The Divas’ Whore Complex

On the surface, NUTS and RENT-A-COP couldn’t be more different. One is a courtroom melodrama; the other a craptastic cop movie. One was meant to earn its star awards; the other exists to give its stars jobs. One was directed by Martin Ritt, director of such classics as Hud and Norma Rae; the other directed by Jerry London, director of the TV mini-series Shogun, as well as several episodes of Hogan’s Heroes, The Partridge Family and The Brady Bunch. One was based on an acclaimed play written by Tom Topor, who also wrote the screenplay for The Accused; the other has a screenplay co-written by Michael Blodgett, who rocked leopard-print bikini briefs in Beyond the Valley of the Dolls.

But the movies have some distinct similarities. Both were made in 1987 and star Oscar®-winning gay icons playing hookers with incredibly irritating personalities. These divas are also the least convincing prostitutes in movie history, no mean feat given that Hollywood’s portrayal of sex work seldom represents reality.

Nuts stars Barbra Streisand, which, if you’re a hardcore Streisand fan, as I was in 1987, is pretty much all you need to know to be sold on the film. For those needing more of a plot synopsis, here goes: Claudia Draper (guess who?) is a call girl accused of murdering a john, but the issue isn’t proving her innocence, but rather proving Claudia’s mental fitness to stand trial. Her parents think it’s best that Claudia accept confinement to a mental institution rather than risk going to prison. Claudia wants her day in court, and with the help of her public defender (Richard Dreyfuss), she fights to prove she’s not crazy, she’s just a bitch.

Being a hardcore Streisand fan when this movie was released, I went to see it the weekend it opened, or possibly the weekend after (my early twenties are a bit of a repressed memory). The point is, I didn’t dawdle. And at the time I thought Nuts was excellent, one of the best, if not THE BEST, movies of 1987, and that Barbra should clear a space on her awards shelf for her inevitable Oscar® win. (Ultimately, she’d have to be content with a Golden Globe nomination.)

Though I still consider myself a Streisand fan, I’m well past my blind adoration of her. I re-watched Nuts recently and found it to be… OK. Just OK. Though attempts are made to open it up, it’s quite obviously based on a play, and a very dated one at that. Topor wrote his play in 1979, but the movie adaptation had me thinking of movies from an earlier time: the 1940s. Seriously, remove the profanity and references to overpriced blowjobs and Nuts would’ve been the perfect vehicle for Joan Crawford in 1948. Not only that, 1948 audiences might actually believe Joan as a hooker. Not so for Barbra in 1987.

Nuts wasn’t the first time Streisand was turned out. She played a hooker in the 1970 comedy The Owl and the Pussycat, and did so convincingly. In Pussycat, Streisand happily gets in touch with her trashy side in portraying prostitute/porn actress Doris, and she sells it. Streisand had starred in a string of G-rated musicals prior to being cast in the then R-rated Pussycat, so she was eager to get down and dirty, to show the world that the star of Funny Girl could wear lewd lingerie and drop f-bombs with the best of them.

Sometimes cheaper is better: Barbra in The Owl and the Pussycat
(left) and Barbra in Nuts.

In Nuts, however, Streisand has to Streisand. Claudia is a high-class call girl, not some sleazy ’ho. As shown in flashbacks, Claudia, tastefully and expensively dressed, joins her soon-to-be-murdered john (Leslie Nielsen!) for cocktails and suggestive repartee at a chic Manhattan restaurant before they go back to her place for (off camera) sex. It’s the Second Wife Experience. Claudia may flash her cooch to her attorney and graphically detail her services from the stand, but she’s still a lady, and a well-paid one at that. Which begs the question: Would a woman in her forties, who, though striking, is not conventionally attractive, and who I’m pretty confident would refuse to do anal, really command such a high price that she could afford the large, exquisitely decorated New York apartment she has in Nuts? Only if Barbra herself were turning tricks.

I’m also pretty confident Della, the hooker character Liza Minnelli plays in Rent-A-Cop, wouldn’t do anal, either, though, unlike Barbra’s Claudia, she’s a lot more flippant about her profession.

“Hey, Della, what’s happening?” asks a hotel desk clerk as she enters the lobby, dressed in a beaded red dress with a white fur boa around her neck. (An Amazon reviewer observed that Liza looks like she’s about to perform at the Sands.)

“Well, I don’t know yet,” Della replies. “That depends on if my date wants his mommy, Little Bo Peep or Helga the Bitch Goddess.” That’s right, kids: prostitution is just like playing dress-up!

 Liza-with-a-Z out to get some D.

Though made in 1987, the Burt Reynolds vehicle Rent-A-Cop wasn’t released until January 1988, lasting in theaters just long enough to be panned by critics before slinking off to collect dust on video store shelves. I watched it ironically last year, surprised to find that it wasn’t nearly as godawful as expected. It’s bad, yes, a flatly-directed jumble of clunky comedy, gritty action and straight-up camp, but it’s not unwatchable.

Reynolds, as the disgraced cop Tony “Churchy” Church, hired by Della to protect her from a ruthless killer, gives the performance of a man who’s just beginning to realize his leading man days are coming to a close. Minnelli, breathless and jittery, gives the performance of someone who likes a little coffee with her cocaine. (Minnelli had gone through rehab in 1984, but if any movie would cause a relapse, Rent-A-Cop is that movie.) In Minnelli’s defense, her jangly performance fits the character. She isn’t bad. In fact, I’d go so far as to say Minnelli gives a better performance in this shitty movie than Barbra gives in her Oscar® bait role. But never once did I believe Liza as a woman who is paid for sex.

That said, if I had to choose between hiring either diva for the evening, I’d go with Liza. I’m not really a Liza fan, but she seems like she’d be more pleasant company, or at least less likely to make me cry. And, besides, Liza’s used to dating gay men. 

Simultaneously Timeless and of Its Time

America is sharply divided, one side fighting to change the status quo while the other will stop at nothing to maintain it. Amidst this unrest rise Machiavellian politicians, self-serving pundits and fear-mongering preachers. The country is a powder keg, a single tragic event the match that could light its gasoline-soaked fuse.

No, I’m not about to launch into a right/left-wing screed about our current political climate. This is a review of Burt Hirschfeld’s 1973 novel, THE MASTERS AFFAIR, a political potboiler that’s simultaneously timeless and of its time.

I’m a fairly recent convert to the works of Burt Hirschfeld. I recall his novel Return to Fire Island being prominently displayed on the bestsellers rack at my local K-mart in the 1980s, when I was in high school. Back then I wanted brand name trash, so I by-passed Hirschfeld in favor of Harold Robbins. It wasn’t until I read some reviews of his books on the Glorious Trash blog that I actually sought out any of his work, starting with his 1970 novel Fire Island. I was immediately won over, surprised by just how gifted a writer he was, with a prose style more comparable to Irwin Shaw than Harold Robbins. Though his work does fall under the dismissive label of popular fiction, I could detect the ambitions of a “serious novelist” in Hirschfeld’s writing. But the ambition to be a bestselling novelist was clearly more important (hey, we all gotta pay bills), so he wrote whatever sold. Fire Island was not only a success, but a template, Hirschfeld following it up with a series of soap opera tales set in glamorous locales (Aspen, Acapulco, Key West). He also wrote non-fiction (A State is Born: The Story of Israel, Stagestruck: Your Career in Theatre), TV and movie novelizations (Bonnie & Clyde, The Ewings of Dallas), and, under the name Hugh Barron, trashy tales of Hollywood (The Goddess Game, The Love Thing).

And sometimes he wrote novels of political intrigue, like The Masters Affair.

The book begins with the assassination of W.W. Masters, the head of the secretive Internal Investigation Agency, sort of like the C.I.A. for domestic affairs. Hunting for the shooter, separately and with separate agendas, are by-the-book I.I.A. agent Peter Malone and liberal activist Dan Hellman. For Malone, catching Masters’ killer is personal: Masters was his mentor in the agency, and he was Masters’ devoted acolyte. For Hellman, who aspires to be the next Ralph Nader, identifying Masters’ killer and, just as importantly, discovering his motive, is a career opportunity. Also, just think of all the sweet pussy he’ll get when the spotlight’s turned on him.

Though the Malone character has a stick so far up his ass he risks puncturing a bowel, I found his storyline more engaging. His investigation leads him to a fundamentalist zealot, Rev. Willie Joe Tate, training a militia to fight atheist liberals and Godless communists, and later to an armory in Texas he suspects of supplying Tate his weapons. Hellman’s investigation, on the other hand, gets mired in too much pretentious philosophizing and side trips, as when Hellman appears on a talk show to battle wits with other political journalists. This chapter wastes too much time on pundits smelling their own farts (15 pages worth) when its primary purpose is introducing Joanna Cook, a Gloria Steinem-esque character and the novel’s only significant female character. 

Of course, Joanna and Hellman end up in bed, because Hellman is just that irresistible to women. Here it should be noted that while the paperback cover depicts Hellman as looking like Warren Beatty, Hirschfeld’s description of him brought to mind a thirtysomething James Woods. It’s should also be noted that while his contemporaries on the best seller lists of the day wrote unapologetically of throbbing cocks and quivering cunts, Hirschfeld’s sex scenes are either described in florid abstractions or happen off-page and referenced after the fact. Below is this book’s most explicit sex scene, an earlier encounter between Hellman and one of his college groupies. Be sure to have your lotion and tissues ready:

She lowered her face between his legs, reached for his slack member with her lips.

Hot.

Some out-of-left field accusations regarding Masters’ sexuality, courtesy of Joanna, ultimately leads Hellman to suss out the assassin’s identity, and it’s here that the book really shows its age. Though published the same year the American Psychiatric Association removed homosexuality from its list of mental illnesses, The Masters Affair makes it clear it was written prior to this 1973 resolution. Broad generalizations are made about homosexuals, including a psychiatrist spewing some horseshit about gays being drawn to highly structured professions, such as the military and law enforcement, because they supply a “representation of a father figure,” and how conversion therapy can help gay men lead “reasonably adjusted” hetero lives. This is also where Hellman, the free-thinking liberal protagonist, is revealed to be a homophobe (another similarity to James Woods), coercing a closeted government employee to talk by threatening to out him. This makes perfect sense for a book set in the early ’70s, but it killed whatever goodwill I had toward the character of Hellman.

The ending of the book is a bit puzzling. Hirschfeld describes how the killer is about attempt another assassination, except for much of this final scene the killer is thinking about shooting Masters, making the chapter read like a flashback to the book’s opening. More than likely Hirschfeld was just conveying that the killer had gone batshit, unable to distinguish fantasy from reality, but I just found it confusing.

While I wouldn’t count it among my favorite Burt Hirschfeld novels, The Masters Affair is a fairly entertaining read, its take on the U.S. political climate of its time sadly just as relatable today. Hirschfeld’s take on homosexuality, however, is very much stuck in 1973.