Reflections on ... Scorchy (1976)

 

Recently watched: low-brow 1976 grindhouse crime thriller Scorchy. IMDb’s ultra-concise plot summary: “Connie Stevens is Jackie "Scorchy" Parker, the hottest undercover agent the Feds have ever known. She makes fast friends - and deadly enemies.” 

I’d always yearned to see this one, but found Scorchy somehow not quite as juicy or fun as I hoped, especially considering its outrageous tagline (“She's Killed a Man, Been Shot at And Made Love Twice Already This Evening... And The Evening Isn't Over Yet!”). The storyline sees spunky fun-loving narcotics agent Jackie (Stevens) orchestrating an elaborate undercover operation to nab heroin-smuggling drug baron Philip Bianco (Cesare Danova). There are shoot-outs and car chases - AND helicopter and speedboat chases! (Considering Scorchy’s director Howard Avedis mainly focused on sexploitation fare like The Teacher (1974) and Dr Minx (1975), he shows a real flair for action sequences). 

/ Representative glimpse of the ultra-seventies hair, clothes and decor in Scorchy /

Scorchy frequently suggests a 1970s Blaxploitation flick, but with honkies in the central roles. Like, it feels like it should be Pam Grier playing Jackie, but it’s Connie Stevens. (And Grier’s superior 1975 film Friday Foster hits some of the same trashy sweet spots as Scorchy). Anyway, the then 38-year-old Stevens seizes the opportunity to distance herself from her ingenue days as Cricket Blake in TV’s Hawaiian Eye. There are glimpses of her bare breasts, a gratuitous skinny-dipping scene and raunchy dialogue aplenty delivered in Stevens’ trademark whispery babydoll voice (in the context of Scorchy, 1970s women’s liberation equals Jackie exclaiming about getting laid. In one exchange, she teases her boss Chief Frank O’Brien (Norman Burton) with “You look tense. You need a blowjob!” Perhaps understandably, he responds, “You’re a fruitcake, you bitch!”). I know the character is based on Stevens’ sex kitten contemporary Joey Heatherton, but with her frosted pale lipstick and feathered blow-dried hair, in her close-ups Stevens frequently resembles Catherine O’Hara as Lola Heatherton in SCTV. Anyway, you also get the backdrop of Seattle in the 1970s AND hunky young male starlet Greg Evigan before B J and The Bear. Weirdly, in theory “Scorchy” is meant to be Jackie’s nickname but I don’t recall any of the characters addressing her by that in the entire film?

/ Above: Catherine O'Hara as Lola Heatherton in SCTV. Below: publicity shot of Connie Stevens for Scorchy (clearly, the movie's poster was adapted from this pic) /

Watch Scorchy on YouTube. (Because of the sex and violence on offer, you will need to log-in!).

Reflections on ... Honky Tonk Nights (1978)

 

Recently watched: no-budget shitkicker exploitation flick Honky Tonk Nights (1978). Tagline: “Drinkin' ... Lovin' ... Fightin' ... and Cussin'. Those were the nights. Those Honky Tonk Nights.” Synopsis via The Grindhouse Cinema Database: “Dreaming of Nashville while singing at a rowdy tavern, a stripper-turned-songstress fends off male patrons while the owner battles shady businessmen.” 

Truthfully, Honky Tonk Nights is virtually unwatchable by any objective standards, but as an accurate time capsule of 1970s drive-in or grindhouse fare, it’s exemplary. Set in the low-end of country music dive bars, it offers 71-minutes of barroom brawls and fistfights (if you like seeing chairs smashed over peoples’ heads, THIS is the movie for you), car chases and car crashes (and motorcycle chases and motorcycle crashes), a wall-to-wall soundtrack of Country & Western music of wildly varying quality that quickly grows numbing, softcore sex scenes and copious female nudity (women routinely start undressing mid-conversation with  no apparent reason). Honky Tonk Nights' pungent ambiance of sleaze and murky 1970s porn vibe is perhaps inevitable - director Charles Webb mainly specialized in X-rated films (and the cast includes noted golden age of porn performers like Georgina Spelvin and Serena. For verisimilitude, esteemed American folk singer Ramblin’ Jack Elliott also crops up). 

San Francisco’s iconic topless go-go dancer Carol Doda (1937 - 2015) stars as heroine Belle Barnette. “Winner of the 1979 Dolly Parton lookalike contest!” the poster promises. Doda certainly shares Parton’s physical attributes and penchant for cotton candy wigs, but regrettably not her on-screen charisma (at least as evidenced here) or musical ability. And anyway, Doda vanishes from the action for long stretches. (For such a short movie, Honky Tonk Nights is overburdened with subplots and supporting characters). In conclusion: if you want an exposé into the realm of country music, stick with Robert Altman’s Nashville (1975). Honky Tonks Nights is free to watch on Amazon Prime and YouTube.

The Next Lobotomy Room Film Club: The Leech Woman (1960) on 21 September 2023

 

Are you anxious about the specter of old age? Do you dread the inevitable ravages of time? Honey, we all do! Let’s watch a movie that exacerbates those fears! (To clarify, I mean aging of the female variety! A man ageing is entirely fine, obviously!). 

Yes! Join us at Fontaine’s cocktail bar in Dalston on Thursday 21 September when the FREE monthly Lobotomy Room cinema club (devoted to Bad Movies for Bad People) presents ultra-trashy 1960 exploitation movie The Leech Woman! (Tagline: “Her evil jungle-born secret of eternal youth … drained the love and life from every man she trapped!”). 

The Leech Woman opens with suave endocrinologist Dr Paul Talbot (hunky Phillip Terry – an ex-husband of Joan Crawford!) bickering with his embittered, haggard and alcoholic older wife June (Coleen Gray, best remembered for co-starring opposite Tyrone Power in disturbing 1947 noir Nightmare Alley). We know June is evil because she’s wearing one of those Cruella de Vil-style fox fur stoles with the heads still attached). 

/ Out of what terrifying jungle rites had come her awesome secret – for prolonging life – and regaining youth and beauty? Estelle Helmsley as Malla /

They are interrupted by the arrival of Dr Talbot’s mysterious new patient – a shriveled ancient-looking woman called Malla (Estelle Helmsley) who claims to be 150 years old and to know the secret of restoring lost youth – but first they must accompany her back to her ancestral village in Africa. And ominously, Malla hisses to June, “You are the one in my dreams of blood!”  What could possibly go wrong? 

/ Every victim makes her young … beautiful … and more dangerous than before! Coleen Gray as June Talbot /

There are voodoo rituals. Human sacrifice. Stock footage of screeching monkeys and hissing snakes. Quicksand. But weirdly, no leeches! Spaces are limited, so reserve your seat now! 

Lobotomy Room Goes to the Movies is the FREE monthly film club devoted to cinematic perversity! Third Thursday night of every month downstairs at Fontaine’s cocktail lounge in Dalston! Numbers are limited, so reserving in advance via Fontaine’s website is essential. Alternatively, phone 07718000546 or email bookings@fontaines.bar. The film starts at 8:30 pm. Doors to the basement Bamboo Lounge open at 8:00 pm. To ensure everyone is seated and cocktails are ordered on time, please arrive by 8:15 pm at the latest.

Full details on event page. 

The Next Lobotomy Room Film Club: Girls Town (1959) on 17 August 2023

Contrary to received wisdom, Grease (1978) didn’t pioneer the concept of casting adult actors as high school students. It was already a long-held Hollywood convention. Take, for example, Girls Town (1959). The quintessence of the fifties drive-in juvenile delinquent flick, it boasts teenage thugs running amok, girl-on-girl cat fights, frantic rock’n’roll music, drag races, nuns, the threat of sex trafficking in Tijuana – and wanton platinum blonde leading lady Mamie Van Doren as 16-year-old hellcat Silver Morgan. Even with her perky ponytail and tight Capri pants, 28-year-old Van Doren is perhaps the most overripe, fleshy and mature adolescent in cinematic history. (And as Freddie, 34-year-old jazz crooner Mel Tormé (below) seems positively wizened). 

But frankly who cares when Girls Town is such a delirious wild ride? These delinquents have impeccable sartorial taste in striped t-shirts, gabardine jackets and saddle shoes. Vocal group The Platters coo ethereal doo-wop in a nightclub sequence. And everyone speaks in ultra-camp hepcat beatnik lingo like “No dice!” “You dig me?” “It’s real gone, ma!” “Not wonderful – crazy! Cool! Fantabulous!” “I’m blasting out of here!” and “You’re in Queersville, man! You’ve flipped!” (Where is this “Queersville” Silver speaks of and how do I get there?). Girls Town is precisely the kind of film that John Waters parodies in his 1990 rockabilly musical Cry-Baby (and the Traci Lords character is directly modeled on Van Doren). See for yourself when the free monthly Lobotomy Room film club (motto: Bad Movies for Bad People) presents Girls Town at Fontaine’s bar (Dalston’s most unique nite spot) on Thursday 17 August! 

/ Above: Mamie Van Doren as Silver Morgan (“who didn’t want to know right from wrong!”) and John Waters' homage / 

Lobotomy Room Goes to the Movies is the FREE monthly film club devoted to cinematic perversity! Third Thursday night of every month downstairs at Fontaine’s cocktail lounge in Dalston! Numbers are limited, so reserving in advance via Fontaine’s website is essential  Alternatively, phone 07718000546 or email bookings@fontaines.bar. The film starts at 8:30 pm. Doors to the basement Bamboo Lounge open at 8:00 pm. To ensure everyone is seated and cocktails are ordered on time, please arrive by 8:15 pm at the latest.

What happens when youthful rebels go bad? Can you handle this explosive drama of youth racing down the road to nowhere? Join us on Thursday 17 August 2023 to find out! Facebook event page. 

Reflections on ... The Wild World of Batwoman (1966)

 

Recently watched: The Wild World of Batwoman (1966). Tagline: “A Thrill-cade of Excitement! Roaring through the city streets into Wildville!” 

Look, I have a high (possibly masochistic) tolerance for terrible films. In fact, I have a twisted affection for them. Give me a The Brain That Wouldn’t Die (1962) or I Eat Your Skin (1971), and I’m transfixed. But The Wild World of Batwoman defeated even me. Its duration is a mere one hour and six minutes, and yet somehow it felt like three numbing hours long. IMDb gives up on even attempting a synopsis: “The pointlessly named Batwoman and her bevy of Batmaidens fight evil and dance.” (Rotten Tomatoes makes more of an effort: “A busty vampire needs a scientist's atomic bomb, made from a hearing aid, to save a comrade”).  Opportunistic hack director Jerry Warren clearly aimed to exploit the popularity of the campy Batman TV series. When they legally threatened him over copyright infringement, Warren simply re-titled it She Was a Hippy Vampire. 

Anyway, the titular Batwoman (ineptly played by Katherine Victor) is a tired looking middle-aged woman in an exploding punk fright wig, Halloween mask and dominatrix outfit. She’s also a crime-fighting vampire ruling over a bevy of groovy “Bat Chicks” who are forever breaking into frantic go-go dancing. (Are they doing the Frug? The Watusi? The Jerk? I couldn’t tell you).  The ensuing wacky hi-jinks are utterly incomprehensible. To add to the confusion, Warren also pads-out the action by splicing in footage from The Mole People (1956), an entirely different film.  

The naïve kitschy tone has its appeal. There’s some decent twang-y garage rock music. The Wild World of Batwoman would inevitably be more tolerable broken into chunks on something like Elvira’s Movie Macabre or Mystery Science Theatre 3000. Anyway, I stuck it out to the bitter end. I defy you to the do the same! The Wild World of Batwoman (viewable on YouTube) is routinely described as one of the worst films ever made – find out why! 

Reflections on ... Shock Treatment (1964)

Recently watched: Shock Treatment (1964). Tagline: “The Nightmare World of the Mad ...” “You won’t be the same … when you come out of Shock Treatment!” I’m using this period of enforced social isolation to explore the weirder corners of YouTube for long forgotten and obscure movies. (My boyfriend is accompanying me only semi-willingly). 

An overlooked black-and-white psychological-exploitation film, Shock Treatment starts on a wonderfully lurid note even before the opening credits roll. A homicidal maniac gardener (played by a bug-eyed Roddy McDowall) sneaks up behind the elderly Beverly Hills millionairess he works for – and in a moment worthy of William Castle’s Strait-Jacket, abruptly decapitates her with his gardening shears! 

/ Lauren Bacall, Roddy McDowell and Stuart Whitman in Shock Treatment / 

McDowell is Martin Ashley, a freshly released psychiatric patient. His ill-fated employer was Mrs Townsend. At the subsequent trial, it’s revealed that Martin - convinced that money is "the root of all evil" - burned one million dollars of Townsend’s fortune after killing her. At least two people doubt Martin’s account. Harley Manning - the executor of Mrs Townsend’s estate - is convinced he’s faking and has hidden the money somewhere. And the icily efficient and untrustworthy Dr Edwina Beighley (Lauren Bacall), who oversees the high security mental institution where Martin is a patient, has her own nefarious designs on the $1 million. 

/ "To hell with conformity!" Gorgeous Stuart Whitman displaying his "chest meat" in Shock Treatment /

Manning’s solution is to hire a struggling actor Dale Nelson (Stuart Whitman) to feign insanity, go undercover as a patient in the asylum to befriend Martin and learn where the $1 million is hidden. There’s an unintentionally campy moment when Dale asks Manning why he picked him for the job. “You’re a convincing actor,” Manning replies. (This is ironic because in terms of acting ability, hunky Whitman mostly coasts on his rugged square-jawed good looks). Anyway, it proves remarkably easy for Dale to get committed. He plays “mad” by smashing a store window in broad daylight, tearing off his shirt, donning a pair of sunglasses and berating the cops in beatnik lingo about conformity (“Why must you gentlemen conform?” he implores, “Why not turn to these peasants, look them in the eye and say, “To hell with conformity?” The disciples of conformity are bleeding from the narrowness of your mind!”). For this little outburst, the judge determines, “His antisocial behavior indicates a disturbed state of mind” and sentences Dale to ninety days. 

Shock Treatment follows the same narrative as Samuel Fuller’s far more highly-regarded and famous Shock Corridor (1963): someone is hired to infiltrate and investigate what’s happening in a sanitarium – and then they can’t get out! Rest assured Shock Treatment won’t win any awards for sensitivity for its sensational representation of mental illness. McDowell plays psycho killer Martin with such sexual ambiguity that his scenes with Dale throb with a homoerotic tension the script probably never intended. Meanwhile, Carol Lynley is a female patient who serves as Dale’s love interest. Her psychiatric condition seems to consist of whiplash mood swings between frigidity and nymphomania. “I just dislike being touched!” she exclaims. “Kissing and touching are sins!” but then moments later, she pleads, “I want you to touch me, Dale! To hold me and touch me – now! Love me, Dale! Love me!” Luckily, Lynley’s problems are easily cured: as the script hints, all she needed was the love of a good man. (Watch also for a fleeting but vivid appearance by eccentric character actor Timothy Carey). 

Shock Treatment may be low-grade schlock, but it’s compelling schlock suffused with genuine tension and paranoia, tightly constructed, wreathed in menacing film noir shadows and genuinely suspenseful.  And it features a magnificent turn by Lauren Bacall as the manipulative Dr Beighley, scheming to test her experimental drugs on a human guinea pig. Bacall made her film debut in 1944. It’s a sign of how far the Hollywood diva’s stock had fallen that twenty years later she was reduced to acting in b-movie fare like Shock Treatment. But the husky-voiced Bacall is utterly mesmeric in a rare villainous role, playing it with a malevolent, steely composure and poised elegance (she makes her white lab coat look like haute-couture). Call me perverse, and I’m probably in a minority of one, but it’s one of my favourite performances by Bacall.

Watch Shock Treatment here:

 

Reflections on ... The Female Bunch (1969)

 

Recently watched: The Female Bunch (1969). Tagline: “They dare to do what other women only dream about!” I’m using this period of enforced social isolation to explore the weirder corners of YouTube for long forgotten and obscure movies. (My boyfriend is accompanying me only semi-willingly). 

Naïve young Las Vegas cocktail waitress Sandy (Nesa Renet) is fed up with men and through with hurting. In fact, Sandy is so distraught after the failure of her romance with a lounge singer that she overdoses on pills. Luckily, she’s rescued by her glamorous blonde go-go dancer friend Libby (Regina Carrol). And Libby knows the solution to Sandy’s problems. Blindfolding her first, Libby drives Sandy to a secret, isolated Californian ranch, the premises of a cult-like all-female community of hardened man-hating feminists. “We are completely independent of men!” thunders Grace (Jennifer Bishop), the sadistic and alienated leader of these female supremacists. This being a late sixties sexploitation film, this pack of misandrists still resemble off-duty strippers or glamour models, complete with heavy dark eye make-up, ratted-up bouffant wiglets and cleavage-flaunting wardrobes straight out of a Frederick’s of Hollywood catalogue. Once Sandy passes the terrifying initiation ritual (she’s buried alive in a coffin), she’s a fully paid-up member of “the sisterhood.” Before long, though, the in-over-her-head Sandy learns of the women’s criminal activity (they’re smuggling heroin over the Mexican border) and penchant for psychotic violence. Can she escape from their clutches in one piece? 

As this synopsis suggests, exploitation Western The Female Bunch shares DNA with Russ Meyer’s Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill! (1965) in which a trio of vicious go-go dancers embark on a homicidal crime spree in the desert. A z-grade grindhouse hack, director Al Adamson is no Meyer: his film-making is functional rather than dementedly inspired, but he does sustain an atmosphere of cruelty and sweaty urgency. Don’t expect much character development or motivation. For example, once the ultra-militant feminist amazons cross the Mexican border and start downing tequila in a taverna, within no time they are literally rolling around naked on the sawdust floor getting pawed by male admirers in an orgiastic bacchanal. So hetero-normative! So much for “man-hating!” Valerie Solanas would be vomiting with rage! (To be fair, only one of the gang members is overtly delineated as lesbian). 

In truth, the real-life behind-the-scenes stories surrounding The Female Bunch are considerably more interesting than anything that unfolds onscreen. The cast includes two genuine down-on-their-luck Hollywood stars presumably hungry for work (Lon Chaney Jr and Russ Tamblyn). Notoriously, The Female Bunch was filmed on location at the Spahn Ranch in the summer of 1969 - when it was inhabited by The Manson Family! Perhaps the most striking member of the female gang is statuesque redhead Sadie, played by Aleshia Brevard (billed here as A’lesha Lee). Brevard enjoyed a lengthy career on the margins of show business as a film, stage and TV actress, Playboy playmate, model and nightclub entertainer – and was a transgender pioneer. She kept her gender reassignment surgery a secret until 2001 when she released her autobiography The Woman I Was Not Born to Be. (She died in 2017 aged 79). As Libby, the magnetic Regina Carrol nails one of my favourite sixties bad girl looks (disheveled teased mane of peroxide hair, frosted white lipstick). Carrol was married to the director, and tragically died of cancer aged just 49.  And finally, Al Adamson was gruesomely murdered aged 66 in 1995 (his live-in handyman killed him after a dispute and “entombed” the corpse under cement where the jacuzzi used to be. The LA Times headline screamed: “Horror Film Director Found Slain, Buried Under Floor”).

 

The Female Bunch is free to view on Amazon Prime

Reflections on ... Point of Terror (1971)

 / Dyanne Thorne in Point of Terror (1971) /

Recently watched: Point of Terror (1971). Tagline: “Demons long locked in the depths of the mind come out to destroy the weak and believing!” I’m using this period of enforced social isolation to explore the weirder corners of YouTube for long forgotten and obscure movies. (My boyfriend is accompanying me only semi-willingly). 

Upon release this wildly tawdry exploitation curiosity was misleadingly and inexplicably promoted as a horror film (that tagline bears zero relation to anything that unfolds onscreen). And to this day Wikipedia describes it as a an “erotic drama horror film.” More accurately, Point of Terror is a shamelessly old-fashioned, down-and-dirty melodrama about adultery, murder and double crossing. The script - with its echoes of old film noirs like The Postman Always Rings Twice or Double Indemnity - could easily have been written three decades earlier but it’s been tweaked for the swingin’ permissive era and the sexploitation-hungry demands of the drive-in circuit. The tone is pure soap opera. Everyone drinks too much and snarls bitchy dialogue at each other. There’s hammy acting, chain-smoking, poolside lounging, flashes of nudity and bed-hopping. In summary: irresistible! 

Point of Terror’s campy lunacy is established immediately, with leading man Peter Carpenter wearing a fringed red ensemble, flailing around doing jazz hands while beltin’ out a musical number over the opening credits. Carpenter is muscular stud muffin Tony Trelos, a crotch-thrusting, hip-swiveling, tight-trousered and side-burned virile nightclub singer (think Vegas-era Elvis, Tom Jones, Engelbert Humperdinck or Tony Polar in Valley of the Dolls (1967)) employed at a Santa Monica cocktail lounge called The Lobster House. 

From there, Point of Terror smash cuts to Tony asleep on the beach, tormented by a nightmare. Screaming himself awake, Tony encounters buxotic bikini-clad MILF Andrea Hilliard (Dyanne Thorne). It turns out he’s trespassing on her private beach. Hungrily ogling his rippling bronzed torso, the cougar-ish Andrea assures him it’s fine. Even better: Andrea is rich (ker-ching!), co-owns a record label with her husband and is enthusiastic to mix business with pleasure and sign-up this hunky new discovery. But Andrea has baggage: she’s trapped in a bitterly dysfunctional marriage to her invalid husband Martin (Joel Marston). Here’s a sampling of their ugly arguments: Martin: “Dirty bitch! You drink too goddamn much! It’s because of your drinking I’m in this chair!” Andrea: “Martin, I have a headache this big with your name on it!” 

/ Tony and Andrea "meet cute" at the beach /

/ Turmoil! Joel Marston and Dyanne Thorne as the feuding Hilliards /

Tony invites Andrea to see him perform that night. (Note that The Lobster House’s stage is decorated with tinfoil - perhaps inspired by Warhol’s silver Factory?). “This is what I am and what I’ll always be / A drifter of the heart / Until love changes me!” Tony lustily wails, which makes Andrea go all misty and “tropical” downtown. (We always watch each of Tony’s cringe-worthy songs in their entirety! No cutting away!). In no time, the duo has embarked on an affair and begun production on Tony’s new album. (The “music industry” segments evoke Russ Meyer’s Beyond the Valley of the Dolls (1970). Speaking of Meyer: Peter Carpenter made his film debut as a Canadian Royal Mounted Police officer seduced by Erica Gavin in Vixen (1968)). 

/ Tony rocks the Lobster House. The blonde woman in green with ringlets is Andrea /

/ In the recording studio with Tony and Andrea /

Interestingly, Tony is portrayed as a grasping, amoral anti-hero. He takes his long-suffering girlfriend Sally for granted and brazenly cheats on her, and it’s implied he has a history of exploiting gullible older women to further his show biz aspirations. “I want to be somebody. That’s all I’ve ever wanted,” he explains for anyone who’s missed the point. “And I’ll do anything to get it. Anything!” Tony thinks he’s found his match in Andrea, but she is far more treacherous than he suspects! (To her credit, Sally warned, “She plays games, Tony! You’re just one of her toys!”). In no time, their relationship has soured (Tony: “Look, I’m not one of those beach bums you used to run around with!” Andrea: “No, they had a little class!”). But watch out, Tony: it turns out Andrea convinced Martin to kill his first wife so that they could be together. And another murder seems increasingly inevitable! 

/ Paula Mitchell as Sally in Point of Terror (1971) /

For trash enthusiasts, Point of Terror offers a cornucopia of riches. In an Eve Arden-style sidekick role, Leslie Simms (rocking a frosted blonde Tammy Wynette wig) steals every scene as Fran, Andrea’s perennially tipsy best friend. (I loved this exchange between the gal pals: Fran: “What’s he got to give you?” Andrea: “Kicks!” Fran: “He’s using you.” Andrea: “We’re using each other”). The gorgeously vivid nightclub lighting (heavy on the shocking pinks and greens) anticipates Italian giallo films like Suspiria (1977). The groovy early seventies clothing (Andrea’s crimplene dresses, Tony’s unbuttoned shirts exposing maximum tanned “chest meat”) are crimes against fashion. Andrea’s bouffant coiffures are like a tribute to the album covers of Nancy Sinatra (except when she opts for little girl pigtails, which are a tribute to Donna Douglas as Ellie May Clampett in The Beverly Hillbillies). The sex scene in the swimming pool predicts the one in Showgirls (1995). 

/ Leslie Simms as Fran /

/ Thorne's baroque wedding cake hairstyles are worthy of comparison to Lana Turner's in The Big Cube (1969) /

Best of all is director Alex Nicol’s equal opportunity lechery. Sure, we get to see Dyanne Thorne’s boobs, but we also get multiple crotch shots of Peter Carpenter in spray-on skintight pants. (The frequently shirtless Carpenter resembles a vintage Playgirl centrefold come to life). Most memorably, the camera freezes on a lingering glimpse of Christopher’s pert naked ass in a shower scene. Eyeing him up and down, Andrea purrs, “The view from here is marvelous!” 

Point of Terror is viewable (for free!) on Amazon Prime. It's also available on Blu-ray and DVD via Vinegar Syndrome.

Reflections on ... Fleshpot on 42nd Street (1973)

 

Recently watched: Fleshpot on 42^nd Street (1973). Tagline: “Wilder than you can imagine! Explicit beyond belief! Meet them all! Hustlers and pimps! Pushers and S&M freaks! Straight guys and girls looking for thrills and one-night stands!” Sample dialogue: “It’s getting so you can’t give a blowjob on Times Square without some cop looking over your shoulder!” 

It’s fun to imagine the dirty mac brigade settling into their seats at some fleapit grindhouse cinema in the early seventies to watch some raunchy triple-X titillation – and instead being confronted by this grimly downbeat, profoundly unerotic character study about survival prostitution by maverick outsider gutter auteur Andy Milligan (1929 - 1991). There’s even mournful flute music on the soundtrack for maximum erection repellent. You could call Fleshpot a “gritty” genital warts-and-all slice of life – but “grubby” might be more accurate. 

Pretty brunette Dusty Cole is a street-smart and calculating sex worker barely eking out a hardscrabble existence in New York’s Times Square. Her hard-bitten demeanor begins to melt after a fluke encounter with handsome, sensitive and earnest young Wall Street banker Bob Walters. Can Dusty embrace the straight life and find true love and happiness in Staten Island with Bob? Spoiler alert: anyone familiar with Milligan’s pessimistic oeuvre will already know the answer is a resounding no!

Like Andy Warhol, John Waters and R W Fassbinder, Milligan populates his movies with his own repertory troupe of freaks and misfits – in his case, mostly drawn from the realms of underground off-Broadway theatre and pornography. The acting here is genuinely potent (some of the verbose monologues demanded of the actors are worthy of Tennessee Williams). Porn actress Laura Cannon imbues surprising delicacy, complexity and intelligence as constantly hustling, amoral anti-heroine Dusty. We glimpse the emotional toll of constantly living by her wits and the seemingly endless procession of encounters with creepy, unappealing men, and that everything Dusty does is tinged with desperation. (I love how Cannon tangibly goes into weary dead-eyed autopilot every time she begins disrobing). Always the most chivalrous and affable of seventies porn studs, young Harry Reems of Deep Throat notoriety (sans his trademark mustache) is painfully adorable as the idealistic Bob. And as Cherry Lane, Dusty’s sassy aging drag queen roommate and fellow working girl, Neil Flanagan - and his matted bouffant wig - steals every scene. 

Thematically and stylistically, Fleshpot is analogous to Flesh (1968), Trash (1970) and Heat (1972), the trilogy of Warhol-produced underground films directed by Paul Morrissey, and the early works of John Waters. What separates Milligan from Morrissey and Waters is the ferocity of his misanthropy and nihilism. He takes a decidedly jaundiced perspective on concepts like “free love” and sexual liberation. Apart from Bob, none of the characters could be described as “sympathetic.” The film offers a vividly grungy cinema verité document of decrepit pre-gentrification seventies New York. Every character in Fleshpot lives in squalor and escapes to drown their sorrows at depressing dimly lit dive bars. Milligan was gay and the sexuality on display here is refreshingly polymorphous: the ostensibly hetero male tricks take a surprisingly pragmatic open mind when it comes to the gender of their sex workers (Dusty and Cherry share clients). The world Milligan evokes packs an undeniable lowlife allure, but you wouldn't want to live there. Warning: the ugly racial epithets casually thrown around by Cherry are authentic to the period and character but wildly offensive to modern ears (prepare to flinch!). There are two versions of Fleshpot in circulation: grainy and softcore (on Amazon Prime) and digitally remastered and hardcore (via Vinegar Syndrome’s website).

Further Reading:

Read my analysis of the earlier Andy Milligan film Seeds (1968) here.