. The terrified George tries to flee in the car, but he, too, is cut down.
Eddie learns of the murders the next day (Halloween) while working at the local police station. The desk sergeant asks Eddie to help distribute fliers about the murders in local gay haunts, and Eddie is eager to do some "real" police-work.
That afternoon, Eddie dresses for Halloween in his father's old police uniform and then goes out leafletting. He soon spots the hunky motorcyclist Jake (muscular hunk Bryan Kirkwood, whose twin brother Denny Kirkwood is also an actor). Jake's getting a tattoo, and Eddie cruises him in the tattoo parlor. But Jake is dismissive of pretty-boy Eddie, and Eddie soon leaves.
Later, Eddie interrupts his friend Chaz (Latino hunk Andrew Levitas from "Psycho Beach Party"), who is having a bisexual three-way in his car. Breaking up the mini-orgy, Eddie tells Chaz it's time to pick up their two friends for the night's festivities. They head for the local diner, where young geek-twink Joey (veteran actor Hank Harris) works as a waiter. They also meet up with mega-hunk Tobey (newcomer Matt Phillips) -- a model with a huge dick who just finished a big gig for a major blue-jeans company. A huge billboard featuring the near-naked Tobey is up on Santa Monica Blvd., but Tobey has decided to go to the night's Halloween party in drag as a platinum blonde. Chaz is going as a leather-clad cowboy, and Joey's going as a leather-boy in order to attrack his unrequited love, a local jock.
The four head out, and -- as a joke -- Chaz parks in the local woods at the very spot where the two men were killed the night before. The four take a piss in the woods before heading off to the gigantic Halloween street-party two blocks away. They see a bodybuilder African-American dressed in leather pants and a demon's mask and horns. Thinking he is another party-goer, they taunt him by showing their assholes to him. But when he holds up his cutting-scythe, they are terrified -- but the man disappears.
Believing the man in the woods was just a guy trying to scare people, the four friends think nothing more of it. Much of the next 30 minutes of the film is dedicated to the friends enjoying the massive Mardi Gras-like West Hollywood Halloween party. They wander the streets, enjoying the tens of thousands of people in costume.
Eventually, Eddie spies Jake pulling up to a dance club. He drags his friends inside, and strikes up a conversation with the biker-hunk. Joey, meanwhile, is induced to let two bodybuilders "chop up" his body with fake chainsaws that spurt blood. Later, Joey spots the object of his affection standing with two poseurs off to one side. He approaches him, but is dissed. Brokenhearted, the twink heads to the bathroom with Chaz in tow to comfort him. Chaz tells Joey to clean up and try again. As Joey washes, the fickle Chaz eyes a gorgeous young man in the hall. He heads off for some quick sex and a tab of X -- leaving Joey alone.
This is all set-up for the fairly predictable slasher film that follows. Naturally, Joey hooks up with his hunka-hunk, who apologizes for the behavior of his friends and offers to meet Joey for breakfast. But as any slasher/horror fan knows, never have sex -- it only drives the killer into a greater frenzy. Sure enough, Joey is beheaded in the bathroom by the demonic killer as soon as the hunk leaves.
Jake drags Eddie off for more fun on the carnival midway, while Chaz has sex in an alley with a man and woman. Tobey, meanwhile, gets drunk (apparently, he's an alcoholic) because no one can appreciate his mind while he has such a hot body and big dick. (Oh, the burden of beauty.)
Soon the killer tracks down Chaz, who is high as a kite on the dance floor. The murderer disembowels him and then decapitates him on the dance floor, causing a riot.
But Eddie and Jake, far from the club by now, don't realize what has happened. Tobey, drunk in a bar, also isn't aware of what's going on. Tobey staggers off to have his picture taken in front of his billboard by a blond stud (who, naturally, doesn't like a guy in drag). When Tobey sees the killer (with two Halloween candy bags full of severed heads!), he accosts him. "You don't like me?" Tobey flings his driver's license at the killer, and strips off his wig and dress in order to prove how manly he is. The killer turns -- and lops of his head, before picking up the driver's license.
Hours later, Eddie and Tobey head back to the club to try to find Eddie's three missing friends. The club's been closed by the police because "some kid freaked out in there." But Jake needs his motorcycle (Eddie can't drive due to his glass eye), so they go around the back and scale a fence. Jake gets his cycle out, but Eddie -- still behind the fence -- is attacked by the killer. Eddie flees into the club, and is trapped in an elevator shaft. The killer thursts at him with the scythe -- which lodges in Eddie's glass eye, saving his life. The cops arrive, and the killer flees.
Eddie gives his report to the police, and then he and Jake head back to Eddie's apartment for sex. Eddie checks to make sure that Joey, Chaz and Tobey aren't home. He tries to make out with Jake, but the rough-trade boy won't be kissed. They head for Eddie's bedroom, where Jake handcuffs the near-naked Eddie to the bedposts. (Dylan Fergus looks astoundingly hot with his arms stretched over his head, hair flopping in his face, chest shaved close, writhing around.) Eddie heads for the bathroom to clean up.
He spots the driver's license on the floor, and is immediately skewered in the chest by the killer. Realizing what's happening, Eddie frees himself from the cuffs and tries to dial 911. But the killer slices the phone lines. Eddie tries to escape the apartment, but the keys to the deadlock are missing. Eddie is trapped in his bedroom, when the injured Jake bonks the killer on the head with a baseball bat taken from jock Tobey's room. Eddie locks his bedroom door, loads his father's service revolver, and takes Jake out onto the fire escape. But the killer chops down the door "Shining"-style.
The killer steps onto the fire escape and seizes Jake, to shield himself from Eddie's gunfire. Half-blind Eddie doesn't dare shoot, and the killer knocks the gun from his hand. It lands on a railing below. The killer attacks Eddie -- but sticks out his tongue and removes Eddie's glass eye first. He swallows it. Eddie writhes free, and falls -- dangling by one handcuff, which is wedged in the fire escape. The slasher moves to kill Jake. Eddie swings, reaches the gun, fires. He shoots Jake in the leg, because his depth perception is so bad. The murderer slashes at Eddie again, and misses. Eddie aims. Jake moans, "Shoot me." Eddie aims at Jake -- and his bad depth-perception enables him to hit the killer right in the forehead.
Naturally, the killer survives.
- - -
The true test of a horror film these days is that it actually terrifies. When the Lumiere brothers opened the first movie theatre on December 28, 1895, in the basement of a Paris cafe, a "horror" film was on the bill. One of the Lumieres' shorts, "L'arrive d'un train en gare," was a shot of a train pulling into a railroad station. It elicited shrieks of fear from the audience as they perceived the train to be hurtling directly at them. Such fear stemmed (in part) from the fact that audiences had not yet learned to watch movies and were unprepared for the realism of film.
It was not, however, just the image of a physical threat which surprised and alarmed the first film-goers. Early audiences were powerfully moved by all sorts of natural movement: The sight of smoke ascending into the sky, waves breaking on a shore, leaves trembling in the wind. By 1929, a train pulling into a station was no longer perceived as a menace. Luis Bunuel and Salvador Dali, in the film "Un Chien Andalou," had to resort to a razor blade slicing an eyeball to terrify viewers. Today, many moviegoers are not even be scared by the numerous projectiles and appendages thrown at them by a psycho in a movie like "Friday the 13th," Parts I through VIII.
But therein lies the horror filmmaker’s conundrum. Film is entertainment. Audiences go to films to be entertained. Horror has become entertaining. Indeed, horror films increasingly are seen as thrill-rides: Safe, unthreatening. A person experiencing the rollercoaster (or the horror film) laughs at the experience rather than is terrified by it. Although the coast-rider experiences the physical sensation of being hurtled sideways, sees the edge of the coaster, feels gravity pulling him downward, the rider still knows that it is completely safe. The coaster won't plunge anyone to their death.
Similarly, horror films are seen as "just a movie" now. Audiences sheltered from blood and gore shrieked in fear when it splattered for the first time across the screen. Now, they giggle and laugh and demand more. Indeed, as one scene in "HellBent" points out, movie gore has become so realistic, most people can't tell the difference between a real decapitated body and a fake one any more. When the line between life and death is blurred like that, it becomes easy for audiences to laugh at the most gruesome killings.
This has led to the "death" of the horror film.
One cinematic response is to engage in what I call "surprise" horror filmmaking. Have someone leap out of a closet at you. Lull the viewer into lowering his defenses, and then surprise him. The goal here is to play off a human being's natural instinctive reaction to jump when startled. So the modern horror filmmakers startles the viewer. Take "The Hearse" (Marimark, 1980). A young woman is fixing up the home she just inherited from her dead aunt. Her aunt and her lover (the chauffeur of a local hearse) were making love in the front seat during the woman's husband's funeral procession. The hearse went off a cliff, killing them both. The dead lovers returned to haunt the home.
In "The Hearse," the young niece is cleaning the windows of her new home. As she wipes soap off the window, the face of her dead aunt stares out at her from the interior of the house. She shrieks. The audience shrieks. The woman leans backward, and the ladder begins to topple. But the overhanging eave of the house catches the ladder, preventing the niece's death. The niece looks again into the window -- and there is no one there.
Another example is "Friday the 13th" (Paramount, 1980). Two camp counselors are making love in a cabin. The scene is lengthy and extremely erotic. The camera, using point-of-view, approaches the window of the cabin and looks in at the lovers. The sensation is one of voyeurism (we know that one of the other camp counselors is a voyeur). As the couple approach orgasm, the girl (in missionary position) opens her eyes. She screams. A metal bar is thrust through the orgasming bodies of both teenagers. The audience shrieks. The bloody point extends beneath the quivering bed as the two expire. The audience goes "Ewww!" and chuckles. (According to both ACT-UP and horror films, Sex = Death.)
Yet another example is "Alien" (Fox, 1979). Captain Dallas is in the ship's air ducts, trying to locate the alien creature loose on his ship. The tension heightens as navigator Lambert monitors a tracking device that shows the alien creature approaching Capt. Dallas. Yet, Dallas still cannot see the large creature in the dark, despite his flashlight and sending torrents of fire from his flamethrower down all the air-shafts he can find. As Lambert's woeful pleas to "get out of there" become louder and more insistent, Dallas twists and turns in the cramped, dark duct, loosing fire from his flame-thrower. He turns -- and the alien is right behind him! The radio screeches a high-pitched noise as Lambert weeps into the intercom. The audience screeches, too. The pitiful sounds of Lambert's weeping and first officer Ripley's calm request for Dallas to "respond" give the audience time to catch its collective breath.
Pathetic, mediocre and excellent horror films all. And all rely heavily on the 'startle" theory of horror.
There is another approach to horror which is marked by what I call the "psychological approach." This is the approach we see in "The Shining" (Warner Bros., 1980). In this film, Jack Nicholson's descent into madness is slow and deliberate. There are no ghosts or ghoulies jumping out of closets. When young Danny Torrance rounds a corner on his Big Wheel and sees the ghosts of the murdered twin girls that haunt one wing of the Overlook Hotel, the experience is less startling than creepy. When Wendy Torrance searches the hotel for her missing son as Jack hunts them both down, she opens a room to find a man in a tuxedo receiving oral sex from a man with a pig's face, wearing a bear costume. Confronted by the surreal and the taboo, Wendy flees in terror. Although the editing and music (which quickly jumps from distant to medium to close-up shot, while screeching orchestral strings "indicate" a horror-response) want the audience to shriek in terror, the audience's response is more "creeped out" than "terrified."
Similarly, "Rosemary's Baby" (Paramount, 1968) plays on the paranoia many women feel during pregnancy. In the real world, this paranoia is hormone-induced. But in the world of "Rosemary's Baby," it is caused by the devil-worshippers living next door. At first, Rosemary is only dimly aware of the problems she is confronting. Her food tastes bad, she's throwing up a lot, her stomach hurts. Slowly, she begins to believe that there is a conspiracy against her, one which includes her husband. Finally, true terror kicks in as her best friend is murdered and her own doctor betrays her. When Rosemary finally learns the truth about her baby, she is nearly driven mad. But the obsessive nature of motherhood drives her to be protective of Little Satan, and she becomes the ringleader of the cult (surpassing the authority even of her husband and the devil-worshippers next door). Once more, there is little in "Rosemary's Baby" to make the audience scream in fear. Rather, the response is one of "horror" -- a combination of feeling appalled, feeling despair, feeling betrayed, feeling disgust, feeling...well, "horror." It is like coming upon a long-dead body on which maggots are breeding. You can see it from afar, and you walk up to it slowly. There's no rush of terror, just creepiness.
The psychological approach to horror, I think, is less "tricky" and "cheap" than the "gotcha" approach. Anybody can jump out of a closet at you. But it takes finesse, style, poise, and excellent control of the tools of cinema to successfully adopt the psychological approach to horror.
But this raises an interesting question: Is a true horror film that elicits a scream even possible any more without use of the "gotcha" technique? Can a filmmaker ever hope to create horror in a day and age where audiences are numbed by the countless mediocre horror and thriller films out there? Is it possible to scare or horrify an audience when, every day, children are gunned down in the streets, nations commit genocide against their own populations, gang-rape is common on the nation's campuses and drug-gangs routinely "crucify" narcs by tying them to chain-link fences, chopping off their hands and then "stoning" them to death with bricks?
I would like to think that it is. But the way out of the trap is to use the "psychological" approach. A filmmaker has to restore the audience to a mental state of naivete and innocence again before stripping it away.
"HellBent" doesn't go that route. Instead, "HellBent" sticks to the tried and true formulas of the slasher film. It sets up a group of basically good but slightly immoral people, each of whom has a moral failure (insecurity, lust, alcoholism, lust for straight men). A killer exacts moral justice on each of these people. In the end, a lone survivor -- who is the individual with the fewest moral failures -- battles against the killer and wins. But the killer miraculously survives to continue to be a gruesome force for justice and morality.
What distinguishes "HellBent" from other films is that it is classy. The production values on this film are sky-high. The art direction by relative newcomer Matthew Ferguson is superb, as is the costuming, make-up and sound. There is a terrific hard-rock soundtrack by Nick Name (an openly gay Mormon boy turned metalhead and actor) and Mike Shapiro. The editing by newcomer Steve Dyson and cinematography by veteran mark Mervis border on genius at times. (And check out the really astounding opening titles. That's genius at work!)
The film takes itself fairly seriously, without being portentious. These characters are not too self-aware about horror films, as the characters in "Scream" or "Urban Legend" are. These characters live in their own world of sex and friendship, a world untainted by Friday the 13ths and Nightmares on Elm Street and I Know What You Did Last Summerses. There's evil in their world, but not murder and mayhem. When murder and mayhem occur, the characters are blissfully dismissive of it (as Eddie is, after seeing pictures of the two decapitated men).
If there's a failing of "HellBent," it is that the film doesn't quite take the slasher theme to its ultimate end. In most films of this type, the murderer has some sort of backstory -- whether it is the revenge-demon of "Pumpkinhead" (MGM, 1989), the drowned camper of "Friday the 13th" (Paramount, 1980), or the vengeful younger brother murdering his sister's killers in "Prom Night" (Embassy Pictures, 1980). The horned killer in "HellBent" has no backstory. He just exists, a deus ex machina. That's unsatisfying.
"HellBent" also fails on another level, and that is to keep faith with the sexism of horror. In her book "Men, Woman and Chainsaws," Carol Clover argues that the power of films like "Halloween" and "The Texas Chainsaw Massacre" lies in their ability to have the audience see through the killer's perspective and make us party to his atrocities. Traditional film theory argues that sadism is actually the heart of the horror experience. But Clover points out that effective horror films work to make the viewer empathize with the plight of the victim-hero -- the figure who suffers pain and fright but eventually vanquishes the forces of evil. A paradox is that, since the late 1970s, the victim-hero is usually female and the audience predominantly male. Horror movies, Clover concludes, use female bodies not only for the male spectator to feel at, but for him to feel through. On the face of it, horror films appear to be blatantly sexist. But in fact, they work to permit the male horror fan to experience "feminine" feelings and give expression to them (subverting sexism, misogyny and machismo).
I'm not entirely sure that "HellBent" works in this way. Because all of the characters are male, there is no subversion of sexism. And because all of the characters are homosexual, there can be no subversion of homophobia, either. (The film openly dismisses any attempt to portray the killer's motives as a homophobe; Eddie tells his sister to not let the police see the murders "only as another fag-bashing".)
In a way, this does not necessarily undercut the effectiveness of the film. But it does remove from the film's arsenal a major weapon that would would have made it more effective than it already is.
In the end, "HellBent" doesn't take horror in any new directions. Nor does it establish new ways for gay audiences to "see" horror.
But, "HellBent" is a terrific film nonetheless. It is eerie, stylish and tight. And that's probably two-thirds of the battle right there.
"Don't worry, he's as harmless as a carrot now."
HellBent
Yes, tons of spoilers below.
"HellBent" is an awesome little slasher/horror film. First-time writer-director Paul Etheredge-Ouzts (a veteran art staff member of a number of mainstream films, including "JFK," "I Shot Andy Warhol" and "Things You Can Tell Just By Looking At Her" as well as producer/first-unit cinematographer for "Circuit") has crafted a stylish and very visual film that is pure Halloween fun.
"HellBent" is about a young computer expert, Eddie (newcomer Dylan Fergus, who is channeling "Smallville's" Tom Welling big-time), who is helping solve software problems with the Los Angeles police department (where his sister is a cop). Eddie shot his eye out a couple years ago while in cop school, and so has a lot of unfulfilled dreams. Eddie's dad was an officer who died in the line of duty, and Eddie wants nothing so much as to follow in his father's footsteps.
Eddie is handsome, muscular and hunky. But he's also shy, not very confident and a bit lacking in self-esteem due to his glass eye. Consequently, Eddie has a thing for "rough trade."
The film opens with hairy-chested super-hunk Mickey Fike (played by veteran gay indie film actor Sam Levine) and his new trick George (played by the handsome Latino actor Miguel Caballero) goofing off in the woods on Mickey's birthday. They begin to make love in George's car. Mickey leans out the window while George fellates him -- and then WHAMMO! Mickey's head is cut off by a scythe. The terrified George tries to flee in the car, but he, too, is cut down.
Eddie learns of the murders the next day (Halloween) while working at the local police station. The desk sergeant asks Eddie to help distribute fliers about the murders in local gay haunts, and Eddie is eager to do some "real" police-work.
That afternoon, Eddie dresses for Halloween in his father's old police uniform and then goes out leafletting. He soon spots the hunky motorcyclist Jake (muscular hunk Bryan Kirkwood, whose twin brother Denny Kirkwood is also an actor). Jake's getting a tattoo, and Eddie cruises him in the tattoo parlor. But Jake is dismissive of pretty-boy Eddie, and Eddie soon leaves.
Later, Eddie interrupts his friend Chaz (Latino hunk Andrew Levitas from "Psycho Beach Party"), who is having a bisexual three-way in his car. Breaking up the mini-orgy, Eddie tells Chaz it's time to pick up their two friends for the night's festivities. They head for the local diner, where young geek-twink Joey (veteran actor Hank Harris) works as a waiter. They also meet up with mega-hunk Tobey (newcomer Matt Phillips) -- a model with a huge dick who just finished a big gig for a major blue-jeans company. A huge billboard featuring the near-naked Tobey is up on Santa Monica Blvd., but Tobey has decided to go to the night's Halloween party in drag as a platinum blonde. Chaz is going as a leather-clad cowboy, and Joey's going as a leather-boy in order to attrack his unrequited love, a local jock.
The four head out, and -- as a joke -- Chaz parks in the local woods at the very spot where the two men were killed the night before. The four take a piss in the woods before heading off to the gigantic Halloween street-party two blocks away. They see a bodybuilder African-American dressed in leather pants and a demon's mask and horns. Thinking he is another party-goer, they taunt him by showing their assholes to him. But when he holds up his cutting-scythe, they are terrified -- but the man disappears.
Believing the man in the woods was just a guy trying to scare people, the four friends think nothing more of it. Much of the next 30 minutes of the film is dedicated to the friends enjoying the massive Mardi Gras-like West Hollywood Halloween party. They wander the streets, enjoying the tens of thousands of people in costume.
Eventually, Eddie spies Jake pulling up to a dance club. He drags his friends inside, and strikes up a conversation with the biker-hunk. Joey, meanwhile, is induced to let two bodybuilders "chop up" his body with fake chainsaws that spurt blood. Later, Joey spots the object of his affection standing with two poseurs off to one side. He approaches him, but is dissed. Brokenhearted, the twink heads to the bathroom with Chaz in tow to comfort him. Chaz tells Joey to clean up and try again. As Joey washes, the fickle Chaz eyes a gorgeous young man in the hall. He heads off for some quick sex and a tab of X -- leaving Joey alone.
This is all set-up for the fairly predictable slasher film that follows. Naturally, Joey hooks up with his hunka-hunk, who apologizes for the behavior of his friends and offers to meet Joey for breakfast. But as any slasher/horror fan knows, never have sex -- it only drives the killer into a greater frenzy. Sure enough, Joey is beheaded in the bathroom by the demonic killer as soon as the hunk leaves.
Jake drags Eddie off for more fun on the carnival midway, while Chaz has sex in an alley with a man and woman. Tobey, meanwhile, gets drunk (apparently, he's an alcoholic) because no one can appreciate his mind while he has such a hot body and big dick. (Oh, the burden of beauty.)
Soon the killer tracks down Chaz, who is high as a kite on the dance floor. The murderer disembowels him and then decapitates him on the dance floor, causing a riot.
But Eddie and Jake, far from the club by now, don't realize what has happened. Tobey, drunk in a bar, also isn't aware of what's going on. Tobey staggers off to have his picture taken in front of his billboard by a blond stud (who, naturally, doesn't like a guy in drag). When Tobey sees the killer (with two Halloween candy bags full of severed heads!), he accosts him. "You don't like me?" Tobey flings his driver's license at the killer, and strips off his wig and dress in order to prove how manly he is. The killer turns -- and lops of his head, before picking up the driver's license.
Hours later, Eddie and Tobey head back to the club to try to find Eddie's three missing friends. The club's been closed by the police because "some kid freaked out in there." But Jake needs his motorcycle (Eddie can't drive due to his glass eye), so they go around the back and scale a fence. Jake gets his cycle out, but Eddie -- still behind the fence -- is attacked by the killer. Eddie flees into the club, and is trapped in an elevator shaft. The killer thursts at him with the scythe -- which lodges in Eddie's glass eye, saving his life. The cops arrive, and the killer flees.
Eddie gives his report to the police, and then he and Jake head back to Eddie's apartment for sex. Eddie checks to make sure that Joey, Chaz and Tobey aren't home. He tries to make out with Jake, but the rough-trade boy won't be kissed. They head for Eddie's bedroom, where Jake handcuffs the near-naked Eddie to the bedposts. (Dylan Fergus looks astoundingly hot with his arms stretched over his head, hair flopping in his face, chest shaved close, writhing around.) Eddie heads for the bathroom to clean up.
He spots the driver's license on the floor, and is immediately skewered in the chest by the killer. Realizing what's happening, Eddie frees himself from the cuffs and tries to dial 911. But the killer slices the phone lines. Eddie tries to escape the apartment, but the keys to the deadlock are missing. Eddie is trapped in his bedroom, when the injured Jake bonks the killer on the head with a baseball bat taken from jock Tobey's room. Eddie locks his bedroom door, loads his father's service revolver, and takes Jake out onto the fire escape. But the killer chops down the door "Shining"-style.
The killer steps onto the fire escape and seizes Jake, to shield himself from Eddie's gunfire. Half-blind Eddie doesn't dare shoot, and the killer knocks the gun from his hand. It lands on a railing below. The killer attacks Eddie -- but sticks out his tongue and removes Eddie's glass eye first. He swallows it. Eddie writhes free, and falls -- dangling by one handcuff, which is wedged in the fire escape. The slasher moves to kill Jake. Eddie swings, reaches the gun, fires. He shoots Jake in the leg, because his depth perception is so bad. The murderer slashes at Eddie again, and misses. Eddie aims. Jake moans, "Shoot me." Eddie aims at Jake -- and his bad depth-perception enables him to hit the killer right in the forehead.
Naturally, the killer survives.
- - -
The true test of a horror film these days is that it actually terrifies. When the Lumiere brothers opened the first movie theatre on December 28, 1895, in the basement of a Paris cafe, a "horror" film was on the bill. One of the Lumieres' shorts, "L'arrive d'un train en gare," was a shot of a train pulling into a railroad station. It elicited shrieks of fear from the audience as they perceived the train to be hurtling directly at them. Such fear stemmed (in part) from the fact that audiences had not yet learned to watch movies and were unprepared for the realism of film.
It was not, however, just the image of a physical threat which surprised and alarmed the first film-goers. Early audiences were powerfully moved by all sorts of natural movement: The sight of smoke ascending into the sky, waves breaking on a shore, leaves trembling in the wind. By 1929, a train pulling into a station was no longer perceived as a menace. Luis Bunuel and Salvador Dali, in the film "Un Chien Andalou," had to resort to a razor blade slicing an eyeball to terrify viewers. Today, many moviegoers are not even be scared by the numerous projectiles and appendages thrown at them by a psycho in a movie like "Friday the 13th," Parts I through VIII.
But therein lies the horror filmmaker’s conundrum. Film is entertainment. Audiences go to films to be entertained. Horror has become entertaining. Indeed, horror films increasingly are seen as thrill-rides: Safe, unthreatening. A person experiencing the rollercoaster (or the horror film) laughs at the experience rather than is terrified by it. Although the coast-rider experiences the physical sensation of being hurtled sideways, sees the edge of the coaster, feels gravity pulling him downward, the rider still knows that it is completely safe. The coaster won't plunge anyone to their death.
Similarly, horror films are seen as "just a movie" now. Audiences sheltered from blood and gore shrieked in fear when it splattered for the first time across the screen. Now, they giggle and laugh and demand more. Indeed, as one scene in "HellBent" points out, movie gore has become so realistic, most people can't tell the difference between a real decapitated body and a fake one any more. When the line between life and death is blurred like that, it becomes easy for audiences to laugh at the most gruesome killings.
This has led to the "death" of the horror film.
One cinematic response is to engage in what I call "surprise" horror filmmaking. Have someone leap out of a closet at you. Lull the viewer into lowering his defenses, and then surprise him. The goal here is to play off a human being's natural instinctive reaction to jump when startled. So the modern horror filmmakers startles the viewer. Take "The Hearse" (Marimark, 1980). A young woman is fixing up the home she just inherited from her dead aunt. Her aunt and her lover (the chauffeur of a local hearse) were making love in the front seat during the woman's husband's funeral procession. The hearse went off a cliff, killing them both. The dead lovers returned to haunt the home.
In "The Hearse," the young niece is cleaning the windows of her new home. As she wipes soap off the window, the face of her dead aunt stares out at her from the interior of the house. She shrieks. The audience shrieks. The woman leans backward, and the ladder begins to topple. But the overhanging eave of the house catches the ladder, preventing the niece's death. The niece looks again into the window -- and there is no one there.
Another example is "Friday the 13th" (Paramount, 1980). Two camp counselors are making love in a cabin. The scene is lengthy and extremely erotic. The camera, using point-of-view, approaches the window of the cabin and looks in at the lovers. The sensation is one of voyeurism (we know that one of the other camp counselors is a voyeur). As the couple approach orgasm, the girl (in missionary position) opens her eyes. She screams. A metal bar is thrust through the orgasming bodies of both teenagers. The audience shrieks. The bloody point extends beneath the quivering bed as the two expire. The audience goes "Ewww!" and chuckles. (According to both ACT-UP and horror films, Sex = Death.)
Yet another example is "Alien" (Fox, 1979). Captain Dallas is in the ship's air ducts, trying to locate the alien creature loose on his ship. The tension heightens as navigator Lambert monitors a tracking device that shows the alien creature approaching Capt. Dallas. Yet, Dallas still cannot see the large creature in the dark, despite his flashlight and sending torrents of fire from his flamethrower down all the air-shafts he can find. As Lambert's woeful pleas to "get out of there" become louder and more insistent, Dallas twists and turns in the cramped, dark duct, loosing fire from his flame-thrower. He turns -- and the alien is right behind him! The radio screeches a high-pitched noise as Lambert weeps into the intercom. The audience screeches, too. The pitiful sounds of Lambert's weeping and first officer Ripley's calm request for Dallas to "respond" give the audience time to catch its collective breath.
Pathetic, mediocre and excellent horror films all. And all rely heavily on the 'startle" theory of horror.
There is another approach to horror which is marked by what I call the "psychological approach." This is the approach we see in "The Shining" (Warner Bros., 1980). In this film, Jack Nicholson's descent into madness is slow and deliberate. There are no ghosts or ghoulies jumping out of closets. When young Danny Torrance rounds a corner on his Big Wheel and sees the ghosts of the murdered twin girls that haunt one wing of the Overlook Hotel, the experience is less startling than creepy. When Wendy Torrance searches the hotel for her missing son as Jack hunts them both down, she opens a room to find a man in a tuxedo receiving oral sex from a man with a pig's face, wearing a bear costume. Confronted by the surreal and the taboo, Wendy flees in terror. Although the editing and music (which quickly jumps from distant to medium to close-up shot, while screeching orchestral strings "indicate" a horror-response) want the audience to shriek in terror, the audience's response is more "creeped out" than "terrified."
Similarly, "Rosemary's Baby" (Paramount, 1968) plays on the paranoia many women feel during pregnancy. In the real world, this paranoia is hormone-induced. But in the world of "Rosemary's Baby," it is caused by the devil-worshippers living next door. At first, Rosemary is only dimly aware of the problems she is confronting. Her food tastes bad, she's throwing up a lot, her stomach hurts. Slowly, she begins to believe that there is a conspiracy against her, one which includes her husband. Finally, true terror kicks in as her best friend is murdered and her own doctor betrays her. When Rosemary finally learns the truth about her baby, she is nearly driven mad. But the obsessive nature of motherhood drives her to be protective of Little Satan, and she becomes the ringleader of the cult (surpassing the authority even of her husband and the devil-worshippers next door). Once more, there is little in "Rosemary's Baby" to make the audience scream in fear. Rather, the response is one of "horror" -- a combination of feeling appalled, feeling despair, feeling betrayed, feeling disgust, feeling...well, "horror." It is like coming upon a long-dead body on which maggots are breeding. You can see it from afar, and you walk up to it slowly. There's no rush of terror, just creepiness.
The psychological approach to horror, I think, is less "tricky" and "cheap" than the "gotcha" approach. Anybody can jump out of a closet at you. But it takes finesse, style, poise, and excellent control of the tools of cinema to successfully adopt the psychological approach to horror.
But this raises an interesting question: Is a true horror film that elicits a scream even possible any more without use of the "gotcha" technique? Can a filmmaker ever hope to create horror in a day and age where audiences are numbed by the countless mediocre horror and thriller films out there? Is it possible to scare or horrify an audience when, every day, children are gunned down in the streets, nations commit genocide against their own populations, gang-rape is common on the nation's campuses and drug-gangs routinely "crucify" narcs by tying them to chain-link fences, chopping off their hands and then "stoning" them to death with bricks?
I would like to think that it is. But the way out of the trap is to use the "psychological" approach. A filmmaker has to restore the audience to a mental state of naivete and innocence again before stripping it away.
"HellBent" doesn't go that route. Instead, "HellBent" sticks to the tried and true formulas of the slasher film. It sets up a group of basically good but slightly immoral people, each of whom has a moral failure (insecurity, lust, alcoholism, lust for straight men). A killer exacts moral justice on each of these people. In the end, a lone survivor -- who is the individual with the fewest moral failures -- battles against the killer and wins. But the killer miraculously survives to continue to be a gruesome force for justice and morality.
What distinguishes "HellBent" from other films is that it is classy. The production values on this film are sky-high. The art direction by relative newcomer Matthew Ferguson is superb, as is the costuming, make-up and sound. There is a terrific hard-rock soundtrack by Nick Name (an openly gay Mormon boy turned metalhead and actor) and Mike Shapiro. The editing by newcomer Steve Dyson and cinematography by veteran mark Mervis border on genius at times. (And check out the really astounding opening titles. That's genius at work!)
The film takes itself fairly seriously, without being portentious. These characters are not too self-aware about horror films, as the characters in "Scream" or "Urban Legend" are. These characters live in their own world of sex and friendship, a world untainted by Friday the 13ths and Nightmares on Elm Street and I Know What You Did Last Summerses. There's evil in their world, but not murder and mayhem. When murder and mayhem occur, the characters are blissfully dismissive of it (as Eddie is, after seeing pictures of the two decapitated men).
If there's a failing of "HellBent," it is that the film doesn't quite take the slasher theme to its ultimate end. In most films of this type, the murderer has some sort of backstory -- whether it is the revenge-demon of "Pumpkinhead" (MGM, 1989), the drowned camper of "Friday the 13th" (Paramount, 1980), or the vengeful younger brother murdering his sister's killers in "Prom Night" (Embassy Pictures, 1980). The horned killer in "HellBent" has no backstory. He just exists, a deus ex machina. That's unsatisfying.
"HellBent" also fails on another level, and that is to keep faith with the sexism of horror. In her book "Men, Woman and Chainsaws," Carol Clover argues that the power of films like "Halloween" and "The Texas Chainsaw Massacre" lies in their ability to have the audience see through the killer's perspective and make us party to his atrocities. Traditional film theory argues that sadism is actually the heart of the horror experience. But Clover points out that effective horror films work to make the viewer empathize with the plight of the victim-hero -- the figure who suffers pain and fright but eventually vanquishes the forces of evil. A paradox is that, since the late 1970s, the victim-hero is usually female and the audience predominantly male. Horror movies, Clover concludes, use female bodies not only for the male spectator to feel at, but for him to feel through. On the face of it, horror films appear to be blatantly sexist. But in fact, they work to permit the male horror fan to experience "feminine" feelings and give expression to them (subverting sexism, misogyny and machismo).
I'm not entirely sure that "HellBent" works in this way. Because all of the characters are male, there is no subversion of sexism. And because all of the characters are homosexual, there can be no subversion of homophobia, either. (The film openly dismisses any attempt to portray the killer's motives as a homophobe; Eddie tells his sister to not let the police see the murders "only as another fag-bashing".)
In a way, this does not necessarily undercut the effectiveness of the film. But it does remove from the film's arsenal a major weapon that would would have made it more effective than it already is.
In the end, "HellBent" doesn't take horror in any new directions. Nor does it establish new ways for gay audiences to "see" horror.
But, "HellBent" is a terrific film nonetheless. It is eerie, stylish and tight. And that's probably two-thirds of the battle right there.
Reel Affirmations Film Festival, Day Two:
"She wanted me to go into anger management therapy!"
"How did that make you feel?"
"PISSED. ME. OFF."
The second day of the festival is really the preferred opening night. It's a Friday, and the theater is packed to the gills. There's more drinking in the hospitality tent, and there's a huge line snaking twice through the lobby, out the front door and down the street -- just to buy alcohol from the Lincoln Theater's vendors. (The Lincoln has added about six security guards this year, primarily to stop people from bringing outside food and beverages into the theater. They don't search you, so just bring a bag. I bought two Diet Cokes at Rite Aid, and walked right in with it. They glared, but couldn't stop me. Idiots.)
Dorian Blues
I hadn't intended to see this film until I saw the trailer. It seems like your typical coming-out film, complete with tortured, sensitive, twinky teen and handsome, muscular brother and abusive, angry father and in-denial, mentally fragile mother.
In a way, that's what the film is.
Dorian Legatos is 17 and in his last year of high school. Brother Nicky is two years younger, and the highly competent football player. That's a bit of a switch; usually, these types of films have the hunky, muscular, well-hung brother be older.
"Dorian Blues" doesn't really break much new ground. First-time writer-directer Tennyson Bardwell (perhaps writing a bit autobiographically; after all, who names their kid "Dorian"? Or "Tennyson," for that matter?) crafts a story that is fairly typical. Dorian, played with sweetness and jadedednes by Michael McMillian (on TV's "What I Like About You"), struggles with guilt, religion, attempts to "turn him straight," and confronting his abusive father. Like many gay kids, he flees to the big city to find refuge. He finds himself, loses himself, finds true love and loses true love.
The crux of "Dorian Blues," however, is really the ancillary things that happen along the way. The film is downright funny. Dorian himself is a cynical, witty queen with the heart of a therapist. It's a very common response that many gay men have to homophobia and guilt. It permits a person to engage the world, while also acting as a defense.
It's these vignettes that make "Dorian Blues" worth watching. Dorian's outrageously funny therapy sessions with an openly gay psychologist (played wonderfully by the hunky African-American actor, Leslie Elliard) combine really exquisite dialogue and wickedly funny turns of phrase with excellent comic miming. This five-minute segment alone is worth the price of admission.
Dorian's relationship with his hunky brother, Nicky (the handsome, muscle-bound Lea Coco), forms a subtle counterpoint to this coming-out story. It's not exactly clear why Dorian and Nick would have such a good relationship. They are both abused by their father, and so are sort of brothers-in-arms. They share a room (which is odd, considering they are both in high school and masturbating, and the house is fairly large). But in most families, sibling rivalry and the natural tensions arising between teens struggling to define their homosexuality and heterosexuality would cause Dorian and Nick to have a more tumultuous relationship.
In some ways, Nicky is just too good to be true. He's intelligent, conversant, in touch with his feelings. The film tries to pass him off as some sort of vain, dumb pussy-hound in the opening sequence. But the audience quickly realizes that Nick is pretty much every man's wet dream -- hunky, hung, handsome and athletic with a sweet, sensitive personality. (The film almost goes there, too: Dorian has a wet dream about his brother early on, but the theme is dropped as soon as it is raised.)
Nick is almost sweetly homophobic, an odd response -- especially given the truly horrific responses of most butch siblings to family members who come out. (The angry, sullen reaction to the disclosure of mutant-hood in "X2: X-Men United" is more typical.) His attempts to turn Dorian straight by setting him up with a hooker go horribly but hilariously astray.
Oddly, Nick is almost more interesting than Dorian. As the film progresses, Dorian turns into a bitter queen who can't handle the fact that his anger and cynicism have driven away the one boyfriend he had. Bardwell, however, lets Nick be a bit more interesting. Nick brutally rejects Dorian when Dorian comes out to him and begins to weep. He stalks off in a huff to a kegger and a date, leaving Dorian bereft. But (comically), Nick returns to talk to Dorian. You wonder why Nick would do that. There's clearly much more backstory to this brotherly relationship, and I wish I'd seen more of that backstory on film. It happens again, when Dorian comes out to their father. Nick flees the house in anger and worry, but returns to support the weak-willed Dorian at a critical moment.
Later, when Mr. Legatos is over-praising Nick, Nick almost seems unwilling to accept his father's praise. Writer-director Bardwell flirts with turning Nick into a somewhat tortured but gifted young man, someone who knows his own limitations, someone who is embarrassed by his father's fawning, someone who can feel the pain his brother is going through and desperately wants to make it better. Indeed, when Nick can't cut it in big-time college ball and loses his scholarship, he does the right thing and immediately tells his parents and Dorian -- something Dorian could never do with his homosexuality.
Bardwell shies away from making Nick too good to be true, however. And yet, the script seems to push Nick in exactly that direction. It seems a conscious decision to pull Nicky back from the edge of sainthood, and there seems to be no reason in Nick's character why this should be so.
"Dorian Blues" does have one outstanding moment of truth. The film's denouement comes in the final 10 minutes, when Dorian and Nick learn that their father has died of a heart attack. The bitter and enraged Dorian is close to deciding not to attend the funeral. Broken-hearted Nicky can't even begin to deal with that. That's when Dorian's wisp of a mother comes into the front yard to talk to her drunk, chain-smoking son.
The moment is so poignant, so true, so powerful. Mrs. Legatos tells her oldest son that she knows just how angry and ugly and abusive her husband was. She didn't turn a blind eye to it; she purposefully ignored it. And in a raw sob, she admits that she should have stopped it, and didn't. That admission shatters Dorian's cycnicism and bitterness. Watch McMillian's face when this admission is made. Anger, horror, incomprehension, despair -- they all wash over him. And the more comes: "You're just like your father, Dorian. Angry. He made you angry. And I don't want you to be like him." She turns.
There's something to that. Something truthful and not readily acknowledged in the gay community about just how angry gay people are.
And it is an emotional truth about Dorian Legatos that has gone almost completely unspoken in the film, too.
It's a terrific twist in the film, and helps turn "Dorian Blues" from just another funny coming-out story into a really good feature-length character study.
Just some additional notes:
"She wanted me to go into anger management therapy!"
"How did that make you feel?"
"PISSED. ME. OFF."
The second day of the festival is really the preferred opening night. It's a Friday, and the theater is packed to the gills. There's more drinking in the hospitality tent, and there's a huge line snaking twice through the lobby, out the front door and down the street -- just to buy alcohol from the Lincoln Theater's vendors. (The Lincoln has added about six security guards this year, primarily to stop people from bringing outside food and beverages into the theater. They don't search you, so just bring a bag. I bought two Diet Cokes at Rite Aid, and walked right in with it. They glared, but couldn't stop me. Idiots.)
Dorian Blues
I hadn't intended to see this film until I saw the trailer. It seems like your typical coming-out film, complete with tortured, sensitive, twinky teen and handsome, muscular brother and abusive, angry father and in-denial, mentally fragile mother.
In a way, that's what the film is.
Dorian Legatos is 17 and in his last year of high school. Brother Nicky is two years younger, and the highly competent football player. That's a bit of a switch; usually, these types of films have the hunky, muscular, well-hung brother be older.
"Dorian Blues" doesn't really break much new ground. First-time writer-directer Tennyson Bardwell (perhaps writing a bit autobiographically; after all, who names their kid "Dorian"? Or "Tennyson," for that matter?) crafts a story that is fairly typical. Dorian, played with sweetness and jadedednes by Michael McMillian (on TV's "What I Like About You"), struggles with guilt, religion, attempts to "turn him straight," and confronting his abusive father. Like many gay kids, he flees to the big city to find refuge. He finds himself, loses himself, finds true love and loses true love.
The crux of "Dorian Blues," however, is really the ancillary things that happen along the way. The film is downright funny. Dorian himself is a cynical, witty queen with the heart of a therapist. It's a very common response that many gay men have to homophobia and guilt. It permits a person to engage the world, while also acting as a defense.
It's these vignettes that make "Dorian Blues" worth watching. Dorian's outrageously funny therapy sessions with an openly gay psychologist (played wonderfully by the hunky African-American actor, Leslie Elliard) combine really exquisite dialogue and wickedly funny turns of phrase with excellent comic miming. This five-minute segment alone is worth the price of admission.
Dorian's relationship with his hunky brother, Nicky (the handsome, muscle-bound Lea Coco), forms a subtle counterpoint to this coming-out story. It's not exactly clear why Dorian and Nick would have such a good relationship. They are both abused by their father, and so are sort of brothers-in-arms. They share a room (which is odd, considering they are both in high school and masturbating, and the house is fairly large). But in most families, sibling rivalry and the natural tensions arising between teens struggling to define their homosexuality and heterosexuality would cause Dorian and Nick to have a more tumultuous relationship.
In some ways, Nicky is just too good to be true. He's intelligent, conversant, in touch with his feelings. The film tries to pass him off as some sort of vain, dumb pussy-hound in the opening sequence. But the audience quickly realizes that Nick is pretty much every man's wet dream -- hunky, hung, handsome and athletic with a sweet, sensitive personality. (The film almost goes there, too: Dorian has a wet dream about his brother early on, but the theme is dropped as soon as it is raised.)
Nick is almost sweetly homophobic, an odd response -- especially given the truly horrific responses of most butch siblings to family members who come out. (The angry, sullen reaction to the disclosure of mutant-hood in "X2: X-Men United" is more typical.) His attempts to turn Dorian straight by setting him up with a hooker go horribly but hilariously astray.
Oddly, Nick is almost more interesting than Dorian. As the film progresses, Dorian turns into a bitter queen who can't handle the fact that his anger and cynicism have driven away the one boyfriend he had. Bardwell, however, lets Nick be a bit more interesting. Nick brutally rejects Dorian when Dorian comes out to him and begins to weep. He stalks off in a huff to a kegger and a date, leaving Dorian bereft. But (comically), Nick returns to talk to Dorian. You wonder why Nick would do that. There's clearly much more backstory to this brotherly relationship, and I wish I'd seen more of that backstory on film. It happens again, when Dorian comes out to their father. Nick flees the house in anger and worry, but returns to support the weak-willed Dorian at a critical moment.
Later, when Mr. Legatos is over-praising Nick, Nick almost seems unwilling to accept his father's praise. Writer-director Bardwell flirts with turning Nick into a somewhat tortured but gifted young man, someone who knows his own limitations, someone who is embarrassed by his father's fawning, someone who can feel the pain his brother is going through and desperately wants to make it better. Indeed, when Nick can't cut it in big-time college ball and loses his scholarship, he does the right thing and immediately tells his parents and Dorian -- something Dorian could never do with his homosexuality.
Bardwell shies away from making Nick too good to be true, however. And yet, the script seems to push Nick in exactly that direction. It seems a conscious decision to pull Nicky back from the edge of sainthood, and there seems to be no reason in Nick's character why this should be so.
"Dorian Blues" does have one outstanding moment of truth. The film's denouement comes in the final 10 minutes, when Dorian and Nick learn that their father has died of a heart attack. The bitter and enraged Dorian is close to deciding not to attend the funeral. Broken-hearted Nicky can't even begin to deal with that. That's when Dorian's wisp of a mother comes into the front yard to talk to her drunk, chain-smoking son.
The moment is so poignant, so true, so powerful. Mrs. Legatos tells her oldest son that she knows just how angry and ugly and abusive her husband was. She didn't turn a blind eye to it; she purposefully ignored it. And in a raw sob, she admits that she should have stopped it, and didn't. That admission shatters Dorian's cycnicism and bitterness. Watch McMillian's face when this admission is made. Anger, horror, incomprehension, despair -- they all wash over him. And the more comes: "You're just like your father, Dorian. Angry. He made you angry. And I don't want you to be like him." She turns.
There's something to that. Something truthful and not readily acknowledged in the gay community about just how angry gay people are.
And it is an emotional truth about Dorian Legatos that has gone almost completely unspoken in the film, too.
It's a terrific twist in the film, and helps turn "Dorian Blues" from just another funny coming-out story into a really good feature-length character study.
Just some additional notes:
- I still am not sure how to take a film which mixes comedy with intense drama. "Dramedies" make me feel emotionally abused. Mel Brooks says that comedy is tragedy multipled by distance in time. Here we are, laughing at Dorian's painfully funny coming out process. And then the film turns on a dime and slaps the audience in the face with a difficult, painfully un-funny, shameful moment of abuse. My problem is that films often violate Brooks' dictum. Either there is not enough screen-time between the violent and funny events, or there is not enough character-time. Either way, I feel yanked around. I feel embarrassed for having laughed at something so awful. I stop laughing, because I don't want to be shamed by the filmmaker again.
- The editing in this film is pure gold. Someone sign Ann Marie Lizzi up to a full-on, mega-millions Hollywood contract!
- There is an oddly unremarkable soundtrack to the film. It's strange, because this is the sort of film which lends itself to a really solid 90s alt-rock soundtrack.
- Cinematographer Taylor Morrison did a good job, I suppose. But so much of the film works because of the superb editing. In scenes where editing is not as important, Morrison's cinematography seems a little pedestrian.
Another post later. I've got a film festival coordinating committee meeting to go to.
Another post later.
Thursday, October 14, 2004
Reel Affirmations Film Festival, Day One -- Addendum:
In honor of the great 80s soundtrack that makes up "D.E.B.S.", here are the lyrics to "A Little Respect" -- the song that Lucy Diamond and Scud lip-synch to while attempting to seduce Amy and do good. It's a great moment in the film (especially when Scud pops up out of nowhere, dancing to it).
A Little Respect
Words and lyrics by Vince Clarke
Performed by Erasure
I try to discover
A little something to make me sweeter
Oh baby refrain
From breaking my heart
I'm so in love with you
I'll be forever blue
That you give me no reason
Why you're making me work so hard
That you give me no
That you give me no
That you give me no
That you give me no
Soul,
I hear you calling
Oh baby please
Give a little respect to me
And if I should falter
Would you open your arms out to me?
We can make love not war
And live at peace with our hearts
I'm so in love with you
I'll be forever blue
What religion or reason
Could drive a man to forsake his lover?
Don't you tell me no
Don't you tell me no
Don't you tell me no
Don't you tell me no
Soul, I hear you calling
Oh baby please
Give a little respect to me
I'm so in love with you
I'll be forever blue
That you give me no reason
You know you're making me work so hard
That you give me no
That you give me no
That you give me no
That you give me no
Soul,
I hear you calling
Oh baby please
Give a little respect to me
Soul,
I hear you calling
Oh baby please
Give a little respect to me...
In honor of the great 80s soundtrack that makes up "D.E.B.S.", here are the lyrics to "A Little Respect" -- the song that Lucy Diamond and Scud lip-synch to while attempting to seduce Amy and do good. It's a great moment in the film (especially when Scud pops up out of nowhere, dancing to it).
A Little Respect
Words and lyrics by Vince Clarke
Performed by Erasure
I try to discover
A little something to make me sweeter
Oh baby refrain
From breaking my heart
I'm so in love with you
I'll be forever blue
That you give me no reason
Why you're making me work so hard
That you give me no
That you give me no
That you give me no
That you give me no
Soul,
I hear you calling
Oh baby please
Give a little respect to me
And if I should falter
Would you open your arms out to me?
We can make love not war
And live at peace with our hearts
I'm so in love with you
I'll be forever blue
What religion or reason
Could drive a man to forsake his lover?
Don't you tell me no
Don't you tell me no
Don't you tell me no
Don't you tell me no
Soul, I hear you calling
Oh baby please
Give a little respect to me
I'm so in love with you
I'll be forever blue
That you give me no reason
You know you're making me work so hard
That you give me no
That you give me no
That you give me no
That you give me no
Soul,
I hear you calling
Oh baby please
Give a little respect to me
Soul,
I hear you calling
Oh baby please
Give a little respect to me...
Reel Affirmations Film Festival, Day One:
"Crime is easy; love is hard."
It's that time of year again, kids. After having spent the better part of six weeks trying to get films into DC, the festival kicked off tonight with "D.E.B.S."
Change is in the air, folks. The executive director of the festival is leaving in six weeks. A new executive director is on board, but doing nothing until the old one leaves. It's rumored that half the board is departing at the end of the fiscal year (Dec. 31), along with the board chairman (who was to have stayed on one year, but stayed on two). A brand-new festival program director is rumored to have been stymied pretty much all year in whatever he wanted to do, and the organization is much more loosely run than every before. In some ways, it's good: the stressful and cliqueish atmosphere is gone. But in other ways -- such as computer problems, lack of volunteers, and under-staffing -- it's worse. (A major fuck-up occurred when the festival decided six months ago to cancel it's final night on Sunday in favor of a "special program": "Sound of Music Sing-A-Long." The program, not part of the festival proper, was to have been held at George Washington University's Lisner Auditorium. Half of all proceeds were to have gone to the film festival. Instead, a series of errors and misunderstandings led to complete cancellation of the event. Now the festival is short one day, with nothing to show for it.)
The festival has struggled to stay fresh, too. A few years ago, the opening night party was moved from Friday to Thursday to give the festival an extra night and avoid paying weekend overtime rates to the D.C. police for police protection. But moving to Thursday took away the party atmosphere of the opening night tent-party. Additionally, costs for non-film events (such as the catering for the opening night party) have skyrocketed in the last couple of years. Whereas the opening night even used to have a large hors d'oeuvres spread and dessert buffet, tonight's party was strawberries, chocolate cookies, couscous, bread tips and green pepper poppers. No dessert bar.
To my mind, attendance at the opening night event seemed down by maybe 10 percent to 15 percent. There were even open seats (rather than the usual sell-out).
None of this was the fault of the movie. "D.E.B.S.", written, directed and edited by first-time Angela Robinson (based on her 2003 short of the same name and theme) is a stylish, high-production-value film with an amazing cast, startling good script and superb special effects.
The comedy is about a super-secret government agency which recuits young girls (using secret questions in the SAT) for a college which trains them to be spies. Four girls are the focus of the film: Blond, brainy Amy (newcomer Sara Foster), who get perfect grades in spy-school but who is not really sure she wants to a life of espionage; African-American kick-ass sex goddess Max (veteran actress Meagan Goode), who is the perfect spy without the perfect grades; the sex-hungry, chain-smoking French-Asian Dominique (Devon Aoki) who can't stop boinking musclebound black men; and ditzy, feminine bubble-head Janet (veteran actress Jill Ritchie, reprising her role from the short), who wants to get her stripes and graduate. Guided by Mr. Tipps (Michael Clarke Duncan) and headmistress Mrs. Petrie (character actress Holland Taylor), they find world evil at night and go to class by day.
When the infamous assassin Lucy Diamond (the gorgeous veteran actress Jordana Brewster) comes out of hiding for the first time in three years, the D.E.B.S. are told to stay away. But goaded by her sidekick, the loathsome Scud (Jimmi Simpson), Diamond is back.
But it appears Diamond is back on the dating scene, not out to sink Australia. Dumped by her last lesbian lover, Diamond is being prodded by Scud to get back in the saddle. When the D.E.B.S. mistakenly crash Diamond's blind date with blonde Russian assassin Ninotchka -- an incident precipated by Amy's beautiful but can't-take-a-clue boyfriend, the Homeland Security officer Bobby -- not only bullets fly.
No one has ever spoken to Lucy Diamond and survived, it seems. Yet, Amy bumps into her -- and it's fireworks and deep sighs as the straight girl begins to feel that empty slot in her heart fill with love for Lucy.
Later, Lucy kidnaps Amy and the hapless Janet and takes them (Scud in tow) to a punk-rock bar. Their relationship deepens, and Scud finds himself attracted to the squeaky-clean Janet.
But after a near-miss kiss, Amy demands to be taken home. Emboldened, Lucy knocks over a bank to lure the D.E.B.S. out of hiding. She kidnaps the more-than-willing Amy, and the two embark on a seven-day love affair. Meanwhile, worldwide intelligence agencies conduct a massive manhunt for the two.
Their love-nest is betrayed by the jealous, rejected Ninotchka. Amy is found out, and it seems like the end for her career as a D.E.B. as well as for any chance of true love. Rather than risk embarrassment, Max and Mrs. Petrie convinces Amy to reunite with Bobby and tell the world that she was horribly tortured while in Lucy Diamond's care. Will Amy renounce Lucy? Will Lucy risk all to see Amy again? Will Bobby stop Lucy from seeing Amy? Will Janet ever get kissed by Scud? Will Max forgive Amy's betrayal? With Dominique ever stop fucking hunky black men?
These questions and more are answered in the 90 minutes of "D.E.B.S."
You know, I have to say that this movie rocks. It's got a lot of laugh lines. ("What is the first thing I said to you when we met?" " 'The top bunk is mine, bitch'?") The dialogue is superbly written -- smooth, logical, flowing. Each character is well-drawn without being two-dimensional. There are wonderful visual touches throughout the film (Lucy's license plate reads "NDaSky"; a globe in Lucy's hideout has a big, red "X" over the continent of Australia).
But most of all, I was just impressed with the production values in this film. I have no idea what the budget was, but it had to have been close to $10 million. The opening titles are some of the best I have ever seen!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! They really have to be seen to be believed. I was just open-mouthed at how exciting, flashy and inventive they were.
The costuming is good, but what is more impressive is the set decoration and props. It's pure candy for the eyes. Everything -- from the menacing, chrome-plated guns to the goofy titles on the back of everyone's shirt ("staff") and the TV-bracelets each D.E.B. wears -- is thought out, well-designed and solid-looking. There isn't a single prop or set item that doesn't look real-world and solid.
The direction is extremely solid, with strong performances drawn out of almost every single character (including Dominique, who has little to do and few lines to speak). It's no wonder that Robinson was tapped by Disney to helm "Herbie: Full Load" (due out in 2005). The editing, too, is strong and sure (although there are occasional flashes of rushed-ness, which stand out only because so much of the rest of the editing is seamless and smooth and purposeful).
I have really only a few criticisms of the film. One is the make-up. It's very good. But in the latter half of the film, the make-up on Sara Foster is minimal and not very flattering. Perhaps she was meant to look bedraggled and forlorn; it worked, but perhaps a bit too well. Another issue has to do with the pacing of comic lines. A script needs to give the audience time to laugh, and "D.E.B.S." leaps right into the next line. A little better direction and writing would have overcome this problem.
But all in all, "D.E.B.S." is a superb film. I will be surprised if it does not win the audience favorite award come Oct. 23.
Oh, and that line at the top of this post? Scud (the wonderful Jimmi Simpson) tells it to Lucy Diamond. Twice.
"Crime is easy; love is hard."
It's that time of year again, kids. After having spent the better part of six weeks trying to get films into DC, the festival kicked off tonight with "D.E.B.S."
Change is in the air, folks. The executive director of the festival is leaving in six weeks. A new executive director is on board, but doing nothing until the old one leaves. It's rumored that half the board is departing at the end of the fiscal year (Dec. 31), along with the board chairman (who was to have stayed on one year, but stayed on two). A brand-new festival program director is rumored to have been stymied pretty much all year in whatever he wanted to do, and the organization is much more loosely run than every before. In some ways, it's good: the stressful and cliqueish atmosphere is gone. But in other ways -- such as computer problems, lack of volunteers, and under-staffing -- it's worse. (A major fuck-up occurred when the festival decided six months ago to cancel it's final night on Sunday in favor of a "special program": "Sound of Music Sing-A-Long." The program, not part of the festival proper, was to have been held at George Washington University's Lisner Auditorium. Half of all proceeds were to have gone to the film festival. Instead, a series of errors and misunderstandings led to complete cancellation of the event. Now the festival is short one day, with nothing to show for it.)
The festival has struggled to stay fresh, too. A few years ago, the opening night party was moved from Friday to Thursday to give the festival an extra night and avoid paying weekend overtime rates to the D.C. police for police protection. But moving to Thursday took away the party atmosphere of the opening night tent-party. Additionally, costs for non-film events (such as the catering for the opening night party) have skyrocketed in the last couple of years. Whereas the opening night even used to have a large hors d'oeuvres spread and dessert buffet, tonight's party was strawberries, chocolate cookies, couscous, bread tips and green pepper poppers. No dessert bar.
To my mind, attendance at the opening night event seemed down by maybe 10 percent to 15 percent. There were even open seats (rather than the usual sell-out).
None of this was the fault of the movie. "D.E.B.S.", written, directed and edited by first-time Angela Robinson (based on her 2003 short of the same name and theme) is a stylish, high-production-value film with an amazing cast, startling good script and superb special effects.
The comedy is about a super-secret government agency which recuits young girls (using secret questions in the SAT) for a college which trains them to be spies. Four girls are the focus of the film: Blond, brainy Amy (newcomer Sara Foster), who get perfect grades in spy-school but who is not really sure she wants to a life of espionage; African-American kick-ass sex goddess Max (veteran actress Meagan Goode), who is the perfect spy without the perfect grades; the sex-hungry, chain-smoking French-Asian Dominique (Devon Aoki) who can't stop boinking musclebound black men; and ditzy, feminine bubble-head Janet (veteran actress Jill Ritchie, reprising her role from the short), who wants to get her stripes and graduate. Guided by Mr. Tipps (Michael Clarke Duncan) and headmistress Mrs. Petrie (character actress Holland Taylor), they find world evil at night and go to class by day.
When the infamous assassin Lucy Diamond (the gorgeous veteran actress Jordana Brewster) comes out of hiding for the first time in three years, the D.E.B.S. are told to stay away. But goaded by her sidekick, the loathsome Scud (Jimmi Simpson), Diamond is back.
But it appears Diamond is back on the dating scene, not out to sink Australia. Dumped by her last lesbian lover, Diamond is being prodded by Scud to get back in the saddle. When the D.E.B.S. mistakenly crash Diamond's blind date with blonde Russian assassin Ninotchka -- an incident precipated by Amy's beautiful but can't-take-a-clue boyfriend, the Homeland Security officer Bobby -- not only bullets fly.
No one has ever spoken to Lucy Diamond and survived, it seems. Yet, Amy bumps into her -- and it's fireworks and deep sighs as the straight girl begins to feel that empty slot in her heart fill with love for Lucy.
Later, Lucy kidnaps Amy and the hapless Janet and takes them (Scud in tow) to a punk-rock bar. Their relationship deepens, and Scud finds himself attracted to the squeaky-clean Janet.
But after a near-miss kiss, Amy demands to be taken home. Emboldened, Lucy knocks over a bank to lure the D.E.B.S. out of hiding. She kidnaps the more-than-willing Amy, and the two embark on a seven-day love affair. Meanwhile, worldwide intelligence agencies conduct a massive manhunt for the two.
Their love-nest is betrayed by the jealous, rejected Ninotchka. Amy is found out, and it seems like the end for her career as a D.E.B. as well as for any chance of true love. Rather than risk embarrassment, Max and Mrs. Petrie convinces Amy to reunite with Bobby and tell the world that she was horribly tortured while in Lucy Diamond's care. Will Amy renounce Lucy? Will Lucy risk all to see Amy again? Will Bobby stop Lucy from seeing Amy? Will Janet ever get kissed by Scud? Will Max forgive Amy's betrayal? With Dominique ever stop fucking hunky black men?
These questions and more are answered in the 90 minutes of "D.E.B.S."
You know, I have to say that this movie rocks. It's got a lot of laugh lines. ("What is the first thing I said to you when we met?" " 'The top bunk is mine, bitch'?") The dialogue is superbly written -- smooth, logical, flowing. Each character is well-drawn without being two-dimensional. There are wonderful visual touches throughout the film (Lucy's license plate reads "NDaSky"; a globe in Lucy's hideout has a big, red "X" over the continent of Australia).
But most of all, I was just impressed with the production values in this film. I have no idea what the budget was, but it had to have been close to $10 million. The opening titles are some of the best I have ever seen!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! They really have to be seen to be believed. I was just open-mouthed at how exciting, flashy and inventive they were.
The costuming is good, but what is more impressive is the set decoration and props. It's pure candy for the eyes. Everything -- from the menacing, chrome-plated guns to the goofy titles on the back of everyone's shirt ("staff") and the TV-bracelets each D.E.B. wears -- is thought out, well-designed and solid-looking. There isn't a single prop or set item that doesn't look real-world and solid.
The direction is extremely solid, with strong performances drawn out of almost every single character (including Dominique, who has little to do and few lines to speak). It's no wonder that Robinson was tapped by Disney to helm "Herbie: Full Load" (due out in 2005). The editing, too, is strong and sure (although there are occasional flashes of rushed-ness, which stand out only because so much of the rest of the editing is seamless and smooth and purposeful).
I have really only a few criticisms of the film. One is the make-up. It's very good. But in the latter half of the film, the make-up on Sara Foster is minimal and not very flattering. Perhaps she was meant to look bedraggled and forlorn; it worked, but perhaps a bit too well. Another issue has to do with the pacing of comic lines. A script needs to give the audience time to laugh, and "D.E.B.S." leaps right into the next line. A little better direction and writing would have overcome this problem.
But all in all, "D.E.B.S." is a superb film. I will be surprised if it does not win the audience favorite award come Oct. 23.
Oh, and that line at the top of this post? Scud (the wonderful Jimmi Simpson) tells it to Lucy Diamond. Twice.
Things you have to believe to be a Republican today:
Saddam was a good guy when Reagan armed him, a bad guy when Bush's daddy made war on him, a good guy when Cheney did business with him and a bad guy when Bush needed a "we can't find Bin Laden" diversion.
Trade with Cuba is wrong because the country is communist, but trade with China and Vietnam is vital to a spirit of international harmony.
A woman can't be trusted with decisions about her own body, but multi-national corporations can make decisions affecting all mankind without regulation.
Jesus loves you, and shares your hatred of homosexuals and Hillary Clinton.
The best way to improve military morale is to praise the troops in speeches while slashing veterans' benefits and combat pay.
If condoms are kept out of schools, adolescents won't have sex.
Providing health care to all Iraqis is sound policy. Providing health care to all Americans is socialism.
HMOs and insurance companies have the best interests of the public at heart.
Global warming and tobacco's link to cancer are junk science, but creationism should be taught in schools.
A president lying about an extramarital affair is an impeachable offense. A president lying to enlist support for a war in which thousands die is solid defense policy.
Government should limit itself to the powers named in the Constitution, which include banning gay marriages and censoring the Internet.
The public has a right to know about Hillary's cattle trades, but George Bush's cocaine conviction is none of our business.
Being a drug addict is a moral failing and a crime, unless you're a conservative radio host. Then it's an illness, and you need our prayers for your recovery.
You support states' rights, which means Attorney General John Ashcroft can tell states what local voter initiatives they have the right to adopt.
What Bill Clinton did in the 1960s is of vital national interest, but what Bush did in the '80s is irrelevant.
Saddam was a good guy when Reagan armed him, a bad guy when Bush's daddy made war on him, a good guy when Cheney did business with him and a bad guy when Bush needed a "we can't find Bin Laden" diversion.
Trade with Cuba is wrong because the country is communist, but trade with China and Vietnam is vital to a spirit of international harmony.
A woman can't be trusted with decisions about her own body, but multi-national corporations can make decisions affecting all mankind without regulation.
Jesus loves you, and shares your hatred of homosexuals and Hillary Clinton.
The best way to improve military morale is to praise the troops in speeches while slashing veterans' benefits and combat pay.
If condoms are kept out of schools, adolescents won't have sex.
Providing health care to all Iraqis is sound policy. Providing health care to all Americans is socialism.
HMOs and insurance companies have the best interests of the public at heart.
Global warming and tobacco's link to cancer are junk science, but creationism should be taught in schools.
A president lying about an extramarital affair is an impeachable offense. A president lying to enlist support for a war in which thousands die is solid defense policy.
Government should limit itself to the powers named in the Constitution, which include banning gay marriages and censoring the Internet.
The public has a right to know about Hillary's cattle trades, but George Bush's cocaine conviction is none of our business.
Being a drug addict is a moral failing and a crime, unless you're a conservative radio host. Then it's an illness, and you need our prayers for your recovery.
You support states' rights, which means Attorney General John Ashcroft can tell states what local voter initiatives they have the right to adopt.
What Bill Clinton did in the 1960s is of vital national interest, but what Bush did in the '80s is irrelevant.
Wednesday, October 13, 2004
Note the beginning of the final paragraph of this story: "The company has been largely, if not entirely funded, by the Republican National Committee."
The story below reports that this company has fled Nevada and is currently registering voters in Oregon.
In how many states has this company been allowed to register Democratic voters? How many ballots have been trashed?
So much for democracy in George Bush's America.
- - - - - - -
Voter Registrations Possibly Trashed
By George Knapp
KLAS-TV, Las Vegas
October 12, 2004
http://www.klas-tv.com/Global/story.asp?S=2421595&nav=168XRvNe
LAS VEGAS, NEVADA -- Employees of a private voter registration company allege that hundreds, perhaps thousands of voters who may think they are registered will be rudely surprised on election day. The company claims hundreds of registration forms were thrown in the trash.
Anyone who has recently registered or re-registered to vote outside a mall or grocery store or even government building may be affected.
The I-Team has obtained information about an alleged widespread pattern of potential registration fraud aimed at democrats. Thee focus of the story is a private registration company called Voters Outreach of America, AKA America Votes.
The out-of-state firm has been in Las Vegas for the past few months, registering voters. It employed up to 300 part-time workers and collected hundreds of registrations per day, but former employees of the company say that Voters Outreach of America only wanted Republican registrations.
Two former workers say they personally witnessed company supervisors rip up and trash registration forms signed by Democrats.
"We caught her taking Democrats out of my pile, handed them to her assistant and he ripped them up right in front of us. I grabbed some of them out of the garbage and she tells her assisatnt to get those from me," said Eric Russell, former Voters Outreach employee.
Eric Russell managed to retrieve a pile of shredded paperwork including signed voter registration forms, all from Democrats. KLAS-TV took them to the Clark County Election Department and confirmed that they had not, in fact, been filed with the county as required by law.
So the people on those forms who think they will be able to vote on Election Day are sadly mistaken. A KLAS reporter attempted to speak to Voters Outreach but found that its office has been rented out to someone else.
The landlord says Voters Outreach was evicted for non-payment of rent. Another source said the company has now moved on to Oregon where it is once again registering voters. It's unknown how many registrations may have been tossed out, but another ex-employee told Eyewitness News she had the same suspicions when she worked there.
It's going to take a while to sort all of this out, but the immediate concern for voters is to make sure you really are registered.
Call the Clark County Election Department at 455-VOTE or click here to see if you are registered.
The company has been largely, if not entirely funded, by the Republican National Committee. Similar complaints have been received in Reno where the registrar has asked the FBI to investigate.
The story below reports that this company has fled Nevada and is currently registering voters in Oregon.
In how many states has this company been allowed to register Democratic voters? How many ballots have been trashed?
So much for democracy in George Bush's America.
- - - - - - -
Voter Registrations Possibly Trashed
By George Knapp
KLAS-TV, Las Vegas
October 12, 2004
http://www.klas-tv.com/Global/story.asp?S=2421595&nav=168XRvNe
LAS VEGAS, NEVADA -- Employees of a private voter registration company allege that hundreds, perhaps thousands of voters who may think they are registered will be rudely surprised on election day. The company claims hundreds of registration forms were thrown in the trash.
Anyone who has recently registered or re-registered to vote outside a mall or grocery store or even government building may be affected.
The I-Team has obtained information about an alleged widespread pattern of potential registration fraud aimed at democrats. Thee focus of the story is a private registration company called Voters Outreach of America, AKA America Votes.
The out-of-state firm has been in Las Vegas for the past few months, registering voters. It employed up to 300 part-time workers and collected hundreds of registrations per day, but former employees of the company say that Voters Outreach of America only wanted Republican registrations.
Two former workers say they personally witnessed company supervisors rip up and trash registration forms signed by Democrats.
"We caught her taking Democrats out of my pile, handed them to her assistant and he ripped them up right in front of us. I grabbed some of them out of the garbage and she tells her assisatnt to get those from me," said Eric Russell, former Voters Outreach employee.
Eric Russell managed to retrieve a pile of shredded paperwork including signed voter registration forms, all from Democrats. KLAS-TV took them to the Clark County Election Department and confirmed that they had not, in fact, been filed with the county as required by law.
So the people on those forms who think they will be able to vote on Election Day are sadly mistaken. A KLAS reporter attempted to speak to Voters Outreach but found that its office has been rented out to someone else.
The landlord says Voters Outreach was evicted for non-payment of rent. Another source said the company has now moved on to Oregon where it is once again registering voters. It's unknown how many registrations may have been tossed out, but another ex-employee told Eyewitness News she had the same suspicions when she worked there.
It's going to take a while to sort all of this out, but the immediate concern for voters is to make sure you really are registered.
Call the Clark County Election Department at 455-VOTE or click here to see if you are registered.
The company has been largely, if not entirely funded, by the Republican National Committee. Similar complaints have been received in Reno where the registrar has asked the FBI to investigate.
Tuesday, October 12, 2004
The Washington Post has, once more, begun showing its daily presidential tracking poll on the front page of its Web site.
The Post's tracking poll, though, seems to be suffering from the same ailment that afflicted the Gallup tracking poll four years ago -- "lead inflation."
In the past few days (according to the Post's daily tracking poll), Bush's lead among registered voters shurnk while his lead among likely voters increased. This means that likely voters and unlikely voters are moving in the opposite direction.
This makes no sense.
However, this is the same thing we saw four years ago in the Gallup tracking poll. It made no sense then, either. And Gallup thought Bush was going to win in 2000 by a huge margin, too.
In 2000, the ABC News/Washington Post tracking poll missed the final vote pretty badly as well, claiming Bush was up by three points at the end and rising ghree to four points every night the final week of the campaign.
Looks like the Post is poised to repeat its fine 2000 performance.
The Post's tracking poll, though, seems to be suffering from the same ailment that afflicted the Gallup tracking poll four years ago -- "lead inflation."
In the past few days (according to the Post's daily tracking poll), Bush's lead among registered voters shurnk while his lead among likely voters increased. This means that likely voters and unlikely voters are moving in the opposite direction.
This makes no sense.
However, this is the same thing we saw four years ago in the Gallup tracking poll. It made no sense then, either. And Gallup thought Bush was going to win in 2000 by a huge margin, too.
In 2000, the ABC News/Washington Post tracking poll missed the final vote pretty badly as well, claiming Bush was up by three points at the end and rising ghree to four points every night the final week of the campaign.
Looks like the Post is poised to repeat its fine 2000 performance.
Monday, October 11, 2004
Sergeant: Lieutenant?
Lt. Doyle: Yeah?
Sergeant: He's ready to talk.
[Stella whispers into Doyle's ear.]
Lt. Doyle: Did he mention what was buried in the back yard?
Sergeant: Yeah. He said the little dog got too curious, so he dug it up. He's ready to take us a on a tour of the East Side.
Lt. Doyle [to Stella]: Wanna come along?
Stella: I don't want any part of it.
[Look of horror crosses Stella's face.]
-- "Rear Window" (Paramount, 1954)
One of the best closing lines in any film, ever.
Lt. Doyle: Yeah?
Sergeant: He's ready to talk.
[Stella whispers into Doyle's ear.]
Lt. Doyle: Did he mention what was buried in the back yard?
Sergeant: Yeah. He said the little dog got too curious, so he dug it up. He's ready to take us a on a tour of the East Side.
Lt. Doyle [to Stella]: Wanna come along?
Stella: I don't want any part of it.
[Look of horror crosses Stella's face.]
-- "Rear Window" (Paramount, 1954)
One of the best closing lines in any film, ever.
Thank god the Redskins suck.
If there is one bright light in my life, it is that Joe Gibbs, modern football savior and Jesus-wanna-be, can't win a game to save his life. Tom Boswell, who should stick to baseball writing, claims that the Redskins "may" have seen their post-season hopes go down the tubes.
"May"?
Buddy, the Redskins have 11 games left. They would have to win eight of those 11 games to have even a wild-card chance at post-season play. It's not going to happen. Not with Philadelphia twice, Green Bay, the Giants again, and the Lions in Detroit.
The great LaVar Arrington is injured -- probably worse than the Redskins have been willing to admit (he sat out Sunday, even though he was supposed to have played). Safety Matt Bowen is gone with a knee injur that may well keep him out until December. Clinton Portis, yet again, has a very weak game. (So much for his salary!) Mark Brunell is wobbly and misfiring. His aim is off, the power of his throws is way down, and he can't throw more than 150-15 yards.
Claims that the Redskins defense is a powerhouse are seen as the horseshit they are when you realize that the defense is playing lackluster granny-teams like the Bucs, the Browns and the Ravens. In fact, the defense is weak as water.
Consider:
Gibbs apparently never made any halftime adjustments. If he did, they certainly were horrible decisions.
Meanwhile, Gibbs showed little ability to react to the Ravens halftime adjustments.
Team motivation seems miniscule. When Jamal Lewis began burning up the grass in the second half, the Redskins seemed shellshocked -- unable to get up a head of steam to stop him. Watching the coaches on the sidelines, one has to wonder if the coaches even cared by this point. There was little activity and little motivating going on. Players, too, seemed unable to do anything but hold their sorry, sweat-soaked heads in their hands and mourn. Team leadership was nonexistent. Brunnell, for his part, seemed stoic and rudderless. There was almost no communication or discussion going on between Brunnell and his receivers, or Brunnell and his coaches.
I suspect that in the next four days, the Washington press will be full of reports of ass-kicking and harsh language in the lockerroom, as players and coaches "get angry" in an attempt to motivate themselves out of this rut.
Joe Gibbs' worst record was an 0-5 streak (and start) back in 1981 -- his first year in the NFL. Watch for Gibbs to equal that mark next week against Chicago. Brian Urlacher may be back, the Bears will have their new quarterback settled in a bit more, the game will be at Soldier Field, the Bears have a decent defense (holding the mighty Eagles to a mere 19 points) and have had a week to rest and think.
Chicago's win-loss record is almost the same as the Redskins, but Chicago at least beat the demi-god-like Packers. The Bears, too, have had scores almost similar to that of the Redskins (losing by only a few points each game). The Bears have also played the second-best team in the NFL, and that's got to have taught them some lessons that the Redskins won't have learned.
I hate the Redskins.
If there is one bright light in my life, it is that Joe Gibbs, modern football savior and Jesus-wanna-be, can't win a game to save his life. Tom Boswell, who should stick to baseball writing, claims that the Redskins "may" have seen their post-season hopes go down the tubes.
"May"?
Buddy, the Redskins have 11 games left. They would have to win eight of those 11 games to have even a wild-card chance at post-season play. It's not going to happen. Not with Philadelphia twice, Green Bay, the Giants again, and the Lions in Detroit.
The great LaVar Arrington is injured -- probably worse than the Redskins have been willing to admit (he sat out Sunday, even though he was supposed to have played). Safety Matt Bowen is gone with a knee injur that may well keep him out until December. Clinton Portis, yet again, has a very weak game. (So much for his salary!) Mark Brunell is wobbly and misfiring. His aim is off, the power of his throws is way down, and he can't throw more than 150-15 yards.
Claims that the Redskins defense is a powerhouse are seen as the horseshit they are when you realize that the defense is playing lackluster granny-teams like the Bucs, the Browns and the Ravens. In fact, the defense is weak as water.
Consider:
- Brunell connected on only 45% of his passes. The Ravens were at 50%.
- Brunnell's average passing yardage was an astounding 1.7 yards per pass. My god -- the Redskins ran for 2.0 yards per run! The Ravens? 9 yards per pass.
- Joe Gibbs -- Mr. Grind-It-Out-Rushing-Game -- managed to get his team to run the ball only 26 times (the Ravens did so 43 times!!). The Redskins netted 2.0 yards per carry, for a measly 52 yards. Consider that the Redskins passed for a total of 83 yards. Look at that pass-to-rush-ratio! HOLY SMOKE! The Ravens? 3.6 yards per carry, for a total of 156 rushing yards -- more than three times what the Redskins produced.
Gibbs apparently never made any halftime adjustments. If he did, they certainly were horrible decisions.
Meanwhile, Gibbs showed little ability to react to the Ravens halftime adjustments.
Team motivation seems miniscule. When Jamal Lewis began burning up the grass in the second half, the Redskins seemed shellshocked -- unable to get up a head of steam to stop him. Watching the coaches on the sidelines, one has to wonder if the coaches even cared by this point. There was little activity and little motivating going on. Players, too, seemed unable to do anything but hold their sorry, sweat-soaked heads in their hands and mourn. Team leadership was nonexistent. Brunnell, for his part, seemed stoic and rudderless. There was almost no communication or discussion going on between Brunnell and his receivers, or Brunnell and his coaches.
I suspect that in the next four days, the Washington press will be full of reports of ass-kicking and harsh language in the lockerroom, as players and coaches "get angry" in an attempt to motivate themselves out of this rut.
Joe Gibbs' worst record was an 0-5 streak (and start) back in 1981 -- his first year in the NFL. Watch for Gibbs to equal that mark next week against Chicago. Brian Urlacher may be back, the Bears will have their new quarterback settled in a bit more, the game will be at Soldier Field, the Bears have a decent defense (holding the mighty Eagles to a mere 19 points) and have had a week to rest and think.
Chicago's win-loss record is almost the same as the Redskins, but Chicago at least beat the demi-god-like Packers. The Bears, too, have had scores almost similar to that of the Redskins (losing by only a few points each game). The Bears have also played the second-best team in the NFL, and that's got to have taught them some lessons that the Redskins won't have learned.
I hate the Redskins.
There are a few movies out there which deal with the adult film industry. "Boogie Nights" is probably the most famous, but there are others. Some only get there tangentially -- such as young Carmen Sternwood's involvement with pornography, and how private dick Philip Marlowe (Humphrey Bogart) has to extricate her from it in "The Big Sleep" (Warner Bros., 1946).
But when you think about it, there are precious few books which deal with the adult film industry. I'm not talking about your average stroke-fiction. I'm talking about mainstream works.
There may be some novels in the gay book section which feature characters or settings in the adult film industry. For example, Jack Fritscher's semi-autobiographical fiction novel, "Some Dance to Remember," has a central character who is porn director. But even that book is the only one that comes to mind.
But, anyway, for better or worse, gay fiction is not really mainstream either.
No, I mean works of fiction that might get on the Book of the Month Club list, or which might make have a shot at the New York Times' top-500 list.
"American Gigolo" got close in its depiction of a male escort. But that's "close" in the way that I get "close" to having sex with Alexei Nemov because I watched him on the Olympics.
Isn't it interesting, though? I mean, here is an industry which you would think would be an endless mine for plots, stories and characters. Here is an industry that -- like gambling and the Mafia -- contains all the elements needed to write an exciting, melodramatic story. The characters are larger-than-life. There's huge amounts of money, huge amounts of sex, huge amounts of drugs and alcohol. You've got sleaze mixing with high fashion. You have blackmail, Hollywood, politics and business tycoons. You have innocent waifs being seduced by one of the most notorious and reviled industries in the world. You have regrets, shattered dreams, and outright self-delusion.
But it's just not being written about.
I find that amazing.
But when you think about it, there are precious few books which deal with the adult film industry. I'm not talking about your average stroke-fiction. I'm talking about mainstream works.
There may be some novels in the gay book section which feature characters or settings in the adult film industry. For example, Jack Fritscher's semi-autobiographical fiction novel, "Some Dance to Remember," has a central character who is porn director. But even that book is the only one that comes to mind.
But, anyway, for better or worse, gay fiction is not really mainstream either.
No, I mean works of fiction that might get on the Book of the Month Club list, or which might make have a shot at the New York Times' top-500 list.
"American Gigolo" got close in its depiction of a male escort. But that's "close" in the way that I get "close" to having sex with Alexei Nemov because I watched him on the Olympics.
Isn't it interesting, though? I mean, here is an industry which you would think would be an endless mine for plots, stories and characters. Here is an industry that -- like gambling and the Mafia -- contains all the elements needed to write an exciting, melodramatic story. The characters are larger-than-life. There's huge amounts of money, huge amounts of sex, huge amounts of drugs and alcohol. You've got sleaze mixing with high fashion. You have blackmail, Hollywood, politics and business tycoons. You have innocent waifs being seduced by one of the most notorious and reviled industries in the world. You have regrets, shattered dreams, and outright self-delusion.
But it's just not being written about.
I find that amazing.
Sunday, October 10, 2004
Peter Jackson has launched a new Web site, KongIsKing.net, so that fans may track the progress of his latest epic project, "King Kong."
The Web site tracks the film's progress, includes a video diary narrated by Jackson, and contains a Jackson-led tour of the shipboard set and the massive wave-generating tanks used to create some of the film's special effects.
A message board, chat room, cinematic history of Kong and other offerings are also included.
The first video diary was filmed Sept. 6, the first day of filming, and posted within 24 hours. In it, Jackson explains that everyone is getting ready to shoot a night scene. Crew members are shown dressing the set of the fictional S.S. Venture. Another video diary entry shows stars Naomi Watts and Jack Black modeling their 1930s-style costumes. Jackson explains that Watts' hat is modeled on one Fay Wray wore in the 1933 original "King Kong."
"King Kong" is due for a November 2005 release.
The Web site tracks the film's progress, includes a video diary narrated by Jackson, and contains a Jackson-led tour of the shipboard set and the massive wave-generating tanks used to create some of the film's special effects.
A message board, chat room, cinematic history of Kong and other offerings are also included.
The first video diary was filmed Sept. 6, the first day of filming, and posted within 24 hours. In it, Jackson explains that everyone is getting ready to shoot a night scene. Crew members are shown dressing the set of the fictional S.S. Venture. Another video diary entry shows stars Naomi Watts and Jack Black modeling their 1930s-style costumes. Jackson explains that Watts' hat is modeled on one Fay Wray wore in the 1933 original "King Kong."
"King Kong" is due for a November 2005 release.
Saturday, October 09, 2004
Presidential Debates...Round Two!
I think Bush appeared edgy and testy in the beginning, but settled down by the last half-hour -- just the opposite of his first debate. But he still didn't seem presidential or commanding. Kerry seemed more in control, even slightly more so than in his first debate.
The initial press spin was that Bush seemed unsteady, but today the spin is that neither had an edge.
The press also seems to want to make a lot out of Kerry's "waffle" on abortion. But I don't think that matters. Anyone who is pro-life is voting for Bush; everyone else, by default, goes to Kerry. No matter what Kerry says or does, he really doesn't lose anyone -- even if he accepts a ban on partial-birth abortions or adopts the "only in the event of rape, incest, life of the mother" policy. To anyone who is pro-choice, Bush is completely unacceptable. So the press' fascination with Kerry's abortion answer is a non-starter, I think.
Debate outcome? My guess is that Kerry edges out ahead in the polls in the coming week.
You know, the conventional wisdom in political science is that debates are a gamble for the incumbent. They give the challenger a chance to look leader-like, give the challenger a chance to seem equal in status to the incumbent, and give the challenger a chance to shine in front of a truly massive audience. The incumbent, meanwhile, risks losing his aura of "presidentiality," risks losing his status as the incumbent (e.g., presumptive choice), and risks stumbling in front of a massive audience. Indeed, a challenger who stumbles in a debate doesn't lose anything; behind in the polls and lacking the advantages of incumbency, the challenger is going to lose anyway. The challenger has to take risks, and debates are a great way to roll the dice and win.
Bush needed to win these debates. He lost the first one (admittedly, not by a wide margin but by something more than a slight bit). Right now, the standard has to be "Bush loses if he doesn't blow Kerry out." So far, Bush hasn't won, and so has lost.
Every poll shows that, among independent voters, Kerry's star has risen dramatically after the first debate. The overnight polls show that Kerry gained even more ground among independents after the second debate. That's bad for Bush. It seems that Bush's "flip-flop" attacks don't work when Kerry has a chance to rebut them. Indeed, Kerry's rebuttals make Bush's attacks look slightly childish, frantic and desperate. And that hurts Bush among independents.
Meanwhile, Bush's lead in Ohio is down to 2% -- in Ohio! Kerry is up 4% in New Mexico, and 5%-7% in Pennsylvania. They're tied in Florida. Bush's lead in Colorado (2%), Arkansas (4%) and Tennessee (5%) has also evaporated, and the two are tied in all three states now. Kerry is surging in Iowa (up 2%), Michigan (up 7%), Minnesota (up 7%), Nevada (up 1%; Bush was ahead 4%), New Hampshire (up 5%), New Mexico (up 8%), Oregon (up 7%), Washington, (up 5%) and Wisconsin (up 1%; Bush was ahead 4%).
Meanwhile, check out Democracy Corps' latest poll. Democracy Corps was founded by three former Democratic operatives -- James Carville, Stanley Greenberg and Bob Shrum. Polling work for the think-tank is conducted independently (the idea being that they don't want slanted polling numbers, they want to make decisions based on the truth).
What's most interesting about the Democracy Corps polling and focus groups is that they show Kerry making strong gains in "likeability" and "confidence in Kerry." Among women, too, Kerry is making strong gains (so much for the "security moms"!).
Last week, the Kerry campaign attempted to turn the terms of the debate away from Iraq and toward the economy. The Bush team didn't seem to have a plan. They seem unsure of what to do now that their "nuclear attacks" (the really harsh, call-him-a-traitor attacks) on Kerry aren't working. I'm not sure that Kerry's attempt to "go domestic" worked, though. It did prime the press to report negatively on the jobs numbers; the New York Times's lead paragraph and two of the subsequent three paragraphs are all very negative (one was neutral) on the jobs report.
Nice.
Still, I'm not sure where Kerry goes from here, though.
Any good strategist knows that you don't just have one line of attack. Your opponent will make a response. You had better have a response to your opponent's response. And your opponent will make a response to that. And you had better have a response to your opponent's response to your response.
Another tactic is not to lead with your strongest stuff right out of the gate. Going for a knock-out punch right away isn't a smart move. You lead with something very strong, and then see if that knocks out your opponent. You respond, respond, respond. Then drop another big bomb on your opponent. Respond, respond, respond. Then "go nuclear" -- really hit your opponent with something devastating, something so shocking and so upsetting and so terrible that your opponent can't recover. Ideally, you "go nuclear" just days before the election, so that even if your opponent theoretically could recover...he can't, because he doesn't have time to.
The Bush team's strategy, however, seems to have been to hit Kerry with everything they've got: waffler, cut-and-run, not a leader, tax-and-spend liberal, voted for Iraq. The idea seemed to be to "take the gloves off" during the Republican National Convention (which they did). The idea was "shock and awe" -- shellshock the Kerry campaign into inaction, giving Bush an insurmountable lead and spinning the press on the line that "the election is already over." (The press bought this line, too.)
The Bush team also seems to have believed that John Kerry would not perform well in the first debate, further eroding his position. They also seem to have believed that Bush would perform as well in 2004 as he did in 2000, giving him an additional advantage.
The first leg of the strategy seemed to have worked. But Bush never really soared in the polls the way he was supposed to. Kerry performed during the first debate, and that completely unraveled the Bush team's second strategy.
The Bush people seem not to know what to do now. Bush "went nuclear" on Kerry almost immediately -- all but calling him a traitor to the country, and cowardly. But the press seemed more interested in talking about how well John Kerry did, and the "more of the same" Bush tactic didn't work.
Now, with the second debate having gone Kerry's way among independents and otherwise a draw, it will be interesting as well to see how the Bush people react.
But to be honest, I don't think they have a game plan for the last 23 days of the campaign. They've used their biggest guns, and Kerry is still standing.
This leaves an "October surprise." Bush has to produce Osama bin Laden, or some other major terrorist. Bush has to come up with a big foreign policy win (domestic policy seems unlikely to produce any advantages for him). Alternatively, Bush has to find some sort of major skeleton in Kerry's closet -- either personally or politically.
Despite the paranoia out there about Karl Rove secretly keeping Osama bin Laden in jail for a year in order to spring him on the American public on Oct. 31 and win the election, I doubt the Bush people really have a plan. They had hoped to have knocked Kerry out by now.
But it'll be interesting to see what happens, nonetheless.
I think Bush appeared edgy and testy in the beginning, but settled down by the last half-hour -- just the opposite of his first debate. But he still didn't seem presidential or commanding. Kerry seemed more in control, even slightly more so than in his first debate.
The initial press spin was that Bush seemed unsteady, but today the spin is that neither had an edge.
The press also seems to want to make a lot out of Kerry's "waffle" on abortion. But I don't think that matters. Anyone who is pro-life is voting for Bush; everyone else, by default, goes to Kerry. No matter what Kerry says or does, he really doesn't lose anyone -- even if he accepts a ban on partial-birth abortions or adopts the "only in the event of rape, incest, life of the mother" policy. To anyone who is pro-choice, Bush is completely unacceptable. So the press' fascination with Kerry's abortion answer is a non-starter, I think.
Debate outcome? My guess is that Kerry edges out ahead in the polls in the coming week.
You know, the conventional wisdom in political science is that debates are a gamble for the incumbent. They give the challenger a chance to look leader-like, give the challenger a chance to seem equal in status to the incumbent, and give the challenger a chance to shine in front of a truly massive audience. The incumbent, meanwhile, risks losing his aura of "presidentiality," risks losing his status as the incumbent (e.g., presumptive choice), and risks stumbling in front of a massive audience. Indeed, a challenger who stumbles in a debate doesn't lose anything; behind in the polls and lacking the advantages of incumbency, the challenger is going to lose anyway. The challenger has to take risks, and debates are a great way to roll the dice and win.
Bush needed to win these debates. He lost the first one (admittedly, not by a wide margin but by something more than a slight bit). Right now, the standard has to be "Bush loses if he doesn't blow Kerry out." So far, Bush hasn't won, and so has lost.
Every poll shows that, among independent voters, Kerry's star has risen dramatically after the first debate. The overnight polls show that Kerry gained even more ground among independents after the second debate. That's bad for Bush. It seems that Bush's "flip-flop" attacks don't work when Kerry has a chance to rebut them. Indeed, Kerry's rebuttals make Bush's attacks look slightly childish, frantic and desperate. And that hurts Bush among independents.
Meanwhile, Bush's lead in Ohio is down to 2% -- in Ohio! Kerry is up 4% in New Mexico, and 5%-7% in Pennsylvania. They're tied in Florida. Bush's lead in Colorado (2%), Arkansas (4%) and Tennessee (5%) has also evaporated, and the two are tied in all three states now. Kerry is surging in Iowa (up 2%), Michigan (up 7%), Minnesota (up 7%), Nevada (up 1%; Bush was ahead 4%), New Hampshire (up 5%), New Mexico (up 8%), Oregon (up 7%), Washington, (up 5%) and Wisconsin (up 1%; Bush was ahead 4%).
Meanwhile, check out Democracy Corps' latest poll. Democracy Corps was founded by three former Democratic operatives -- James Carville, Stanley Greenberg and Bob Shrum. Polling work for the think-tank is conducted independently (the idea being that they don't want slanted polling numbers, they want to make decisions based on the truth).
What's most interesting about the Democracy Corps polling and focus groups is that they show Kerry making strong gains in "likeability" and "confidence in Kerry." Among women, too, Kerry is making strong gains (so much for the "security moms"!).
Last week, the Kerry campaign attempted to turn the terms of the debate away from Iraq and toward the economy. The Bush team didn't seem to have a plan. They seem unsure of what to do now that their "nuclear attacks" (the really harsh, call-him-a-traitor attacks) on Kerry aren't working. I'm not sure that Kerry's attempt to "go domestic" worked, though. It did prime the press to report negatively on the jobs numbers; the New York Times's lead paragraph and two of the subsequent three paragraphs are all very negative (one was neutral) on the jobs report.
Nice.
Still, I'm not sure where Kerry goes from here, though.
Any good strategist knows that you don't just have one line of attack. Your opponent will make a response. You had better have a response to your opponent's response. And your opponent will make a response to that. And you had better have a response to your opponent's response to your response.
Another tactic is not to lead with your strongest stuff right out of the gate. Going for a knock-out punch right away isn't a smart move. You lead with something very strong, and then see if that knocks out your opponent. You respond, respond, respond. Then drop another big bomb on your opponent. Respond, respond, respond. Then "go nuclear" -- really hit your opponent with something devastating, something so shocking and so upsetting and so terrible that your opponent can't recover. Ideally, you "go nuclear" just days before the election, so that even if your opponent theoretically could recover...he can't, because he doesn't have time to.
The Bush team's strategy, however, seems to have been to hit Kerry with everything they've got: waffler, cut-and-run, not a leader, tax-and-spend liberal, voted for Iraq. The idea seemed to be to "take the gloves off" during the Republican National Convention (which they did). The idea was "shock and awe" -- shellshock the Kerry campaign into inaction, giving Bush an insurmountable lead and spinning the press on the line that "the election is already over." (The press bought this line, too.)
The Bush team also seems to have believed that John Kerry would not perform well in the first debate, further eroding his position. They also seem to have believed that Bush would perform as well in 2004 as he did in 2000, giving him an additional advantage.
The first leg of the strategy seemed to have worked. But Bush never really soared in the polls the way he was supposed to. Kerry performed during the first debate, and that completely unraveled the Bush team's second strategy.
The Bush people seem not to know what to do now. Bush "went nuclear" on Kerry almost immediately -- all but calling him a traitor to the country, and cowardly. But the press seemed more interested in talking about how well John Kerry did, and the "more of the same" Bush tactic didn't work.
Now, with the second debate having gone Kerry's way among independents and otherwise a draw, it will be interesting as well to see how the Bush people react.
But to be honest, I don't think they have a game plan for the last 23 days of the campaign. They've used their biggest guns, and Kerry is still standing.
This leaves an "October surprise." Bush has to produce Osama bin Laden, or some other major terrorist. Bush has to come up with a big foreign policy win (domestic policy seems unlikely to produce any advantages for him). Alternatively, Bush has to find some sort of major skeleton in Kerry's closet -- either personally or politically.
Despite the paranoia out there about Karl Rove secretly keeping Osama bin Laden in jail for a year in order to spring him on the American public on Oct. 31 and win the election, I doubt the Bush people really have a plan. They had hoped to have knocked Kerry out by now.
But it'll be interesting to see what happens, nonetheless.
Thursday, October 07, 2004
"Driven by these provocations and frustrations, there is the danger that America may be tempted to exert all the terrible power she possesses to compel history to conform to her own illusions. The extreme, but by no means the only expression, would be the so-called preventive war."
"Such historians must have learned that virtue has never been defined by national or regional boundaries, and that morality and rectitude are not the monopolies of factions or parties. They must reveal the fallacy of a diplomacy based on moral bigotry, as well as the fallacy of one that relies on economic coercion through the fancied indispensability of favored products. Their studies would show the futility of erecting intellectual barricades against unpopular ideas of employing censorship and repression against social criticism, and of imposing the ideas of the conqueror upon defeated peoples by force of arms."
-- C. Vann Woodward, one of America's most esteemed historians, in his book "The Burden of Southern History" (1952)
"Such historians must have learned that virtue has never been defined by national or regional boundaries, and that morality and rectitude are not the monopolies of factions or parties. They must reveal the fallacy of a diplomacy based on moral bigotry, as well as the fallacy of one that relies on economic coercion through the fancied indispensability of favored products. Their studies would show the futility of erecting intellectual barricades against unpopular ideas of employing censorship and repression against social criticism, and of imposing the ideas of the conqueror upon defeated peoples by force of arms."
-- C. Vann Woodward, one of America's most esteemed historians, in his book "The Burden of Southern History" (1952)
Wednesday, October 06, 2004
Book Report: Ohm Phanphiroj's "Rough Stuff"
"Ohm Phanphiroj's photography is beautiful, moving, and vibrant, uncanny, raw and provokes in an haunting way. The naturalness and the thrilling erotic atmosphere takes the viewer beyond the boundaries of reality and imagination."
When the back cover of a book of photography contains laudatory praise like this, you know you are in trouble. Such is the case with Ohm Phanphiroj's new book of photographs of the male nude, "Rough Stuff."
This book is 11.75" tall by 8.25" wide -- very large. Sadly, it only contains 62 images spread over 52 pages. Exactly 23 of the 62 images are small -- a quarter or a third of a page in size, sometimes half a page in size. Really, you only get 49 full-page images.
Okay, so the book is only $14. But you sort of expect more, given the praise of the back cover.
What you get in this book is pictures of the straight (?) men the author has slept with or gotten naked with over the years. Most of the men depicted are European. Almost all of them are slender but slightly muscular, handsome and endowed. Many are uncut.
Phanphiroj has a distinct fetish for pissing. It's featured in about a quarter of the big images. Pissing in toilets, pissing in bottles, pissing in sinks. Shaking the piss from a foreskin.
It's a little off-putting. After all, being straight or rough-trade isn't about pissing. You can be rough-trade and not urinate in the sink while chugging wine from a bottle.
In many respects, it's not clear why any of these men should be considered rough-trade. They seem clean-cut, presentable (if a bit shaggy-haired in some cases). The few tattoos they sport can hardly be considered risque, or heterosexual. Indeed, a few of these men seem pretty twinky! (Is there such a thing as a rough-trade twink? It seems a contradiction in terms to me.)
The quality of the photos is mixed. While they are all technically well-done, there's a certain calculated nature of them. A model standing shirtless has his thumb hooked in his top-button-undone denim jeans, so his pubes peek out at us. Hardly a natural pose. A model stands rigidly facing the camera, urinating into a bottle he's holding stiffly in front of him. Again, not really the sort of water-sports pose that a young man would strike naturally.
Many of the trappings of rough-trade/straight-trade are here: Heavy-lidded eyes, blue jeans, unmade beds, smoking, pissing in non-toilet facilities, bath houses, public restrooms. But any hack can intersperse a couple photos of public toilets in a book and imply "rough-trade." I want something that tells me this is more than hack-work. Something that speaks to the reality of young men, threatening and edgy, dangerous during sex. The kind of man who'd as much punch you in the mouth as fuck you hungrily in the ass.
Where is that here?
But it seems so stagey, so intentional, so arranged. Even when an image is distorted to look more amateurish -- slightly out of focus, masturbating hand over-lit in the foreground, color drained -- my overall reaction was, "He's trying too hard."
Phanphiroj has worked extensively for high-end fashion magazines. Unfortunately, it shows. Most of the images here look like Calvin Klein ads -- images purposefully and carefully designed to appear "rough" and "straight" while actually the product of hair and clothing stylists, set dressers, lighting experts and large-format photographers.
I've thought at length for several weeks about why my reaction to Phanphiroj's work is so dismissive.
In the end, I compared Phanphiroj's photographs to those of another man fascinated by rough trade: David Hurles, the pornographer who founded "Old Reliable." Hurles began taking photographs of naked men in the mid-1960s, and a few years later began making color slides and Super-8 movies as well. Almost all of Hurles' models were straight. Most were poor or blue-collar, and most had also spent time in jail or prison. The prototypical Hurles model was in his mid-20s, a smoker, tattooed, lean and muscular, could-have-been-pretty, smooth-bodied, big-dicked, sexually insatiable, egotistical, full of bluster, angry, insecure, violent and uneducated. Most lived in a mental-emotional world of their own, an alternate reality where they ruled and everyone was against them.
Hurles had always interviewed his models as he made his photographs and movies. He encouraged the men to talk about themselves and their sexual fantasies. As the model would get worked up, his sexual performance for the camera was heightened as well.
In the mid-1970s, Hurles began making audio tapes of these interviews and selling them.
For Hurles, fear makes the erection grow stronger. You see it in his images. The camera almost visibly trembles for fear that if you leave the room, the model will grab your camera, wallet and his clothes (in that order) and head for the nearest door. There are times on the audio tapes when you become convinced that a model has been pushed too far, asked to dig too deeply into his homosexual closet, forced to confront a part of him that he doesn't like. And when he feels that shock of realization, the epiphany when he understands how Hurles has tricked him and pushed him and is smirking over him as he reveals his deepest queer desires -- that's when the tension, hatred and despair come out in the model's voice. That's when you don't know if the model is going to let the moment pass, or if he's going to lash out in hysterical, childlike anger and kick the living shit out of Hurles.
There's no danger in Ohm Phanphiroj's images. These models appear relaxed, at ease, and willing. Some appear to be real fashion models! (Look at the man on the back cover.)
Rough stuff? The only thing rough about this book is the paper cut you might get from the pages.
Nice work, pretty boys, nice dicks. But not photography that makes you worry.
"Ohm Phanphiroj's photography is beautiful, moving, and vibrant, uncanny, raw and provokes in an haunting way. The naturalness and the thrilling erotic atmosphere takes the viewer beyond the boundaries of reality and imagination."
When the back cover of a book of photography contains laudatory praise like this, you know you are in trouble. Such is the case with Ohm Phanphiroj's new book of photographs of the male nude, "Rough Stuff."
This book is 11.75" tall by 8.25" wide -- very large. Sadly, it only contains 62 images spread over 52 pages. Exactly 23 of the 62 images are small -- a quarter or a third of a page in size, sometimes half a page in size. Really, you only get 49 full-page images.
Okay, so the book is only $14. But you sort of expect more, given the praise of the back cover.
What you get in this book is pictures of the straight (?) men the author has slept with or gotten naked with over the years. Most of the men depicted are European. Almost all of them are slender but slightly muscular, handsome and endowed. Many are uncut.
Phanphiroj has a distinct fetish for pissing. It's featured in about a quarter of the big images. Pissing in toilets, pissing in bottles, pissing in sinks. Shaking the piss from a foreskin.
It's a little off-putting. After all, being straight or rough-trade isn't about pissing. You can be rough-trade and not urinate in the sink while chugging wine from a bottle.
In many respects, it's not clear why any of these men should be considered rough-trade. They seem clean-cut, presentable (if a bit shaggy-haired in some cases). The few tattoos they sport can hardly be considered risque, or heterosexual. Indeed, a few of these men seem pretty twinky! (Is there such a thing as a rough-trade twink? It seems a contradiction in terms to me.)
The quality of the photos is mixed. While they are all technically well-done, there's a certain calculated nature of them. A model standing shirtless has his thumb hooked in his top-button-undone denim jeans, so his pubes peek out at us. Hardly a natural pose. A model stands rigidly facing the camera, urinating into a bottle he's holding stiffly in front of him. Again, not really the sort of water-sports pose that a young man would strike naturally.
Many of the trappings of rough-trade/straight-trade are here: Heavy-lidded eyes, blue jeans, unmade beds, smoking, pissing in non-toilet facilities, bath houses, public restrooms. But any hack can intersperse a couple photos of public toilets in a book and imply "rough-trade." I want something that tells me this is more than hack-work. Something that speaks to the reality of young men, threatening and edgy, dangerous during sex. The kind of man who'd as much punch you in the mouth as fuck you hungrily in the ass.
Where is that here?
But it seems so stagey, so intentional, so arranged. Even when an image is distorted to look more amateurish -- slightly out of focus, masturbating hand over-lit in the foreground, color drained -- my overall reaction was, "He's trying too hard."
Phanphiroj has worked extensively for high-end fashion magazines. Unfortunately, it shows. Most of the images here look like Calvin Klein ads -- images purposefully and carefully designed to appear "rough" and "straight" while actually the product of hair and clothing stylists, set dressers, lighting experts and large-format photographers.
I've thought at length for several weeks about why my reaction to Phanphiroj's work is so dismissive.
In the end, I compared Phanphiroj's photographs to those of another man fascinated by rough trade: David Hurles, the pornographer who founded "Old Reliable." Hurles began taking photographs of naked men in the mid-1960s, and a few years later began making color slides and Super-8 movies as well. Almost all of Hurles' models were straight. Most were poor or blue-collar, and most had also spent time in jail or prison. The prototypical Hurles model was in his mid-20s, a smoker, tattooed, lean and muscular, could-have-been-pretty, smooth-bodied, big-dicked, sexually insatiable, egotistical, full of bluster, angry, insecure, violent and uneducated. Most lived in a mental-emotional world of their own, an alternate reality where they ruled and everyone was against them.
Hurles had always interviewed his models as he made his photographs and movies. He encouraged the men to talk about themselves and their sexual fantasies. As the model would get worked up, his sexual performance for the camera was heightened as well.
In the mid-1970s, Hurles began making audio tapes of these interviews and selling them.
For Hurles, fear makes the erection grow stronger. You see it in his images. The camera almost visibly trembles for fear that if you leave the room, the model will grab your camera, wallet and his clothes (in that order) and head for the nearest door. There are times on the audio tapes when you become convinced that a model has been pushed too far, asked to dig too deeply into his homosexual closet, forced to confront a part of him that he doesn't like. And when he feels that shock of realization, the epiphany when he understands how Hurles has tricked him and pushed him and is smirking over him as he reveals his deepest queer desires -- that's when the tension, hatred and despair come out in the model's voice. That's when you don't know if the model is going to let the moment pass, or if he's going to lash out in hysterical, childlike anger and kick the living shit out of Hurles.
There's no danger in Ohm Phanphiroj's images. These models appear relaxed, at ease, and willing. Some appear to be real fashion models! (Look at the man on the back cover.)
Rough stuff? The only thing rough about this book is the paper cut you might get from the pages.
Nice work, pretty boys, nice dicks. But not photography that makes you worry.
Tuesday, October 05, 2004
I am a Halloween fanatic.
I love the holiday. I love the faux spookiness, the dressing up, the license people feel to do things they normally wouldn't do. It appeals to my sense of the dramatic.
But for all my love of the day, I have precious little in the way of Halloween "stuff" to put up around my house:
When I was little, my mother purchased a huge number of Halloween window cut-outs. Made of flimsy cardboard, they depicted a witch in front of a moon, a yeowling black cat, a leering witch's face, a skeleton, etc. I would tape them up in our big picture-window. The whole window would be filled with them. You couldn't see out the front window, for all the cut-outs that I filled it with.
When I was older, I would make a stuffed scarecrow, and put him out on the front steps with some cornstalks. One year, I set up a seance in the front door. Kids would have to approach. I had a latex glove that looked like a mangled hand which I'd wear, and I'd pour candy into kids' buckets with it. They'd screech in terror.
Pumpkin carving was a big deal in my house. We never really carved anything spectacular. Just eyes, teeth, maybe a nose. But it was a big deal to carve a pumpkin.
Even now, I will purchase three or four pumpkins each year, and carve away. I went to the grocery store last week, and saw that Safeway had a gigantic number of pumpkins already out. I gently caressed one enormous pumpkin, like a lover.
If I had a big house like my friends Brian and Jose-Luis, I'd carve 10 pumpkins and use them to light up my whole back yard. I'd invite friends over for some "ghoulish punch" (throwing a big block of dry ice in the bowl, naturally!), maybe some "worms and blood" (spaghetti dinner), "werewolf leg" (spare ribs), "eyeballs" (grapes) and "brains" (jello with marshmallows inside). I'd do a big party. Even buy a spooky "haunted house" CD and play it. My invitation would say "Black funereal dress required, please."
I'm thinking that I should go to Illuminations and get a large and small shadowcast lantern, the Halloween votive tree and some floating Halloween candles for use in a glass bowl or glass cylinder. Maybe even the wizard's hat candle holder!
I also should go to Restoration Hardware and pick up a new pumpkin carving kit (my old one broke), an eyeball nightlight (OH GOD YES!) and more skull lights.
Last year, I bought "28 Days Later," "House of Usher," "The Pit and the Pendulum," "Masque of the Red Death" and "The Abominable Dr. Phibes" on DVD. I had my own private fright-fest on Halloween night.
No new films are out on DVD, so I may just watch some oldies but goodies: The 1932 "The Mummy," the 1951 "The Thing," "House of Wax," "Them!", the 1959 "The Mummy" and "The Gorgon." Or something else. I've got lots to choose from.
I love the holiday. I love the faux spookiness, the dressing up, the license people feel to do things they normally wouldn't do. It appeals to my sense of the dramatic.
But for all my love of the day, I have precious little in the way of Halloween "stuff" to put up around my house:
- Skull-lights, which I string around my entertainment center.
- A bat flying in front of a golden full moon (it's light from behind with little lights).
- A spookey candelabra, which looks like a tree mounted with skulls and tombstones. VERY nice.
- A witch overlooking a glass globe, inside of which is her overflowing kettle. (Orange oil floats around inside, making it eerie.)
- A tea-light glass holder, with spooky trees and pumpkins on the outside.
- A ceramic skull candle-holder.
- A small ceramic jack-o-lantern which you can put a tea-light into.
- A metal cat arching its back; on a shelf behind its head, you can put a tea-light, which makes its eyes glow.
When I was little, my mother purchased a huge number of Halloween window cut-outs. Made of flimsy cardboard, they depicted a witch in front of a moon, a yeowling black cat, a leering witch's face, a skeleton, etc. I would tape them up in our big picture-window. The whole window would be filled with them. You couldn't see out the front window, for all the cut-outs that I filled it with.
When I was older, I would make a stuffed scarecrow, and put him out on the front steps with some cornstalks. One year, I set up a seance in the front door. Kids would have to approach. I had a latex glove that looked like a mangled hand which I'd wear, and I'd pour candy into kids' buckets with it. They'd screech in terror.
Pumpkin carving was a big deal in my house. We never really carved anything spectacular. Just eyes, teeth, maybe a nose. But it was a big deal to carve a pumpkin.
Even now, I will purchase three or four pumpkins each year, and carve away. I went to the grocery store last week, and saw that Safeway had a gigantic number of pumpkins already out. I gently caressed one enormous pumpkin, like a lover.
If I had a big house like my friends Brian and Jose-Luis, I'd carve 10 pumpkins and use them to light up my whole back yard. I'd invite friends over for some "ghoulish punch" (throwing a big block of dry ice in the bowl, naturally!), maybe some "worms and blood" (spaghetti dinner), "werewolf leg" (spare ribs), "eyeballs" (grapes) and "brains" (jello with marshmallows inside). I'd do a big party. Even buy a spooky "haunted house" CD and play it. My invitation would say "Black funereal dress required, please."
I'm thinking that I should go to Illuminations and get a large and small shadowcast lantern, the Halloween votive tree and some floating Halloween candles for use in a glass bowl or glass cylinder. Maybe even the wizard's hat candle holder!
I also should go to Restoration Hardware and pick up a new pumpkin carving kit (my old one broke), an eyeball nightlight (OH GOD YES!) and more skull lights.
Last year, I bought "28 Days Later," "House of Usher," "The Pit and the Pendulum," "Masque of the Red Death" and "The Abominable Dr. Phibes" on DVD. I had my own private fright-fest on Halloween night.
No new films are out on DVD, so I may just watch some oldies but goodies: The 1932 "The Mummy," the 1951 "The Thing," "House of Wax," "Them!", the 1959 "The Mummy" and "The Gorgon." Or something else. I've got lots to choose from.
I saw Chris S. today. He was an intern at work about four years ago. Stunningly handsome light-skinned black kid from Texas. Intense brown eyes to die for. A body so perfectly sculpted that you'd think he spent every waking moment in the gym. Immaculately dressed. Cheekbones so sharp and high, you could cut paper on them. Smooth-bodied, with just a dash of ebony hair where it counts (and it's thick, where it is).
He oozes sex. And he's straight, sadly.
We've had some stunners here at work in the male intern department:
But I wish.
He oozes sex. And he's straight, sadly.
We've had some stunners here at work in the male intern department:
- Julian B. -- Cherubic face. Blond. Intelligent. Shy. Body like a porn star. Mr. Right.
- Matt C. -- Italian. Cheekbones made for a god. Deep, dark, penetrating eyes set deep in his head. A smile like sunbreaks on a cloudy day. Body like a porn star. Mr. Right #2.
- Chris -- Wrestler. Stinging-smart. Quiet. Curious about everything...yes, even that. Elephantine.
But I wish.
Monday, October 04, 2004
Call me eternally optimistic. Or call me foolish.
I haven't visited Gay.com in more than five months. I subscribed last December on the advice of a friend ("what can it hurt? and you might find a boyfriend!"). Well, I'm out $75 and I've found no one.
I decided to go back to Gay.com because... well, I had no good reason. Stupidity springs eternal, I guess. Or despair breeds idiocy. Some truism like that.
I had set up searches in the personals section to identify the kind of person I am looking for. Naturally, two-thirds of the profiles that are collected don't even come close to matching what I want in a man. (Click the box for "extra-large" and you get men with a random sample of cock sizes, it seems. Goofy.) After sifting through the ones who are beautiful but small-dicked, prostitutes ("I'm into obese 50-year-old men with male pattern baldness! And I like to travel!"), closeted ("Straight and married") or in California (there are clearly not enough Gay.com members from the District of Columbia, so Gay.com litters your search results with a random selection of men from all over the globe to make the results look better), I managed to narrow the number of profiles down.
I don't know what the point was. To prove that every guy with a big cock is into muscle-worship and dating someone with lots of money? To prove that every guy I like has a "Hot List" of men 10,000 times more stunning that me? To prove that twinks with big dicks only like guys 18-20?
It's really depressing.
Four of the guys were obviously hookers, escorts to put up a profile with professional photographs -- one profile per state. Not that I'm averse to dating an escort; one profession is as good as the rest, I say. But I don't have the $275-for-the-first-hour fee, and naturally they wouldn't look my way unless I waved cash.
Really depressing.
I had some more profiles to sort through. But I think I've beaten up on myself enough for one night.
Like a fool, however, I sent emails to about eight of the guys I found most attractive. (Let's see if the four hookers I sent emails to respond with an offer for a job.)
I'm not exactly sure why I did it. I suppose for the same reason that I keep going to clubs and bars. Or the same reason that I keep going to film screenings, or plays, or the gym. I'm guaranteed failure if I don't do it.
Only, I'm pretty much guaranteed failure no matter what I do.
It's depressing to think back on all the wasted years and effort and attempts at finding someone. How much energy and time and money and effort I've put into trying to meet someone. I had a somewhat lax day at work today, and I spent a lot of time thinking about that. I wondered if maybe my life wouldn't be better if I had spent that time, money and energy doing something else -- pursuing a career, practicing photography, educating myself. Something. Anything other than this vain pursuit.
I don't have an answer, naturally. Just questions.
It's really depressing.
It's odd, too, to look back on the last hour I spent on Gay.com. I had this weird feeling of...expectancy. Like this might actually pay off. That's pure bullshit, of course. It won't. But it felt odd to have that feeling nonetheless.
I haven't visited Gay.com in more than five months. I subscribed last December on the advice of a friend ("what can it hurt? and you might find a boyfriend!"). Well, I'm out $75 and I've found no one.
I decided to go back to Gay.com because... well, I had no good reason. Stupidity springs eternal, I guess. Or despair breeds idiocy. Some truism like that.
I had set up searches in the personals section to identify the kind of person I am looking for. Naturally, two-thirds of the profiles that are collected don't even come close to matching what I want in a man. (Click the box for "extra-large" and you get men with a random sample of cock sizes, it seems. Goofy.) After sifting through the ones who are beautiful but small-dicked, prostitutes ("I'm into obese 50-year-old men with male pattern baldness! And I like to travel!"), closeted ("Straight and married") or in California (there are clearly not enough Gay.com members from the District of Columbia, so Gay.com litters your search results with a random selection of men from all over the globe to make the results look better), I managed to narrow the number of profiles down.
I don't know what the point was. To prove that every guy with a big cock is into muscle-worship and dating someone with lots of money? To prove that every guy I like has a "Hot List" of men 10,000 times more stunning that me? To prove that twinks with big dicks only like guys 18-20?
It's really depressing.
Four of the guys were obviously hookers, escorts to put up a profile with professional photographs -- one profile per state. Not that I'm averse to dating an escort; one profession is as good as the rest, I say. But I don't have the $275-for-the-first-hour fee, and naturally they wouldn't look my way unless I waved cash.
Really depressing.
I had some more profiles to sort through. But I think I've beaten up on myself enough for one night.
Like a fool, however, I sent emails to about eight of the guys I found most attractive. (Let's see if the four hookers I sent emails to respond with an offer for a job.)
I'm not exactly sure why I did it. I suppose for the same reason that I keep going to clubs and bars. Or the same reason that I keep going to film screenings, or plays, or the gym. I'm guaranteed failure if I don't do it.
Only, I'm pretty much guaranteed failure no matter what I do.
It's depressing to think back on all the wasted years and effort and attempts at finding someone. How much energy and time and money and effort I've put into trying to meet someone. I had a somewhat lax day at work today, and I spent a lot of time thinking about that. I wondered if maybe my life wouldn't be better if I had spent that time, money and energy doing something else -- pursuing a career, practicing photography, educating myself. Something. Anything other than this vain pursuit.
I don't have an answer, naturally. Just questions.
It's really depressing.
It's odd, too, to look back on the last hour I spent on Gay.com. I had this weird feeling of...expectancy. Like this might actually pay off. That's pure bullshit, of course. It won't. But it felt odd to have that feeling nonetheless.
Sunday, October 03, 2004
I'm watching "Mystery!" on PBS. They've moved it to Sundays at 9 p.m. I tend not to watch too many of the shows; not all of them are that good. I like the Robbie Coltrane "Cracker" episodes, although few of them aired on PBS (most aired on cable due to their violence, sexual nature and nudity). I really enjoyed Helen Mirren in "Prime Suspect," with its inventive plots and deep characterization. The original -- and, some might say, best -- "Poirot" and "Miss Marple" mysteries were there, too.
So tonight, I watched a new Adam Dalgliesh mystery, "Death in Holy Orders." Roy Marsden, who played the role of P.D. James' most famous detective for 15 years, left the series in 1998. It is the first outing for Martin Shaw, one of Britain's most popular actors. Marsden played Dalgliesh as a dry, cold, urbane intellectual whose private life and feelings were kept off-screen. Shaw plays Dalgliesh as more quiet than cold, more private than repressed. I actually like Shaw better (I know, I know, I'm a blasphemer).
At any rate: Among the stars on tonight's episode was Jesse Spencer (Raphael Arbuthnot). He plays the bastard son of a wealthy donor to St. Anselm's College -- the same college Dalgliesh attended. But as a bastard, he won't inherit the hundreds of millions of pounds in the college's endowment. Only the five priests who make up the college's faculty will.
Jesse Spencer is 25, Australian, handsome. They've given him two nude scenes in the episode -- which PBS thoughtfully and prudishly pixelated for their sensitive viewers. The motherfuckers.
Spencer played Australian swimmer Tony Fingleton in the film "Swimming Upstream" (which I will now have to rent to see if he's in a Speedo). And he played the hunky Neal in the silly Brittany Murphy socialite-becomes-a-nanny film, "Uptown Girls."
In one shot, Spencer is seen running down a rocky beach into the water. There's a split-second shot of his pubes and penis bouncing, then it's out of sight for Little Jesse. We get to see his magnificent torso, and his wonderful, V-shaped back.
Now, I am a complete bottom. I do not want to top. Not ever.
So for a man's buttocks to attract my attention...well, they had better be pretty fucking spectacular. Only a few times in my life have I really said, "Oh wow, that guy has the perfect ass."
Jesse Spencer's ass made my mouth drop open. Made my head turn. Made me get an raging, hurting erection.
Oh Jesse. Email me.
*sigh*
So tonight, I watched a new Adam Dalgliesh mystery, "Death in Holy Orders." Roy Marsden, who played the role of P.D. James' most famous detective for 15 years, left the series in 1998. It is the first outing for Martin Shaw, one of Britain's most popular actors. Marsden played Dalgliesh as a dry, cold, urbane intellectual whose private life and feelings were kept off-screen. Shaw plays Dalgliesh as more quiet than cold, more private than repressed. I actually like Shaw better (I know, I know, I'm a blasphemer).
At any rate: Among the stars on tonight's episode was Jesse Spencer (Raphael Arbuthnot). He plays the bastard son of a wealthy donor to St. Anselm's College -- the same college Dalgliesh attended. But as a bastard, he won't inherit the hundreds of millions of pounds in the college's endowment. Only the five priests who make up the college's faculty will.
Jesse Spencer is 25, Australian, handsome. They've given him two nude scenes in the episode -- which PBS thoughtfully and prudishly pixelated for their sensitive viewers. The motherfuckers.
Spencer played Australian swimmer Tony Fingleton in the film "Swimming Upstream" (which I will now have to rent to see if he's in a Speedo). And he played the hunky Neal in the silly Brittany Murphy socialite-becomes-a-nanny film, "Uptown Girls."
In one shot, Spencer is seen running down a rocky beach into the water. There's a split-second shot of his pubes and penis bouncing, then it's out of sight for Little Jesse. We get to see his magnificent torso, and his wonderful, V-shaped back.
Now, I am a complete bottom. I do not want to top. Not ever.
So for a man's buttocks to attract my attention...well, they had better be pretty fucking spectacular. Only a few times in my life have I really said, "Oh wow, that guy has the perfect ass."
Jesse Spencer's ass made my mouth drop open. Made my head turn. Made me get an raging, hurting erection.
Oh Jesse. Email me.
*sigh*
Calendar Men, September 2004
Yeah, it's October. So sue me. I had every intention of talking about these images on Sept. 10 or 12...and then September got away from me. Tough it out.
The Better Images
Naked Youth – The model is gay porn star Brad Benton. Here is an image that is not "traditionally" technically good, but whose shortcomings work in its favor. Benton is a gay porn star. He has dark-brown hair, a chiseled, rectangular face, penetrating dark-brown eyes, a squared-off, muscular body, pubes set low against his penis, a long, dark-skinned, uncut cock that stabs upward wetly into the air, a full pubic thatch, and hefty but tight balls hanging beneath his cock. He projects a sort of swarthy, sweaty sensuality. With the half-open mouth and eyes peering up through his eyebrows, Benton seems to be the prototypical male prostitute. But the image works. It works because of the slight sheen to Benton's skin, implying physical exertion. It works because of the model's obvious "display" pose (hands clasped behind the back, hips turned slightly aside to showcase the length of the penis better, erection, etc.). And it works because of the slightly lackluster technical quality of the image. The lighting is so heavy, the model casts a distinct, pitch-black shadow on the wall. The setting is a living room, almost as if this were a fly-by-night image snapped by a john who has induced his hooker to pose before getting down to business. The image conveys a cheapness, a street-wise credibility, a rawness that would be lacking in a studio shot that would contain the same pose, lighting, facial position, etc. Damn, but it works.
Adu's Naked Asia – The model is a strongly muscled Japanese man named Yoshi. He's slightly older, with a slight mustache. The main image is dark, but it's so wonderfully posed. The model is wonderfully aroused, but his facial expression is one of fun, almost as if he's laughing at something the photographer has said. It's a relaxed image. But that only makes it all the more appealing. The model's right nipple is in the forefront of the image, and the line of the model's amazing pectorals is repeated in the lines of his abdominals and the shoulder. Yet, the left arm forms a triangular shape with the torso, pecs, shoulders and abs. The bicep and tricep are on display, without being purposefully flexed. The triangular shape is repeated with the line of the spread legs. It's just a terrific image. And although the smaller, night-time image on the same calendar is a better image in terms of lighting, color and setting, it's not nearly as well-composed. Damn that is a good image. I just wish it had been Photoshopped a bit.
A Taste of Italy – The model is gay porn star Federico Bulsara. I've talked about him before. It's just a good, solid image. Too bad about the pubic topiary, though.
Advocate Men – I'm no fan of gay porn star Colton Ford. But these images really do work. Ford is a furry-chested hunk with an oddly-shaped face. He's got too-clipped pubes (which make you think "mange," given that the rest of his body is thickly, darkly furred). Ford's face is so rectangular and geeky-nerdy that he would look goofy if not for the walrus mustache coursing down either side of his lips to the jawline. It's that goatee that makes him look like a 70s clone. It works. The main image is a typical pose – arms loosely behind the head, mouth slightly slack, abs flexed, legs spread, penis erect enough to be in the air. But it works. Ford's furry chest and belly make him look like a big, cuddly dog you want to nuzzle up against. He's not so muscular that the viewer is put off by him, and yet he's not just another furry boy, either. The oddly defoliated pubes actually force the eye up to the dark, silky hair on the belly, chest and armpits. It's terribly attractive. (The five smaller images on the bottom of the calendar are not nearly as successful. A photo of Ford's smiling face make him look goofy and jut-jawed. Another of his buttocks is too posed. One of his chest is too "look at me." One of him fucking a divan is too porn-star. And the final image, of him laying back while his erection juts into the air, is better but still too impersonal.)
Unzipped – Gay porn star Jason Hawke is one beautiful young man. He has a bland, boyish face with a broad forehead, broad cheeks and broad jaw. The featureless face forces the viewer to look into those small, deep-set eyes. It forces the viewer to pay attention to the small, thin-lipped mouth. It forces the viewer to pay attention to the little things about this model. Hawke has a slightly muscular body that similarly lacks any truly outstanding features. But again, the eye is forced to look at the tiny, tight, beautiful nipples, the gentle curve of the pecs, the light rippling of the ribs. Hawke also has a long, slender, uncut penis that is one of the most exquisitely formed and shaped cock in gay porn. Yet, the photographs here don't showcase that magnificence at all. The main image is too underlit and poorly focused, and the angle at which Hawke's penis is shot tends to hide its truth length and beauty. The second-largest image is better, but now Hawke's hand is grasping his balls and covering up his genitals. A third image is so small that we don't pay much attention to it, and the remaining three images don't show it. What a disappointment. Jason Hawke deserves a great photographer, and he got hack-work.
Naked Straight Men – Phil Dicker, one of the legends of gay porn photography, graces this calendar. Dicker is a dark redhead with almost brunette pubes. He's a balloonish bodybuilder who almost crosses the line into caricature (biceps like bowling balls, thighs so huge they distort his hips, shoulders so broad they detract from his form). His face is rather crude and heavy-featured. His body is covered in light freckles, which tend to mar his smooth, alabaster skin. But then there is that 12-inch cock between his legs. It is a wonder to behold. It is so long, it reaches up to his breastbone. It is as thick as his wrist. It is veiny, but not too veiny. It is nobby, but not too nobby. It has the most amazingly shaped torpedo head. The heft, size, length, shaped, color, and pure godlike quality of this cock is beyond description. Sadly, this photograph is not one of the better images of Phil Dicker's amazing cock. Indeed, it is not even a good image of the man's face, body or other attributes. But it's good enough.
The "Less Better" Images
Kristen Bjorn, Body Heat – What a nice model. Half-Latino, half-Asian. A truly magnificent face. Nicely muscled body, but not overdone. Biceps displayed wonderfully – one through flexing, one through posing. Abs left flat and smooth. Prick painfully erect, with a huge mushroom knob soaring into the air pendulously. It works, because of the model. His dark skin is tanned even darker and is contrasted against the white wall against which he leans. Yet, he has a strong tan line, helping to draw attention to his pubes, balls and wonderful cock. The light plays along his right ribs, bicep, hips and thigh. The head and shoulders, although slightly in shadow due to the lighting scheme, is framed by gold-colored candles light from above – which makes them gleam. It creates, well, almost a halo-effect around the model's head. The line of plants in the rear, the right arm held backwards (typical "access for the camera" pose in porn), the line of the shoulders, the tilt of the head, the line of the right arm, the line of the candles – it creates a huge arc through the image that helps overcome the lighting deficit of the head and shoulders. It works.
College Jocks – Sometimes, you do everything right – and it still doesn't work. Consider Roberto Giorgio, the muscled, hung, handsome hunk for September. The pose is right (kneeling, legs widely splayed, cock achingly hard, balls tight, torso leaning back to display the abs, pecs bunched, biceps flexed, shoulders relaxed though, face relaxed and calm). The color is right – the tanned model against a grey background. The technical quality is right (although the lighting is a little harsh and the color tone a little muddy and cold). But there's nothing here. It's a dead pose. You wonder if the model was stuffed and posed by a good taxidermist.
Naked Latinos – The model is the wonderful Tiger Tyson. Yeah, he's short. But yeah, he has a magnificent 10-inch monster down there. He's handsome. He has this compact, sweet body. Sadly, this image does my amazing Tiger little good. He framing is off. The blue sky matte painting in the background is meaningless and distracting. The black screen on the right hand of the image implies an error or cut-off. Tiger's face is distorted in a coy lip-biting thing. The model's magnificent cock is just hanging there. If you're going to photograph one of the world's most popular Latino gay porn stars, at least do him some photographic justice.
Bel Ami "New Generation" – The photo is of the impossibly telegenic Josh Elliot, a two-tone blond with a coy face, sweet pecs, big nipples made for sucking on, a slightly defined belly, full dark-brown pubes, a small and penetrable ass, long legs, dark brown eyes to swim in, and a long and slender uncut penis that arcs gracefully toward his navel. But for all this, the image is not terribly good. It's average. Elliot was placed against a bright orange pillow, muddying the image of his golden skin against the brilliantly white silk sheets he's laying on. And here is something I rarely get to talk about: A model's attitude. Elliot is coy to the point of being scheming. There is something about his too-boyish face, too-perfect eyes, too-sweet smile, too-coiffurred hair, that makes him seem manipulative in still photos. This aspect of the model's personality actually needs toning down. Instead, the photographer has Elliot coyly gesturing with his long fingers at his chin, almost to the point of chewing sexually on his fingertips. No, sorry. That busts the whole image. A porn photographer has to sell a fantasy to the viewer. The model has to convey the fantasy that he really, honestly, truly wants to sleep with the viewer; meanwhile, the viewer must really, honestly, truly believe that the model is available to him. There is a seller, and a buyer. Any photographer selling sex via photography (as porn photographers do) must not dispel this fantasy. And whoever took this image busted it bad.
Falcon "Heroes" – Alec Martinez, the gay porn star who bears a striking resemblance to actor David Boreanaz, is the model. But why keep his shirt on? This model has a square-built, brick-shithouse appeal. Why cover it up. Why not airbrush out the birthmark on his left pectoral? Why trim his pubic hair down to nothing? Why was the image out so heavily that it looks like a bad poster manufactured by a printer running out of ink? This model and his 9-inch cock deserved better. Much better.
The Junk Images
Bel Ami "Classics" – Johan Paulik is one of the most recognizable porn stars in the world. So why show him hunched over, arms hiding his chest, legs shadowing his genitals, body distorted, penis and balls cut off by the bottom of the frame? And why choose an image that is muddy and dark?
Titan Media's "Titan Men" – Gay porn star Parker Williams is the model. He's sort of a circumcized, less-muscular version of Alec Powers (and with a smaller penis). I don't understand this image at all, though. The lighting is almost from 45 degrees behind the model, so that the only thing highlighted is his right rear rib-cage. Much of the model's torso is in shadow, to it is hidden. The model's face is more brightly lit, drawing attention to the relatively unattractive features of the man. The erection and testicles are lost in at the very bottom of the image. The overwhelming, bright green background dominates the image rather than frames it. What th'?
Kristen Bjorn, Stallions – More images of guys with smallish to average penises. This time of two nondescript bodybuilders. Both erect One sucking on the other's tit, the other's head thrown back in faux ecstasy. The image is so posed, so unreal, so fake. Instead of capturing two men in a private moment of personal joy, the viewer is repulsed by the posedness of it all. "Okay, guys: Now we need one for the calendar. Take your clothes off again. Yeah, take the Viagra. Okay, you – suck his nipple. Okay, you, throw your head back in joy. That's it. Good. Okay, now get clothed and pick up your paycheck from Bob in the corner." The crowded, smushed nature of the poses, the closeness of the models, the odd twisting of the sucking model's body, the crazy pose of the one leg on the chair's seat – so porn. So fake. So unappealing.
Freshmen – Gay porn star Trent Austin is the model. Austin has a habit of smiling with the right corner of his mouth alone, making him look calculating. Austin is a two-tone medium brunette with light-gold skin. So why put him against a light-cold background? Why put him against medium brunette props (a saddle, leather goods, horse tackle)? And why use a prop – the saddle – a portion of which (the saddlehorn) thrusts upward and hides the model's genitals and anus?
Naked Military Men – I don't know what makes this guy "military." Certainly not his long hair. He's a cute two-tone blond twink with nice abs and a long, hard cock with a nice shape to it. The model is posed against some Persian rugs, and the color is washed-out. This model has a nice face, nice body, nice pubes, and nice cock. So why this pedestrian image? Why the hand placed over the pubes, hiding them? Why the through-the-eyebrows look on the face? Why the posing? Why the "I'm too sexy for my shirt" concept?
Naked Asian Men – The image stinks. Muddy. Dark. Poor pose (the arms do more to hide the crotch than frame it or display it). Distracting leather armband. You know, this model has a great crotch. Full, thick, great pubes. A long, soft cock with a terrific foreskin. Nice legs. Heavy, well-shaped balls. So why this image? Why not focus on the model's better qualities? I don't know.
Naked Black Men – The model, Blue, is sort of nice. But why pose him against a blue background? The pose is so porn-ish. The model's clipped pubes make him look neutered. There's nothing sensual, erotic or natural about this image at all.
Barrackz Boyz – The model is one Dan van Voorhuis. Overlighting simply highlights the model's pinched-face complexion. The hang-dog look on the model's face make me cringe; did the photographer pick him up, hungry and forlorn, at the bus-stop? The oversized faux-Navy dress-white cap doesn't work, and the model seems caught trying to leave rather than turn me on.
Naked Muscle – Whatever appeal Jake Gianelli had early in his gay porn career is long gone. Now the model is a heavy-joweled, fast-aging, bloated caricature. His body is so distorted by bodybuilding that it lacks any attractiveness. His small, blunt penis is shown from the side – only drawing attention to its shortcomings. The lack odd lighting from above does nothing to highlight the pectorals on which it falls; rather, the overblown pecs simply cast a heavy shadow over the rest of the model's body. The reflected lighting coming in from the left of the image draws attention to the model's biceps and shoulder – but why? If this were a photograph of a clothed bodybuilder, it might make sense. But this is an image of a naked gay porn star. Why put the one portion of the image that I want to see (the model's genitals) in the darkest portion of the image? Lord only know what the photographer was thinking in having a background so deep in shadow that only murky images and shapes can be seen.
Adam Film World Gay Porn Stars – Nick Lord is the model, and he should never have been photographed. This model is on so many steroids, the stock of Merck should have risen five points on his purchases along. His tiny, shaved head sits atop his balloonish torso like a bobble-head doll's. His tiny penis and even smaller testes are almost concealed by his cartoonish thighs. His massive, comic-book superhero shoulders and biceps draw attention away from his sexuality and toward... who knows? And who cares? Not I.
Sam Carson's First Exposure – This is a dark image of a dyed-blond model in white briefs leaning on his left elbow. So? Honestly, any hack with an SLR could do this. I could hire a better-looking model, too. The point of this image appears to be that the model is so handsome, so wonderful, so amazing, so stunning, that he and he alone should be worshipped by the camera. But I'm not seeing that. The model is good looking enough. But there's nothing here of that model's personality, sexuality, sensuality or eroticism coming through. And the lush background (expensive oil painting, orchid, teak paneling) is so unlike what we do see of the model's personality and background that it's disconcerting. As a viewer, I feel terribly manipulated.
You know, it's not whether an image is intended to be pornographic or artistic that makes for a good photograph. It's the quality of the image -- technical skill, composition, model, pose, attitude, intent, emotional quality, etc. -- that make it a good photograph or not. Some of Robert Mapplethorpe's and Andy Warhol's photographs are pure junk. Some of the pornography photographs put out by anonymous West Hollywood hacks are works of art rivalling anything by Michelangelo or Rodin.
It's too bad that pornographers don't realize that what they're doing is art. It's worthy of thought. It's worthy of care, design, consideration. It's not "just sex." These models are not throw-away human beings. This work can, and should, rise to a higher level.
Maybe some day.
Yeah, it's October. So sue me. I had every intention of talking about these images on Sept. 10 or 12...and then September got away from me. Tough it out.
The Better Images
Naked Youth – The model is gay porn star Brad Benton. Here is an image that is not "traditionally" technically good, but whose shortcomings work in its favor. Benton is a gay porn star. He has dark-brown hair, a chiseled, rectangular face, penetrating dark-brown eyes, a squared-off, muscular body, pubes set low against his penis, a long, dark-skinned, uncut cock that stabs upward wetly into the air, a full pubic thatch, and hefty but tight balls hanging beneath his cock. He projects a sort of swarthy, sweaty sensuality. With the half-open mouth and eyes peering up through his eyebrows, Benton seems to be the prototypical male prostitute. But the image works. It works because of the slight sheen to Benton's skin, implying physical exertion. It works because of the model's obvious "display" pose (hands clasped behind the back, hips turned slightly aside to showcase the length of the penis better, erection, etc.). And it works because of the slightly lackluster technical quality of the image. The lighting is so heavy, the model casts a distinct, pitch-black shadow on the wall. The setting is a living room, almost as if this were a fly-by-night image snapped by a john who has induced his hooker to pose before getting down to business. The image conveys a cheapness, a street-wise credibility, a rawness that would be lacking in a studio shot that would contain the same pose, lighting, facial position, etc. Damn, but it works.
Adu's Naked Asia – The model is a strongly muscled Japanese man named Yoshi. He's slightly older, with a slight mustache. The main image is dark, but it's so wonderfully posed. The model is wonderfully aroused, but his facial expression is one of fun, almost as if he's laughing at something the photographer has said. It's a relaxed image. But that only makes it all the more appealing. The model's right nipple is in the forefront of the image, and the line of the model's amazing pectorals is repeated in the lines of his abdominals and the shoulder. Yet, the left arm forms a triangular shape with the torso, pecs, shoulders and abs. The bicep and tricep are on display, without being purposefully flexed. The triangular shape is repeated with the line of the spread legs. It's just a terrific image. And although the smaller, night-time image on the same calendar is a better image in terms of lighting, color and setting, it's not nearly as well-composed. Damn that is a good image. I just wish it had been Photoshopped a bit.
A Taste of Italy – The model is gay porn star Federico Bulsara. I've talked about him before. It's just a good, solid image. Too bad about the pubic topiary, though.
Advocate Men – I'm no fan of gay porn star Colton Ford. But these images really do work. Ford is a furry-chested hunk with an oddly-shaped face. He's got too-clipped pubes (which make you think "mange," given that the rest of his body is thickly, darkly furred). Ford's face is so rectangular and geeky-nerdy that he would look goofy if not for the walrus mustache coursing down either side of his lips to the jawline. It's that goatee that makes him look like a 70s clone. It works. The main image is a typical pose – arms loosely behind the head, mouth slightly slack, abs flexed, legs spread, penis erect enough to be in the air. But it works. Ford's furry chest and belly make him look like a big, cuddly dog you want to nuzzle up against. He's not so muscular that the viewer is put off by him, and yet he's not just another furry boy, either. The oddly defoliated pubes actually force the eye up to the dark, silky hair on the belly, chest and armpits. It's terribly attractive. (The five smaller images on the bottom of the calendar are not nearly as successful. A photo of Ford's smiling face make him look goofy and jut-jawed. Another of his buttocks is too posed. One of his chest is too "look at me." One of him fucking a divan is too porn-star. And the final image, of him laying back while his erection juts into the air, is better but still too impersonal.)
Unzipped – Gay porn star Jason Hawke is one beautiful young man. He has a bland, boyish face with a broad forehead, broad cheeks and broad jaw. The featureless face forces the viewer to look into those small, deep-set eyes. It forces the viewer to pay attention to the small, thin-lipped mouth. It forces the viewer to pay attention to the little things about this model. Hawke has a slightly muscular body that similarly lacks any truly outstanding features. But again, the eye is forced to look at the tiny, tight, beautiful nipples, the gentle curve of the pecs, the light rippling of the ribs. Hawke also has a long, slender, uncut penis that is one of the most exquisitely formed and shaped cock in gay porn. Yet, the photographs here don't showcase that magnificence at all. The main image is too underlit and poorly focused, and the angle at which Hawke's penis is shot tends to hide its truth length and beauty. The second-largest image is better, but now Hawke's hand is grasping his balls and covering up his genitals. A third image is so small that we don't pay much attention to it, and the remaining three images don't show it. What a disappointment. Jason Hawke deserves a great photographer, and he got hack-work.
Naked Straight Men – Phil Dicker, one of the legends of gay porn photography, graces this calendar. Dicker is a dark redhead with almost brunette pubes. He's a balloonish bodybuilder who almost crosses the line into caricature (biceps like bowling balls, thighs so huge they distort his hips, shoulders so broad they detract from his form). His face is rather crude and heavy-featured. His body is covered in light freckles, which tend to mar his smooth, alabaster skin. But then there is that 12-inch cock between his legs. It is a wonder to behold. It is so long, it reaches up to his breastbone. It is as thick as his wrist. It is veiny, but not too veiny. It is nobby, but not too nobby. It has the most amazingly shaped torpedo head. The heft, size, length, shaped, color, and pure godlike quality of this cock is beyond description. Sadly, this photograph is not one of the better images of Phil Dicker's amazing cock. Indeed, it is not even a good image of the man's face, body or other attributes. But it's good enough.
The "Less Better" Images
Kristen Bjorn, Body Heat – What a nice model. Half-Latino, half-Asian. A truly magnificent face. Nicely muscled body, but not overdone. Biceps displayed wonderfully – one through flexing, one through posing. Abs left flat and smooth. Prick painfully erect, with a huge mushroom knob soaring into the air pendulously. It works, because of the model. His dark skin is tanned even darker and is contrasted against the white wall against which he leans. Yet, he has a strong tan line, helping to draw attention to his pubes, balls and wonderful cock. The light plays along his right ribs, bicep, hips and thigh. The head and shoulders, although slightly in shadow due to the lighting scheme, is framed by gold-colored candles light from above – which makes them gleam. It creates, well, almost a halo-effect around the model's head. The line of plants in the rear, the right arm held backwards (typical "access for the camera" pose in porn), the line of the shoulders, the tilt of the head, the line of the right arm, the line of the candles – it creates a huge arc through the image that helps overcome the lighting deficit of the head and shoulders. It works.
College Jocks – Sometimes, you do everything right – and it still doesn't work. Consider Roberto Giorgio, the muscled, hung, handsome hunk for September. The pose is right (kneeling, legs widely splayed, cock achingly hard, balls tight, torso leaning back to display the abs, pecs bunched, biceps flexed, shoulders relaxed though, face relaxed and calm). The color is right – the tanned model against a grey background. The technical quality is right (although the lighting is a little harsh and the color tone a little muddy and cold). But there's nothing here. It's a dead pose. You wonder if the model was stuffed and posed by a good taxidermist.
Naked Latinos – The model is the wonderful Tiger Tyson. Yeah, he's short. But yeah, he has a magnificent 10-inch monster down there. He's handsome. He has this compact, sweet body. Sadly, this image does my amazing Tiger little good. He framing is off. The blue sky matte painting in the background is meaningless and distracting. The black screen on the right hand of the image implies an error or cut-off. Tiger's face is distorted in a coy lip-biting thing. The model's magnificent cock is just hanging there. If you're going to photograph one of the world's most popular Latino gay porn stars, at least do him some photographic justice.
Bel Ami "New Generation" – The photo is of the impossibly telegenic Josh Elliot, a two-tone blond with a coy face, sweet pecs, big nipples made for sucking on, a slightly defined belly, full dark-brown pubes, a small and penetrable ass, long legs, dark brown eyes to swim in, and a long and slender uncut penis that arcs gracefully toward his navel. But for all this, the image is not terribly good. It's average. Elliot was placed against a bright orange pillow, muddying the image of his golden skin against the brilliantly white silk sheets he's laying on. And here is something I rarely get to talk about: A model's attitude. Elliot is coy to the point of being scheming. There is something about his too-boyish face, too-perfect eyes, too-sweet smile, too-coiffurred hair, that makes him seem manipulative in still photos. This aspect of the model's personality actually needs toning down. Instead, the photographer has Elliot coyly gesturing with his long fingers at his chin, almost to the point of chewing sexually on his fingertips. No, sorry. That busts the whole image. A porn photographer has to sell a fantasy to the viewer. The model has to convey the fantasy that he really, honestly, truly wants to sleep with the viewer; meanwhile, the viewer must really, honestly, truly believe that the model is available to him. There is a seller, and a buyer. Any photographer selling sex via photography (as porn photographers do) must not dispel this fantasy. And whoever took this image busted it bad.
Falcon "Heroes" – Alec Martinez, the gay porn star who bears a striking resemblance to actor David Boreanaz, is the model. But why keep his shirt on? This model has a square-built, brick-shithouse appeal. Why cover it up. Why not airbrush out the birthmark on his left pectoral? Why trim his pubic hair down to nothing? Why was the image out so heavily that it looks like a bad poster manufactured by a printer running out of ink? This model and his 9-inch cock deserved better. Much better.
The Junk Images
Bel Ami "Classics" – Johan Paulik is one of the most recognizable porn stars in the world. So why show him hunched over, arms hiding his chest, legs shadowing his genitals, body distorted, penis and balls cut off by the bottom of the frame? And why choose an image that is muddy and dark?
Titan Media's "Titan Men" – Gay porn star Parker Williams is the model. He's sort of a circumcized, less-muscular version of Alec Powers (and with a smaller penis). I don't understand this image at all, though. The lighting is almost from 45 degrees behind the model, so that the only thing highlighted is his right rear rib-cage. Much of the model's torso is in shadow, to it is hidden. The model's face is more brightly lit, drawing attention to the relatively unattractive features of the man. The erection and testicles are lost in at the very bottom of the image. The overwhelming, bright green background dominates the image rather than frames it. What th'?
Kristen Bjorn, Stallions – More images of guys with smallish to average penises. This time of two nondescript bodybuilders. Both erect One sucking on the other's tit, the other's head thrown back in faux ecstasy. The image is so posed, so unreal, so fake. Instead of capturing two men in a private moment of personal joy, the viewer is repulsed by the posedness of it all. "Okay, guys: Now we need one for the calendar. Take your clothes off again. Yeah, take the Viagra. Okay, you – suck his nipple. Okay, you, throw your head back in joy. That's it. Good. Okay, now get clothed and pick up your paycheck from Bob in the corner." The crowded, smushed nature of the poses, the closeness of the models, the odd twisting of the sucking model's body, the crazy pose of the one leg on the chair's seat – so porn. So fake. So unappealing.
Freshmen – Gay porn star Trent Austin is the model. Austin has a habit of smiling with the right corner of his mouth alone, making him look calculating. Austin is a two-tone medium brunette with light-gold skin. So why put him against a light-cold background? Why put him against medium brunette props (a saddle, leather goods, horse tackle)? And why use a prop – the saddle – a portion of which (the saddlehorn) thrusts upward and hides the model's genitals and anus?
Naked Military Men – I don't know what makes this guy "military." Certainly not his long hair. He's a cute two-tone blond twink with nice abs and a long, hard cock with a nice shape to it. The model is posed against some Persian rugs, and the color is washed-out. This model has a nice face, nice body, nice pubes, and nice cock. So why this pedestrian image? Why the hand placed over the pubes, hiding them? Why the through-the-eyebrows look on the face? Why the posing? Why the "I'm too sexy for my shirt" concept?
Naked Asian Men – The image stinks. Muddy. Dark. Poor pose (the arms do more to hide the crotch than frame it or display it). Distracting leather armband. You know, this model has a great crotch. Full, thick, great pubes. A long, soft cock with a terrific foreskin. Nice legs. Heavy, well-shaped balls. So why this image? Why not focus on the model's better qualities? I don't know.
Naked Black Men – The model, Blue, is sort of nice. But why pose him against a blue background? The pose is so porn-ish. The model's clipped pubes make him look neutered. There's nothing sensual, erotic or natural about this image at all.
Barrackz Boyz – The model is one Dan van Voorhuis. Overlighting simply highlights the model's pinched-face complexion. The hang-dog look on the model's face make me cringe; did the photographer pick him up, hungry and forlorn, at the bus-stop? The oversized faux-Navy dress-white cap doesn't work, and the model seems caught trying to leave rather than turn me on.
Naked Muscle – Whatever appeal Jake Gianelli had early in his gay porn career is long gone. Now the model is a heavy-joweled, fast-aging, bloated caricature. His body is so distorted by bodybuilding that it lacks any attractiveness. His small, blunt penis is shown from the side – only drawing attention to its shortcomings. The lack odd lighting from above does nothing to highlight the pectorals on which it falls; rather, the overblown pecs simply cast a heavy shadow over the rest of the model's body. The reflected lighting coming in from the left of the image draws attention to the model's biceps and shoulder – but why? If this were a photograph of a clothed bodybuilder, it might make sense. But this is an image of a naked gay porn star. Why put the one portion of the image that I want to see (the model's genitals) in the darkest portion of the image? Lord only know what the photographer was thinking in having a background so deep in shadow that only murky images and shapes can be seen.
Adam Film World Gay Porn Stars – Nick Lord is the model, and he should never have been photographed. This model is on so many steroids, the stock of Merck should have risen five points on his purchases along. His tiny, shaved head sits atop his balloonish torso like a bobble-head doll's. His tiny penis and even smaller testes are almost concealed by his cartoonish thighs. His massive, comic-book superhero shoulders and biceps draw attention away from his sexuality and toward... who knows? And who cares? Not I.
Sam Carson's First Exposure – This is a dark image of a dyed-blond model in white briefs leaning on his left elbow. So? Honestly, any hack with an SLR could do this. I could hire a better-looking model, too. The point of this image appears to be that the model is so handsome, so wonderful, so amazing, so stunning, that he and he alone should be worshipped by the camera. But I'm not seeing that. The model is good looking enough. But there's nothing here of that model's personality, sexuality, sensuality or eroticism coming through. And the lush background (expensive oil painting, orchid, teak paneling) is so unlike what we do see of the model's personality and background that it's disconcerting. As a viewer, I feel terribly manipulated.
You know, it's not whether an image is intended to be pornographic or artistic that makes for a good photograph. It's the quality of the image -- technical skill, composition, model, pose, attitude, intent, emotional quality, etc. -- that make it a good photograph or not. Some of Robert Mapplethorpe's and Andy Warhol's photographs are pure junk. Some of the pornography photographs put out by anonymous West Hollywood hacks are works of art rivalling anything by Michelangelo or Rodin.
It's too bad that pornographers don't realize that what they're doing is art. It's worthy of thought. It's worthy of care, design, consideration. It's not "just sex." These models are not throw-away human beings. This work can, and should, rise to a higher level.
Maybe some day.
Labels: calendars, photography
Saturday, October 02, 2004
I'm a little alarmed by a recent trend (or is it?) in the obituaries of important photographers.
Richard Avedon died Friday from complications relating to a stroke. He was 81.
Avedon's work may seem kitchsy today, but at the time it broke significant new ground. His 1953 image "Dovima with Elephants" shows the leading fashion model of the day in a stunning black-and-white gown -- standing in trampled hay and elephant shit at a circus, touching one animal's trunk and gesturing toward another's ear. Such post-modern treatments are routine now, but in 1954 this was astonishing. It is a testimony to the impact of Avedon's work that such images are considered bland and calculated now.
His portraits often captured models in unguarded moments, in the seconds before they "put on their face" for the camera. His Marilyn Monroe, published in 2002, shows the actress in a moment that can only be described as a combination of fear and despair. Her hair is slightly touseled, her arms forward (hands clenched nervously in front of her, below the frame of the image), her eyes are wary. There is nothing of the sex appeal that Monroe purposefully projected when she believed she was being watched. Her breasts almost seem to sag ungracefully in the sequin dress she's wearing.
His triptych (three images, side by side) of the Russian composer Igor Stravinsky, taken in 1969, shows the 87-year-old in the second-to-last year of his life. "The Firebird" had debuted in 1910 when he was 28, "Petrushka" a year later, "Rite of Spring" in 1913. His opera, "Oedipus Rex," debuted in 1927, and "The Rake's Progress" came in 1951. His final great ballet, "Agon," premiered in 1957. He continued to compose, conduct and record well into his 80s. He moved to New York City in 1969 to "mutate himself" once more. Yet, to the public, here was a man whose best days were four decades behind him. Avedon captures something else: The fact that his man was 89 years old. Whatever he was on the inside, he was old on the outside. The body was beginning to fail him. Avedon captured Stravinsky in the act of looking, as his eyes move from looking down at the floor to directly into the camera. The mouth and mustache are still crooked, the face drooping and lined, the skin marked with liver-spots. But the eyes reveal something still clear and alive.
What's troubling me is the way Avedon's obituary in the Times was written. Avedon's work is characterized as groundbreak, earth-shattering, etc.
Well, geez: This makes photography out to be a bunch of stuck-in-a-rut nonthinkers, doesn't it? It's as if photography were the most somnabulent of arts, 99.9% of image-makers unable to do more than ape the latest coffee-table book they find at Barnes & Noble.
But think about it a bit more: In the past couple of months, Henri Cartier-Bresson and Helmut Newton have also died. And in each obituary, these men are lauded as "ground-breakers," their work "earth-shattering," etc.
Uh, wait a minute.
Not every major photographer can be ground-breaking and earth-shattering. Not every major photographer could have completely reshaped our ideas of fashion, culture, photography, glamour, etc.
What's going on here?
Part of me suspects that this is just more lazy photographic criticism. Obituary-writers and photography critics really don't know what to say about a photographer's work, so they just make up stuff: "Ground-breaking"... "dominated American's ideas about fashion"..."reshaped our understanding." I think that, somewhere, there must be an AP Style Manual on obituary-writing that contains the 500 stock phrases that one can randomly pick and choose from in order to cobble together an obituary about someone whose work you don't understand and can't describe.
What peeves me is that we can't have it both ways. Photography could be alive and well, and everyone really is charting new ground -- which might be the truth, given that the art form is only 160 years old and that new ways of seeing are always being considered. Or, photography is the zombie of the arts, destined to be dominated by any half-blind hack who can point and shoot.
There doesn't seem to be much middle ground in these obituaries.
I wonder where the truth really lies.
Richard Avedon died Friday from complications relating to a stroke. He was 81.
Avedon's work may seem kitchsy today, but at the time it broke significant new ground. His 1953 image "Dovima with Elephants" shows the leading fashion model of the day in a stunning black-and-white gown -- standing in trampled hay and elephant shit at a circus, touching one animal's trunk and gesturing toward another's ear. Such post-modern treatments are routine now, but in 1954 this was astonishing. It is a testimony to the impact of Avedon's work that such images are considered bland and calculated now.
His portraits often captured models in unguarded moments, in the seconds before they "put on their face" for the camera. His Marilyn Monroe, published in 2002, shows the actress in a moment that can only be described as a combination of fear and despair. Her hair is slightly touseled, her arms forward (hands clenched nervously in front of her, below the frame of the image), her eyes are wary. There is nothing of the sex appeal that Monroe purposefully projected when she believed she was being watched. Her breasts almost seem to sag ungracefully in the sequin dress she's wearing.
His triptych (three images, side by side) of the Russian composer Igor Stravinsky, taken in 1969, shows the 87-year-old in the second-to-last year of his life. "The Firebird" had debuted in 1910 when he was 28, "Petrushka" a year later, "Rite of Spring" in 1913. His opera, "Oedipus Rex," debuted in 1927, and "The Rake's Progress" came in 1951. His final great ballet, "Agon," premiered in 1957. He continued to compose, conduct and record well into his 80s. He moved to New York City in 1969 to "mutate himself" once more. Yet, to the public, here was a man whose best days were four decades behind him. Avedon captures something else: The fact that his man was 89 years old. Whatever he was on the inside, he was old on the outside. The body was beginning to fail him. Avedon captured Stravinsky in the act of looking, as his eyes move from looking down at the floor to directly into the camera. The mouth and mustache are still crooked, the face drooping and lined, the skin marked with liver-spots. But the eyes reveal something still clear and alive.
What's troubling me is the way Avedon's obituary in the Times was written. Avedon's work is characterized as groundbreak, earth-shattering, etc.
Well, geez: This makes photography out to be a bunch of stuck-in-a-rut nonthinkers, doesn't it? It's as if photography were the most somnabulent of arts, 99.9% of image-makers unable to do more than ape the latest coffee-table book they find at Barnes & Noble.
But think about it a bit more: In the past couple of months, Henri Cartier-Bresson and Helmut Newton have also died. And in each obituary, these men are lauded as "ground-breakers," their work "earth-shattering," etc.
Uh, wait a minute.
Not every major photographer can be ground-breaking and earth-shattering. Not every major photographer could have completely reshaped our ideas of fashion, culture, photography, glamour, etc.
What's going on here?
Part of me suspects that this is just more lazy photographic criticism. Obituary-writers and photography critics really don't know what to say about a photographer's work, so they just make up stuff: "Ground-breaking"... "dominated American's ideas about fashion"..."reshaped our understanding." I think that, somewhere, there must be an AP Style Manual on obituary-writing that contains the 500 stock phrases that one can randomly pick and choose from in order to cobble together an obituary about someone whose work you don't understand and can't describe.
What peeves me is that we can't have it both ways. Photography could be alive and well, and everyone really is charting new ground -- which might be the truth, given that the art form is only 160 years old and that new ways of seeing are always being considered. Or, photography is the zombie of the arts, destined to be dominated by any half-blind hack who can point and shoot.
There doesn't seem to be much middle ground in these obituaries.
I wonder where the truth really lies.
I was in the shower today when a memory popped into my head, vivid as the day it happened. When I was a senior in college, I used to go swimming in the evening with some friends. We'd just goof off in the pool, do laps, whatever. After a month or so, this red-headed muscleboy started swimming, too. I finally got a look at his dick apres-swim: Huge. Uncut. Hung down over his full, fat balls by several inches. Usually, his balls were tight from the cold water. So his penis extended far below them, the foreskin pulled back off the large, mushroom knob. His foreskin was bright-red underneath. His pubes, naturally, were that fluorescent orange that redheads have. His skin was immaculate -- smooth, clear, taut. He was short, probably 5'9" or 5'8". (Oh, everyone is short to me!)
Eventually, I began to predict when he'd get out of the water. I'd head out first, so I wouldn't appear to be cruising him. I got a lot of lengthy ogles that way. I was head-over-heels with him, but never let on to anyone.
I never knew his name, where he lived, anything.
I don't know why this memory popped into my head. It just did. I haven't thought about him in... gosh, I guess 15 years.
But now I can't stop thinking about him.
Eventually, I began to predict when he'd get out of the water. I'd head out first, so I wouldn't appear to be cruising him. I got a lot of lengthy ogles that way. I was head-over-heels with him, but never let on to anyone.
I never knew his name, where he lived, anything.
I don't know why this memory popped into my head. It just did. I haven't thought about him in... gosh, I guess 15 years.
But now I can't stop thinking about him.
Friday, October 01, 2004
Warner Bros. pushed back the opening date of Oliver Stone's forthcoming "Alexander" (starring Colin Farrell) from Nov. 5 to Nov. 24 because it wanted Stone to cut some of the love scenes between Alexander and his male lover, Bagoas -- played by ultra-hot newcomer Francisco Bosch. (Does this guy reek homosexual or what?)
MSNBC.com has reported that executives at Warner Bros. think the movie-going public isn't ready to see a major movie star kissing another man and screwing him.
Warner Bros. declined to discuss the MSNBC.com report, saying "We wouldn't talk about anything involving the process of making a movie." Unless it benefits us.
Warners did go out of its way to say that Alexander is depicted as a bisexual in the film -- which, they hurriedly mentioned, also includes heterosexual love scenes.
- - -
The historical Alexander was a Macedonian prince whose tutor was the legendary scientist-philosopher Aristotle. Alexander assumed the throne of Macedon at the age of 20 after the assassination of his father, Philip II, in 336 B.C.E. At the age of 21, in 335 B.C.E., Alexander led an army of southern European and Greek city-states against the Thracians in Germany and won. The same year, he turned around and conquered hi Greek allies. By 332 B.C.E., Alexander had conquered Egypt, Syria and Jordan. In 330 B.C.E., Alexander conquered Iran and Iraq, destroying the Persian Empire. By 329 B.C.E., Alexander had taken control of most of Afghanistan, Pakistan and part of Kazakhstan. And by 325 B.C.E., Alexander had pushed into India.
Alexander died at the age of 33 on June 10, 323 B.C.E., probably from typhoid fever. His body was embalmed for transport back to Macedonia. But the funeral train was hijacked on the way, and Alexander's body taken to Alexandria, Egypt. There his corpse was put under a glass case and put on display for 500 years. Around 250 C.E., the tomb vanished. It is possible that an early Christian church was built over the sarcophagus. According to legend, the Mosque of the Nebi Daniel was built over this church. Newspaper accounts in the late 19th century say that a workman repairing the foundation gazed on the remains of Alexander's crypt.
But to the point: Was Alexander gay or bisexual?
Undoubtedly.
The great love of Alexander's life was his boyfriend friend, Hephaistion. The same age as Alexander, the two began an intense sexual and emotional relationship probably as children. It continued until Hephaistion's death. When Alexander invaded Persia, his fleet made landfall at the ruins of ancient Troy. There, Alexander did a lot of symbolic stuff -- including making a sacrifice at the tomb of Achilles. Hephaistion made his sacrifice at the tomb of Patroclus, Achilles' best friend and lover. Alexander liked those kind of dramatic gestures, and Hephaistion liked making them.
Hephaistion was tall (taller than Alexander), extremely handsome and athletic. After the battle of Issus, the first of the great battles with the Persians, Alexander captured the wife and daughters of the Persian general-king, Darius III. When Alexander and Hephaistion entered the tent in which the women were held captive, Darius' wife bowed to Hephaistion -- assuming that this beautiful, muscular stud had to be the god-like Alexander. (Ooops! By all accounts, Alexander though that was funny.) Their relationship contained a deep element of lust, for rumor had it that Alexander was only defeated once -- and that was by Hephaistion's thighs.
Jealous of their relationship, Alexander's mother, Olympias, continually tried to break them up. Alexander put up with her meddling, for he had a terrible Oedipal complex and she could do no wrong by him. But Hephaistion found Olympias' bitchiness intolerable. In a letter to her, Hephaistion bluntly asked, "Why don't you stop quarrelling with me? Not that I care in any case. You know Alexander means more to me than anyone."
Hephaistion considered himself an intellectual and a great military strategist, although it was not clear that he really was either. However, he was an able fighter, a good administrator and a logistical whiz. The problem was that none of the things Hephaistion was good at (logistics, administration) were highly regarded by rulers or general or other manly-men at the time. Alexander didn't help the situation much by appointing co-generals to run the troops every time he gave Hephaistion a command. Once, Hephaistion and another general even came to blows over Hephaistion's masculinity.
In 324 B.C.E., Alexander appointed Hephaistion administrative ruler of Persia. He married Hephaistion off to one of Darius III's younger daughters, Drypetis, in a mass wedding which linked the Macedonian nobility to the Persian dynasty (and during which Alexander himself married Darius' eldest daughter).
It is not clear that their relationship was wearing well during Alexander's campaign into India. At one point, Alexander publicly sneered at him, "You would have gotten nowhere without me!" The trip back to Persia must have been difficult for both men.
But it was while they were in Persia, in October of 324 B.C.E., that Hephaistion contracted typhoid and died. Alexander was undone with grief. He lay weeping on Hephaistion's body all day and all night; finally, his friends dragged him away. For three more days, Alexander wept silently and fasted. On the fourth day, he got up, cut off all his hair, and ordered all the adornaments on the city walls removed. He made it illegal for anyone to play music in the city, and ordered every city and town in the his empire to perform mourning rituals. He even sent envoys to the oracle of Ammon in Egypt to ask that divine honors to be granted to his dead lover. Hephaiston was embalmed and taken to Babylon, where he was cremated.
Alexander himself died only a few months later. Sure, it was typhoid again. But a broken heart didn't help.
The other great love of Alexander's life was a Persian eunuch, Bagoas (a Persian name often given to eunuchs, and which means "given by God").
Alexander and Bagoas met in 331 B.C.E. while Alexander was conquering Persia. Alexander had defeated the Persian general-king, Darius III, three times in battle. After the third battle, Darius fled east to reform his army one more time. But one of his nobles murdered him in hope of stopping Alexander from continuing his invasion.
One of Darius' generals, Nabarzenes, was among the last to abandon Darius during the flight east. When Nabarzenes left Darius, he took with him masses of treasure, goods, slaves and servants -- including Bagoas.
Bagoas was a dancer and a musician -- and a favorite sexual plaything of Darius. By all accounts, no other Persian young boy matched Bagoas in beauty, grace, litheness of body and spirit, artistic ability or sweetness of speech.
Nabarzenes' reason for absconding with Bagoas was apparent: He was defecting to the Macedonians and wanted to bring rich and amazing gifts with him to buy some safety and friends. Among the treasures he offered to Alexander was Bagoas.
Like most conquering rulers in ancient times, Alexander had been offered beautiful slave boys before -- usually as an inducement to leave certain places or people alone. But Alexander had always refused these sex-toys as an affront and a bribe. Enemies simply couldn't buy Alexander's favor through sex. This time, however, he relented. Why? By all accounts, Bagoas was not only beautiful but also intelligent, loyal, compassionate, loving and curious. He wasn't your average vapid beauty, and he lacked the cruel, scheming nature of most slave-prostitutes. Immediately, a friendship grew between the two that lasted until Alexander's death.
The Greek historian Plutarch accompanied Alexander on the Persian campaign and was an eye-witness to the growing love between Alexander and Bagoas. Plutach says that a couple of years after first meeting Alexander, Bagoas won a dancing contest held before the Macedonian king. Alexander beckoned to him and sat Bagoas by his side. "At which the Macedonian troops shouted out, telling him to kiss him, till finally he took him in his arms and kissed him warmly."
What happened to Bagoas after Alexander's death is not known. As a slave, he probably would have wound up with one of Alexander's wives. But nothing is known of him after Alexander's death.
That Alexander the Great preferred men to women is no secret, although it is often dismissed or denied by many writers who have hidden agendas or heterosexual blinkers. Still, Alexander's sex with men was, for the most part, physical in nature and lacking in emotional content. We know that Alexander often took the night-watch into his tent, spending the night obtaining sexual release. (Orgy, anyone?) Like most rulers, Alexander had a number of eunuchs and male slaves with whom he was expected to enjoy sexual pleasure (and did). But Alexander's desire for men and boys seems limited to the sex they could provide, not love.
Alexander also had two heterosexual love affairs during his life. But they were strongly colored by experiences in Alexander's childhood, which left him largely averse to heterosexual relationships and heterosexual sex.
Alexander's father, Philip II, was highly promiscuous. Philip had numerous lovers of both sexes. Philip was also polygamous, and had a large number of wives and concubines -- as well as a large number of children. Alexander appears to have been deeply affected by this. He said he felt unloved and unwanted by his father, who had little time for him. Alexander also seems to have felt lost in the crush of family, and was alarmed, confused and worried by the constant maneuvering for position that so many heirs created.
At a young age, Alexander seems to have resolved to act more "responsibly" than his father. Subsequently, as he matured, Alexander showed little interest in heterosexual sex. Indeed, Plutarch says that Alexander felt that "sleep and sex [...] more than anything else reminded him that he was mortal".
It is entirely possible that Alexander sought both sexual and emotional relief with his tutor, Aristotle -- who was a firm believer in pederasty (adult sexual relationships with children and teens that involves anal sex). Alexander may well have seen in Aristotle the loving and attentive father he craved. Alexander's relationship with Hephaistion was also blossoming at the time, so that Alexander may well have decided to forego women altogether as a teenager. Indeed, Philip and Olympias were so worried by Alexander's indifference toward women that they hired a famous prostitute to deflower their 18-year-old son -- but with little success. Later in life, Alexander met Darius' wife Stateira -- said to the the most beautiful woman of her time. But Alexander wrote, "Not only have I never seen or wished to see Darius' wife, but I will not even allow her beauty to be mentioned in my presence". When beautiful Persian women were brought before him as slaves, he joked about their beauty by declaring them "a torment for our eyes"; later, according to Plutarch, his sexual disinterest in them was so strong that he "passed them by as if they had been so many lifeless images cut out of stone".
Yet Alexander was not prudish. Upon hearing that his sister, Cleopatra, was having an affair, he shrugged and said there was no reason why she shouldn't enjoy herself.
Alexander's attitude to women was highly unusual. His sexual dismissiveness of them, however, went hand in hand with his worshipful attitude toward his mother, Olympias. Subsequently, Alexander tended to put women on a pedestal. This attitude was not entirely bad. He treated women with great respect, and regarded rape as a particularly terrible crime punishable by death. When a woman from Thebes murdered the soldier who raped her, Alexander immediately commuted her sentence.
The first of Alexander's heterosexual loves occurred with Roxane, a princess of northern Persia. Captured and put into slavery, she was forced to dance before Alexander and his general at a banquet. Alexander was stunned by her beauty. With the exception of Darius' wife, she was considered the most beautiful woman in the land. Despite the fact that Alexander could have ordered Roxane to sleep with him (due to her status as a captive slave), he refused -- and decided to marry her. Hephaistion was his best-man. The marriage was fulfilling both emotionally and sexually. Roxane posthumously bore him a son, Alexander IV. (Roxane was murdered in 309 B.C.E. along with the child.)
Alexander also married two Persian princesses: Barsine, Darius' eldest daughter, and Parysatis, the younger daughter of Darius' predecessor, Artaxerxes III. But the marriage to Parysatis was merely one of convenience, allowing Alexander to make political and familial alliances with the Persians. This was not out of character for Alexander: In 322 B.C.E., he, Hephaistion and 92 of his generals married in a mass Persian-style wedding before an invited audience of 9,000 guests. In a single ceremony, Alexander's generals became members of one another's families as well as related to the Persian and Greek nobility. Indeed, one reason that Alexander forced Hephaistion to marry to Drypetis was because Alexander wanted Hephaistion's children to be his nephews and nieces -- a fact which might cause Hephaistion to think twice before committing treason against Alexander.
While Alexander's relationship with Roxane seemed driven by lust, his relationship with Barsine seemed driven by love. According to Plutarch, Alexander never had sexual intercourse with any woman before his marriage to Roxane -- with the exception of Barsine. Alexander had first met Barsine when her father, the Persian prince-by-marriage Artabazus, was in exile at Philip II's court in Macedon. Alexander was only a child and Barsine was about ten years his senior. But during her stay in Macedon, Barsine received a Greek education (education being a quality Alexander highly regarded). Barsine also had a gentle disposition, and could claim royal descent. These qualities overcame Alexander's disinclination to form attachments to women. They had sex, and probably fell in love. But Barsine was of age and Alexander was not, so she was packed off to marry another man.
It would be almost 20 years before Alexander and Barsine would meet again. It was November, 333 B.C.E. Alexander had crossed from Greece to Turkey. As he moved into Turkey, Darius and his army moved behind him -- cutting off Alexander's supplies, and the way home. Alexander had one option: Turn and fight. But Darius had made a serious error. His massive army of 100,000 men was caught in the pass of Issus, where it could not maneuver effectively against the Macedonians. Alexander surrounded Darius' army and began hacking it to bits. Darius fled, and his forces surrendered.
Barsine's Greek husband, Memnon, was killed at Issus. Memnon was a mercenary serving with Darius. Like most warrior noblemen, Memnon brought his wife with him to the battlefield. Barsine was captured along with hundreds of other wives, concubines, servants and slaves and brought before Alexander in chains. They fell in love again, and Barsine became Alexander's mistress. She bore him a named Herakles. Later, Alexander would have coins minted that showed his likeness on one side, and the likeness of Hercules on the other. Alexander often compared himself to Hercules, but the money was also a loving tribute to his first-born bastard son. (Barsine and Herakles would be murdered in 309 B.C.E.)
With one exception, Alexander's remaining heterosexual relationships with women were with Persians -- and almost always for political reasons. Campaspe was Alexander's lone non-Persian heterosexual love-interest. But the warrior-king's interest in her was so limited that he actually gave her to the painter Apelles after the artist fell in love.
What happened to Alexander's empire? What happened to Herakles and Alexander IV?
Alexander IV was declared king after his father's death. Since he was only an infant, Alexander's brother -- Philip III of Macedon -- was named co-ruler. But Philip was slow-witted to the point of retardation. So Alexander's generals nominated "regents" to rule the empire. But the generals themselves actually ran the various provinces in Alexander's far-flung empire (giving themselves the title "satrap").
Between 323 B.C.E. and 309 B.C.E., four regents acted in Alexander's name:
The death of Cassander in 309 B.C.E. led three of Alexander's surviving generals -- Ptolemy, Seleucus and Antigonus to carve up the empire.
First, the creation of the empire spread Greek culture, language and learning all over the Middle East. Travel routes, roads, schools of learning and centers for the arts all accompanied Alexander's empire-building. These helped unify the region and created the foundation of the common cultures that would underlie the Roman Empire and eventually most of European civilization.
Second, the break-up of the Alexandrian Empire permitted the rise of Rome. Rome had been founded as a colony of the Greek city-states, but it was still relatively weak and small in 250 B.C.E. With no major power to threaten it, however, Rome became stronger.
Rome would reincorporate the Alexandrian empire about 250 years later. A Roman army under Caecilius Metellus conquered Greece in 146 B.C.E, and conquered Macedon in 148 B.C.E. In 133 B.C.E., Attalus III, king of Syria and Jordan, willed his empire to Rome. In 66 B.C.E., a Roman army under Pompey conquered most of the Parthian Empire in what is now Turkey.
A series of Roman civil wars led the Roman general Sulla to try to abolish the Republic and establish a dictatorship in 81 B.C.E. Sulla was defeated and killed three years later. The Roman Senate asked three generals to rule until things calmed down. The three generals -- Julius Caesar, Pompey and Crassus -- took turns governing Rome. But eventually Julius Caesar decided to rule alone. in 49 B.C.E., he defeated Pompey and married the daughter of Crassus on his way to becoming dictator. Caesar was murdered in 44 B.C.E. Three generals ruled Rome after his death: Marc Antony, Lepidus and Julius Octavius. In 36 B.C.E., Lepidus resigned and Sextus Pompeiius became part of triumvirate. Sextus Pompeiius died the following year, and Marc Antony attempted to seize power by making war on Octavius. But Octavius defeated Antony in battle, and Antony fled into the loving arms of the Ptolemaic queen of Egypt, Cleopatra. In 31 B.C.E., Octavius defeated Antony in a naval battle. Antony and Cleopatra committed suicide afterward.
With the Roman empire reunified, Octavius took a new name, Caesar Augustus, in 27 B.C.E.
In 3 B.C.E., Jesus was born.
And, like Paul Harvey says, you know the rest of the story.
But it all started with a queer 21-year-old named Alexander.
MSNBC.com has reported that executives at Warner Bros. think the movie-going public isn't ready to see a major movie star kissing another man and screwing him.
Warner Bros. declined to discuss the MSNBC.com report, saying "We wouldn't talk about anything involving the process of making a movie." Unless it benefits us.
Warners did go out of its way to say that Alexander is depicted as a bisexual in the film -- which, they hurriedly mentioned, also includes heterosexual love scenes.
- - -
The historical Alexander was a Macedonian prince whose tutor was the legendary scientist-philosopher Aristotle. Alexander assumed the throne of Macedon at the age of 20 after the assassination of his father, Philip II, in 336 B.C.E. At the age of 21, in 335 B.C.E., Alexander led an army of southern European and Greek city-states against the Thracians in Germany and won. The same year, he turned around and conquered hi Greek allies. By 332 B.C.E., Alexander had conquered Egypt, Syria and Jordan. In 330 B.C.E., Alexander conquered Iran and Iraq, destroying the Persian Empire. By 329 B.C.E., Alexander had taken control of most of Afghanistan, Pakistan and part of Kazakhstan. And by 325 B.C.E., Alexander had pushed into India.
Alexander died at the age of 33 on June 10, 323 B.C.E., probably from typhoid fever. His body was embalmed for transport back to Macedonia. But the funeral train was hijacked on the way, and Alexander's body taken to Alexandria, Egypt. There his corpse was put under a glass case and put on display for 500 years. Around 250 C.E., the tomb vanished. It is possible that an early Christian church was built over the sarcophagus. According to legend, the Mosque of the Nebi Daniel was built over this church. Newspaper accounts in the late 19th century say that a workman repairing the foundation gazed on the remains of Alexander's crypt.
But to the point: Was Alexander gay or bisexual?
Undoubtedly.
The great love of Alexander's life was his boyfriend friend, Hephaistion. The same age as Alexander, the two began an intense sexual and emotional relationship probably as children. It continued until Hephaistion's death. When Alexander invaded Persia, his fleet made landfall at the ruins of ancient Troy. There, Alexander did a lot of symbolic stuff -- including making a sacrifice at the tomb of Achilles. Hephaistion made his sacrifice at the tomb of Patroclus, Achilles' best friend and lover. Alexander liked those kind of dramatic gestures, and Hephaistion liked making them.
Hephaistion was tall (taller than Alexander), extremely handsome and athletic. After the battle of Issus, the first of the great battles with the Persians, Alexander captured the wife and daughters of the Persian general-king, Darius III. When Alexander and Hephaistion entered the tent in which the women were held captive, Darius' wife bowed to Hephaistion -- assuming that this beautiful, muscular stud had to be the god-like Alexander. (Ooops! By all accounts, Alexander though that was funny.) Their relationship contained a deep element of lust, for rumor had it that Alexander was only defeated once -- and that was by Hephaistion's thighs.
Jealous of their relationship, Alexander's mother, Olympias, continually tried to break them up. Alexander put up with her meddling, for he had a terrible Oedipal complex and she could do no wrong by him. But Hephaistion found Olympias' bitchiness intolerable. In a letter to her, Hephaistion bluntly asked, "Why don't you stop quarrelling with me? Not that I care in any case. You know Alexander means more to me than anyone."
Hephaistion considered himself an intellectual and a great military strategist, although it was not clear that he really was either. However, he was an able fighter, a good administrator and a logistical whiz. The problem was that none of the things Hephaistion was good at (logistics, administration) were highly regarded by rulers or general or other manly-men at the time. Alexander didn't help the situation much by appointing co-generals to run the troops every time he gave Hephaistion a command. Once, Hephaistion and another general even came to blows over Hephaistion's masculinity.
In 324 B.C.E., Alexander appointed Hephaistion administrative ruler of Persia. He married Hephaistion off to one of Darius III's younger daughters, Drypetis, in a mass wedding which linked the Macedonian nobility to the Persian dynasty (and during which Alexander himself married Darius' eldest daughter).
It is not clear that their relationship was wearing well during Alexander's campaign into India. At one point, Alexander publicly sneered at him, "You would have gotten nowhere without me!" The trip back to Persia must have been difficult for both men.
But it was while they were in Persia, in October of 324 B.C.E., that Hephaistion contracted typhoid and died. Alexander was undone with grief. He lay weeping on Hephaistion's body all day and all night; finally, his friends dragged him away. For three more days, Alexander wept silently and fasted. On the fourth day, he got up, cut off all his hair, and ordered all the adornaments on the city walls removed. He made it illegal for anyone to play music in the city, and ordered every city and town in the his empire to perform mourning rituals. He even sent envoys to the oracle of Ammon in Egypt to ask that divine honors to be granted to his dead lover. Hephaiston was embalmed and taken to Babylon, where he was cremated.
Alexander himself died only a few months later. Sure, it was typhoid again. But a broken heart didn't help.
The other great love of Alexander's life was a Persian eunuch, Bagoas (a Persian name often given to eunuchs, and which means "given by God").
Alexander and Bagoas met in 331 B.C.E. while Alexander was conquering Persia. Alexander had defeated the Persian general-king, Darius III, three times in battle. After the third battle, Darius fled east to reform his army one more time. But one of his nobles murdered him in hope of stopping Alexander from continuing his invasion.
One of Darius' generals, Nabarzenes, was among the last to abandon Darius during the flight east. When Nabarzenes left Darius, he took with him masses of treasure, goods, slaves and servants -- including Bagoas.
Bagoas was a dancer and a musician -- and a favorite sexual plaything of Darius. By all accounts, no other Persian young boy matched Bagoas in beauty, grace, litheness of body and spirit, artistic ability or sweetness of speech.
Nabarzenes' reason for absconding with Bagoas was apparent: He was defecting to the Macedonians and wanted to bring rich and amazing gifts with him to buy some safety and friends. Among the treasures he offered to Alexander was Bagoas.
Like most conquering rulers in ancient times, Alexander had been offered beautiful slave boys before -- usually as an inducement to leave certain places or people alone. But Alexander had always refused these sex-toys as an affront and a bribe. Enemies simply couldn't buy Alexander's favor through sex. This time, however, he relented. Why? By all accounts, Bagoas was not only beautiful but also intelligent, loyal, compassionate, loving and curious. He wasn't your average vapid beauty, and he lacked the cruel, scheming nature of most slave-prostitutes. Immediately, a friendship grew between the two that lasted until Alexander's death.
The Greek historian Plutarch accompanied Alexander on the Persian campaign and was an eye-witness to the growing love between Alexander and Bagoas. Plutach says that a couple of years after first meeting Alexander, Bagoas won a dancing contest held before the Macedonian king. Alexander beckoned to him and sat Bagoas by his side. "At which the Macedonian troops shouted out, telling him to kiss him, till finally he took him in his arms and kissed him warmly."
What happened to Bagoas after Alexander's death is not known. As a slave, he probably would have wound up with one of Alexander's wives. But nothing is known of him after Alexander's death.
That Alexander the Great preferred men to women is no secret, although it is often dismissed or denied by many writers who have hidden agendas or heterosexual blinkers. Still, Alexander's sex with men was, for the most part, physical in nature and lacking in emotional content. We know that Alexander often took the night-watch into his tent, spending the night obtaining sexual release. (Orgy, anyone?) Like most rulers, Alexander had a number of eunuchs and male slaves with whom he was expected to enjoy sexual pleasure (and did). But Alexander's desire for men and boys seems limited to the sex they could provide, not love.
Alexander also had two heterosexual love affairs during his life. But they were strongly colored by experiences in Alexander's childhood, which left him largely averse to heterosexual relationships and heterosexual sex.
Alexander's father, Philip II, was highly promiscuous. Philip had numerous lovers of both sexes. Philip was also polygamous, and had a large number of wives and concubines -- as well as a large number of children. Alexander appears to have been deeply affected by this. He said he felt unloved and unwanted by his father, who had little time for him. Alexander also seems to have felt lost in the crush of family, and was alarmed, confused and worried by the constant maneuvering for position that so many heirs created.
At a young age, Alexander seems to have resolved to act more "responsibly" than his father. Subsequently, as he matured, Alexander showed little interest in heterosexual sex. Indeed, Plutarch says that Alexander felt that "sleep and sex [...] more than anything else reminded him that he was mortal".
It is entirely possible that Alexander sought both sexual and emotional relief with his tutor, Aristotle -- who was a firm believer in pederasty (adult sexual relationships with children and teens that involves anal sex). Alexander may well have seen in Aristotle the loving and attentive father he craved. Alexander's relationship with Hephaistion was also blossoming at the time, so that Alexander may well have decided to forego women altogether as a teenager. Indeed, Philip and Olympias were so worried by Alexander's indifference toward women that they hired a famous prostitute to deflower their 18-year-old son -- but with little success. Later in life, Alexander met Darius' wife Stateira -- said to the the most beautiful woman of her time. But Alexander wrote, "Not only have I never seen or wished to see Darius' wife, but I will not even allow her beauty to be mentioned in my presence". When beautiful Persian women were brought before him as slaves, he joked about their beauty by declaring them "a torment for our eyes"; later, according to Plutarch, his sexual disinterest in them was so strong that he "passed them by as if they had been so many lifeless images cut out of stone".
Yet Alexander was not prudish. Upon hearing that his sister, Cleopatra, was having an affair, he shrugged and said there was no reason why she shouldn't enjoy herself.
Alexander's attitude to women was highly unusual. His sexual dismissiveness of them, however, went hand in hand with his worshipful attitude toward his mother, Olympias. Subsequently, Alexander tended to put women on a pedestal. This attitude was not entirely bad. He treated women with great respect, and regarded rape as a particularly terrible crime punishable by death. When a woman from Thebes murdered the soldier who raped her, Alexander immediately commuted her sentence.
The first of Alexander's heterosexual loves occurred with Roxane, a princess of northern Persia. Captured and put into slavery, she was forced to dance before Alexander and his general at a banquet. Alexander was stunned by her beauty. With the exception of Darius' wife, she was considered the most beautiful woman in the land. Despite the fact that Alexander could have ordered Roxane to sleep with him (due to her status as a captive slave), he refused -- and decided to marry her. Hephaistion was his best-man. The marriage was fulfilling both emotionally and sexually. Roxane posthumously bore him a son, Alexander IV. (Roxane was murdered in 309 B.C.E. along with the child.)
Alexander also married two Persian princesses: Barsine, Darius' eldest daughter, and Parysatis, the younger daughter of Darius' predecessor, Artaxerxes III. But the marriage to Parysatis was merely one of convenience, allowing Alexander to make political and familial alliances with the Persians. This was not out of character for Alexander: In 322 B.C.E., he, Hephaistion and 92 of his generals married in a mass Persian-style wedding before an invited audience of 9,000 guests. In a single ceremony, Alexander's generals became members of one another's families as well as related to the Persian and Greek nobility. Indeed, one reason that Alexander forced Hephaistion to marry to Drypetis was because Alexander wanted Hephaistion's children to be his nephews and nieces -- a fact which might cause Hephaistion to think twice before committing treason against Alexander.
While Alexander's relationship with Roxane seemed driven by lust, his relationship with Barsine seemed driven by love. According to Plutarch, Alexander never had sexual intercourse with any woman before his marriage to Roxane -- with the exception of Barsine. Alexander had first met Barsine when her father, the Persian prince-by-marriage Artabazus, was in exile at Philip II's court in Macedon. Alexander was only a child and Barsine was about ten years his senior. But during her stay in Macedon, Barsine received a Greek education (education being a quality Alexander highly regarded). Barsine also had a gentle disposition, and could claim royal descent. These qualities overcame Alexander's disinclination to form attachments to women. They had sex, and probably fell in love. But Barsine was of age and Alexander was not, so she was packed off to marry another man.
It would be almost 20 years before Alexander and Barsine would meet again. It was November, 333 B.C.E. Alexander had crossed from Greece to Turkey. As he moved into Turkey, Darius and his army moved behind him -- cutting off Alexander's supplies, and the way home. Alexander had one option: Turn and fight. But Darius had made a serious error. His massive army of 100,000 men was caught in the pass of Issus, where it could not maneuver effectively against the Macedonians. Alexander surrounded Darius' army and began hacking it to bits. Darius fled, and his forces surrendered.
Barsine's Greek husband, Memnon, was killed at Issus. Memnon was a mercenary serving with Darius. Like most warrior noblemen, Memnon brought his wife with him to the battlefield. Barsine was captured along with hundreds of other wives, concubines, servants and slaves and brought before Alexander in chains. They fell in love again, and Barsine became Alexander's mistress. She bore him a named Herakles. Later, Alexander would have coins minted that showed his likeness on one side, and the likeness of Hercules on the other. Alexander often compared himself to Hercules, but the money was also a loving tribute to his first-born bastard son. (Barsine and Herakles would be murdered in 309 B.C.E.)
With one exception, Alexander's remaining heterosexual relationships with women were with Persians -- and almost always for political reasons. Campaspe was Alexander's lone non-Persian heterosexual love-interest. But the warrior-king's interest in her was so limited that he actually gave her to the painter Apelles after the artist fell in love.
What happened to Alexander's empire? What happened to Herakles and Alexander IV?
Alexander IV was declared king after his father's death. Since he was only an infant, Alexander's brother -- Philip III of Macedon -- was named co-ruler. But Philip was slow-witted to the point of retardation. So Alexander's generals nominated "regents" to rule the empire. But the generals themselves actually ran the various provinces in Alexander's far-flung empire (giving themselves the title "satrap").
Between 323 B.C.E. and 309 B.C.E., four regents acted in Alexander's name:
- Perdiccas (323 B.C.E. and June 321 B.C.E.) -- murdered by someone unknown.
- Antipater (June 321 B.C.E. and and summer 39 B.C.E.) -- died from an illness.
- Polyperchon (summer 319 B.C.E. and 316 B.C.E.) -- defeated in battle, captured and kill. Polyperchon was not Antipater's son, but Antipater named him his heir all the same. Olympias, Alexander IV's grandmother, exerted considerable influence over Polyperchon. She forced him to execute Philip III in 317 B.C.E so Alexander IV would be the sole heir to the empire.
- Cassander (316 B.C.E. and 309 B.C.E.) -- died in 297 B.C.E. Antipater's son, he made war on Polyperchon and defeated him in battle. He captured and executed Polyperchon, Olympias, Alexander IV and Roxane in 309 B.C.E. Many Macedonian nobles supported the claim of Alexander's half-brother, Herakles, to the throne. So Cassander summoned Barsine and Herakles from Turkey where they were living, and had them both strangled after a banquet.
The death of Cassander in 309 B.C.E. led three of Alexander's surviving generals -- Ptolemy, Seleucus and Antigonus to carve up the empire.
- Ptolemy established an Egyptian empire in Alexandria. His heirs founded the "Ptolemaic dynasty," of which Cleopatra (lover of Marc Antony) was the last.
- Seleucus reigned over northwest India, Pakistan, Afghanistan, Iran, Iraq, Syria, Jordan and Turkey. The "Seleucid Empire" didn't last long. The Indian portion seceeded in 304 B.C.E., even before Alexander IV's death. In 250 B.C.E., the Seleucid empire broke into three parts: Parthia (Turkey, Iran and Iraq), Syria and Bactria (Afghanistan/Pakistan).
- Antigonus ruled Macedon and Greece.
First, the creation of the empire spread Greek culture, language and learning all over the Middle East. Travel routes, roads, schools of learning and centers for the arts all accompanied Alexander's empire-building. These helped unify the region and created the foundation of the common cultures that would underlie the Roman Empire and eventually most of European civilization.
Second, the break-up of the Alexandrian Empire permitted the rise of Rome. Rome had been founded as a colony of the Greek city-states, but it was still relatively weak and small in 250 B.C.E. With no major power to threaten it, however, Rome became stronger.
Rome would reincorporate the Alexandrian empire about 250 years later. A Roman army under Caecilius Metellus conquered Greece in 146 B.C.E, and conquered Macedon in 148 B.C.E. In 133 B.C.E., Attalus III, king of Syria and Jordan, willed his empire to Rome. In 66 B.C.E., a Roman army under Pompey conquered most of the Parthian Empire in what is now Turkey.
A series of Roman civil wars led the Roman general Sulla to try to abolish the Republic and establish a dictatorship in 81 B.C.E. Sulla was defeated and killed three years later. The Roman Senate asked three generals to rule until things calmed down. The three generals -- Julius Caesar, Pompey and Crassus -- took turns governing Rome. But eventually Julius Caesar decided to rule alone. in 49 B.C.E., he defeated Pompey and married the daughter of Crassus on his way to becoming dictator. Caesar was murdered in 44 B.C.E. Three generals ruled Rome after his death: Marc Antony, Lepidus and Julius Octavius. In 36 B.C.E., Lepidus resigned and Sextus Pompeiius became part of triumvirate. Sextus Pompeiius died the following year, and Marc Antony attempted to seize power by making war on Octavius. But Octavius defeated Antony in battle, and Antony fled into the loving arms of the Ptolemaic queen of Egypt, Cleopatra. In 31 B.C.E., Octavius defeated Antony in a naval battle. Antony and Cleopatra committed suicide afterward.
With the Roman empire reunified, Octavius took a new name, Caesar Augustus, in 27 B.C.E.
In 3 B.C.E., Jesus was born.
And, like Paul Harvey says, you know the rest of the story.
But it all started with a queer 21-year-old named Alexander.
