The Reality, Fiction and Fantasy of Fire Island

Cherry Grove Stories is
currently streaming on Tubi.

Though we got a welcome—and, frankly, surprising—Supreme Court ruling this month that extends federal workplace protections to the LGBTQ community, there’s been very little about this June to remind you it’s Gay Pride Month. Given the ongoing Dumpster fire that is America 2020, you’d be forgiven for just wanting to get away from it all. Unfortunately, the only traveling we should be doing is vicariously (though some remain unconcerned). Luckily, that’s also the cheapest way to travel. So, let’s go to Fire Island, specifically, Fire Island of the past.

I was aware of Fire Island being a popular vacation destination for gay New Yorkers as far back as my freshman year of high school, well before I ever came out. I’m not sure how I knew this. My best guess is it was referenced in some sleazy bestseller I read, or possibly it was mentioned in one of the two books by Fran Lebowitz that I read. Regardless, the reputation of this island off Long Island’s south shore was great enough that it even reached me, a teenager in Mississippi (or maybe I was still in California; my family moved around a lot).

Michael Fisher’s 2018 documentary CHERRY GROVE STORIES provides a good overview of life on Fire Island’s gay beach. Using home movies, archival news footage and interviews with frequent vacationers and longtime residents, Fisher not only provides the audience with an informal history of Cherry Grove, but of gay life as well.

“We arrived at the dock and I looked down and I saw all of these beautiful men in high heels and Speedos, and I thought I had died and gone to heaven,” says one of the interviewees. Another describes the island as a “gay Shangri La.” Some of the people interviewed remember vacationing on the island as far back as the late 1940s, when the houses didn’t have running water and were lit by kerosene lanterns (the island didn’t get electricity until 1960s; “I can’t imagine putting on a drag show with a generator,” quips one of the interview subjects).

Photos from the documentary Cherry Grove Stories.

The documentary never delves into exactly when or why Cherry Grove became a gay destination. Even interviewees who vacationed on the island as children with their families only refer to Cherry Grove as this wonderful oasis that was just there for discovery. “I knew it was a queer community,” says one. Another says he learned of Cherry Grove in high school when he saw a picture of two guys holding hands on its beach.

Cherry Grove draws a gay crowd but not
a diverse one. This is one of the few people of
color shown in Cherry Grove Stories.

As one would expect, especially in the decades pre-dating AIDS, sex was very easy to come by in Cherry Grove, especially for the men. “Coming out here with a boyfriend was like going to a whorehouse with your wife,” says an interviewee who first came to the island in 1957. (By the way, interview subjects not being named isn’t laziness on my part; it’s because Fisher doesn’t identify any of them onscreen.) I remember being aware of the island’s cruising grounds—the Meat Rack, a.k.a. the Rack—shortly after learning about the island’s existence, before I even knew what cruising meant. There is a rumored spot for lesbians, a so-called Donut Rack, but no one interviewed believed it existed. “There were maybe 24 lesbians when we were there,” says one woman. There are even fewer people of color. One of the men interviewed is of Asian descent, and there are a couple Black men shown in the home movies, but otherwise Cherry Grove is an all-white community, a fact I wish Fisher had touched on.

Once Cherry Grove Stories got on the subject of the Meat Rack I thought the documentary would devolve into a litany of people recounting how they did rails of cocaine and sucked a mile of cocks, but more is made about how the Rack was targeted by police. One bartender even kept a reserve of cash on hand to bail out anyone unfortunate to be caught in a police raid. Of course, by the time a man was bailed out of jail the damage had been done as the man’s name, address and telephone number (holy shit!) would have already been published in the newspaper.

Cherry Grove still retains its status as a prime “gaycation” spot today, though it’s changed considerably. AIDS, understandably, hit the island hard. “We invited some straight relatives out here,” recounts an interviewee, “and they came home thinking it was sort of a leper’s colony.” Yet the AIDS crisis led to an even greater sense of community on the island. It also changed the Meat Rack, which is still there but not the “free-for-all” it once was, a fact not only attributed to AIDS, but the Internet as well. “With all the gay apps, no one needs to go out and see each other anymore,” remarks one of the younger men interviewed.

These changes aren’t necessarily seen as being for the better, with several people remarking that for all the freedoms gained by the LGBTQ community over the past two decades, the island has become less free, with the police more vigilant about ticketing people for public nudity and loitering. Says an island old timer: “We’re going right back to the way things were 50 years ago.” Yet the affection Fisher’s subjects have for the island remains as strong today as when they first got off the ferry. As one puts it: “If I could never return to Cherry Grove, then I would die.”

‘The Biggest Camp of the Season’

The 1970 movie STICKS AND STONES also provides a snapshot of life in Cherry Grove, albeit a fictional one. The central characters in this ensemble piece are Buddy (J. Will Deane, a.k.a. Jesse Deane), a playwright who’s retreated to the island with his young “English” boyfriend, Peter (Craig Dudley) to drink away the memories of his failed play. He also might be cheating on Peter, but then, as we get to know Peter, who can blame him? Peter is a whining nag who’s got a stick so firmly planted in his ass that he likely can't bottom anymore. Dudley’s attempt at an English accent, which lands somewhere between Joan Fontaine in Rebecca and Baltimore, doesn’t help Peter’s cause. Conversely, though Buddy’s a cad, Deane’s talent for dry sarcasm makes him a more enjoyable screen presence.

“George is dressed differently
than we are.”

It’s clear within minutes of being introduced to Buddy and Peter that the couple has no future and needs to break up pronto. But since there would be no movie if they did, the couple goes ahead with their planned Fourth of July party, the “biggest camp of the season.” On the guest list are George, a middle-aged leather queen who’s bought a new leather vest for the occasion (“George is dressed differently than we are,” warns a mutual friend); Bobby, a newly out man making his “virgin trip” to the island (“I wish you’d call it something else”); Jimmy, a dizzy queen with a mop of blonde hair who, along with his mustachioed friend, makes homosexuality appear classifiable as a mental disability (watching these two attempt to change a flat tire is like the set-up to a homophobic joke); the Lavender Guru, a cute caftan-wearing hippie who only shuts up when he’s got a dick in his mouth (sample dialog: “I’m not sure some days whether the world that I live in is a world I created, psychologically, or whether it’s a world everyone else has created”); and June (adult film actress Kim Pope), the femme to butch Lou, though she’s about as staunch a lesbian as Anne Heche.

Before the party George gives Bobby a brief tour of Cherry Grove, noting that every house has a name, like Lust and Found and Olay, a house which was actually referenced in Cherry Grove Stories. Bobby is overwhelmed by it all, but mostly he’s just creeped out by George. They are joined by Jimmy and his friend, whereupon Jimmy, claws extended, starts making bitchy jokes at George’s expense (“You’ll never live to be as old as you look, dahling”). I got the idea the two may have had a fling that turned sour, though that’s strictly conjecture on my part (this movie isn’t big on backstory). What I couldn’t excuse was Bobby acting like Jimmy was rescuing him from a serial killer’s basement, his only reason for not liking George, who had been perfectly nice if a tad flirtatious, was Bobby found his being into leather weird. Well, fuck you, Bobby!

Peter (left) has the better body but Buddy has the better line delivery—
and the bigger bulge.

Meanwhile, back at Buddy and Peter’s house, the Lavender Guru goes on and on (and on) about some existential bullshit for the benefit of his handsome acolyte Gary, a sequence that would’ve been unwatchable had it not been intercut with the two having some spirited softcore sex. As for Buddy and Peter, they’re walking around the island in their Speedos, first to greet their guests at the dock, then to buy supplies for the party, though they’re never shown shopping for any. Of course, Peter has a lot to say, making it clear why Buddy always has a drink in hand. A favorite exchange during this banana hammock walkabout: Peter whines that Buddy just doesn’t understand the social pressures he’s under, to which Buddy, after waiting a beat, deadpans: “I’ve got to go to the bathroom.”

Kim Pope is sick of the Lavender Guru’s shit.

The party itself is a bit underwhelming. A dark-haired hunk in flowered pants sings and strums a guitar, and later deflects a pass from Buddy. Outside on the deck the Lavender Guru lectures a group too polite to flee (Kim Pope’s expression during this scene is priceless). George is wearing a pair of fishnet bell bottoms, commando, but he's upstaged by another leather queen, Fernando, showing off his Prince Albert. Jimmy sings a show tune, then tries to get Peter, sulking in the bedroom, to return to the party, a good deed that is sufficiently punished. “You’re nothing but a goddamned queen!” Peter screams (can’t say I disagree). Peter quickly begs forgiveness, then tells Jimmy about killing his pet dog when he lived in London (“I loved that dog”). Back in the living room, June dances nude with Fernando because why hire Kim Pope if she’s not going to get naked? Buddy, not to be outdone, then strips so his guests can appreciate his skinny, leathery body and, I must say, decent-sized cock. The fireworks for this Fourth of July bash don’t go off until after the party, however, when the hosts fight, possibly to the end of their relationship.

Sticks and Stones was written by Tom O’Keefe, but its loose structure and the rambling nature of the dialog suggests much of the movie was improvised. If that’s the case, director Stan Lopresto did a commendable job of getting something approximating The Boys in the Band Go to the Beach, which is to say Sticks and Stones, while not a good movie, isn’t the total piece of shit it could have been. The characters are all types—the leather queen, the swish, the nervous Nelly—rather than fully formed people, and the acting is strictly amateur hour (Pope and Deane, who also appeared in a couple hardcore films, deliver the best performances). On the plus side, the movie is leagues above the crap Jeff London cranks out. The gratuitous nudity, some of which is quite nice, also helped.

‘I Should’ve Known I was in the Wrong Place’

The last movie on our tour of Fire Island is nothing but gratuitous nudity, though I guess the nudity isn’t exactly gratuitous when said movie is a porno, namely director Jack Deveau’s 1978 film DUNE BUDDIES. Bet you thought I was going to write about Wakefield Poole’s Boys in the Sand, didn’t you? I’ll get to Wakefield, but not today. Besides, Dune Buddies has something that makes it just as noteworthy in the annals (yes, with two n’s; just because it’s a porn movie doesn’t mean our minds have to stay in the gutter) of gay porn: a connection to Brian DePalma’s Scarface.

Dune Buddies’ main character is a guy named Paul Hazzard (Malo), a dramatic arts professor who’s wanting to escape New York because he can’t walk three feet in the city without tripping over a hot guy begging for Paul’s hot beef injection. (“It got so crazy, in fact, that I stopped enjoying it.”) So, yeah, our hearts bleed for him. Anyway, to get away from all those beckoning dicks in the city, he heads to Fire Island. If you think that’s a stupid vacation destination for a man seeking solitude, Paul agrees with you, but his real estate pal Ed got him a good deal on a rental in the Pines so, what’re you gonna do?

Paul’s plans for a quiet vacation-for-one are dashed the moment he enters the bedroom of his rented beach house and finds one of his students, Dennis (Larry Page), passed out and pants-less on the bed. When Dennis comes-to, he explains Paul’s secretary revealed his itinerary when Dennis bribed her with three Quaaludes (this movie is very 1978). Paul quickly forgives his student (you would, too, if you saw Page’s ass), but they’ve barely gotten into foreplay when Paul’s friend Gordon (Hugh Allen) cock blocks him with a phone call. I wouldn’t have answered, personally, but Paul does, learning that Gordon’s at the ferry landing, waiting for him. (“If you meet me at the dock in the Grove in 45 minutes, I’ll let you buy me a drink at the Monster.”)

Maybe it’s just me, but Larry Page looks a lot like a young Thomas Haden Church.
(No, I’m not suggesting THC has a secret.)

And so begins what is supposed to be a comedy of errors. Paul heads out for Cherry Grove, leaving Dennis to juggle tennis balls and jack off in an outdoor shower. But Gordon, who’s a bit of an asshole, gets cruised by hunky John (Will Seagers, billed as Matt Harper here) and decides he’d rather ride in John’s boat—and on John’s cock—than wait for Paul. Paul, annoyed at having missed Gordon, heads back home, only to be intercepted by his real estate friend Ed (Gary Hunt), who needs a voyeur if the two cute young exhibitionists back at his house (Pepe Brazil and D. Paolo Gorsky) are to perform. No, seriously. Paul’s resistant, but Ed pours liquor down his throat until he agrees to stay. Despite being recruited to watch and having downed three glasses of vodka, Paul is an active participant in the scene, at least for a while. By nightfall he’s stumbling over the dunes and into the camp of another one of those hot, horny men Paul’s always running into. The camper is Ed Wiley (billed as Myles Longue), though given the scene’s minimal lighting and iffy focus it could be Tom Selleck for all we know.

Gordon (Hugh Allen) spreads for Will Seagers.

Meanwhile, Gordon finds his way to Paul’s pad. Dennis isn’t too enamored by Paul’s new guest, however: “After giving it some thought, I’ve come to the conclusion that you, Gordon, are an inconsiderate fuck.” Gordon counters with, yeah, but you know we’re going to make it anyway. And this argument works, because of course it does. But Gordon is just something to keep him occupied until the movie’s (mild) surprise ending.

Dune Buddies doesn’t come close to matching Boys in the Sand’s artsy erotica, but it’s very close to matching the Fire Island of my fantasies, including the royalty-free disco. And unlike the previous gay porn film I reviewed, almost all the men of the cast have a sexiness that stands the test of time, provided you have a high tolerance for ’70s hairstyles—and really, by now you should because, honey, we all have ’70s hair at this point. I just wish some scenes were better lit. The scene between Malo and Wiley is like watching two shadow puppets fucking.

About that Scarface connection: Dune Buddies’ star, Malo, later found some mainstream success as Arnaldo Santana, appearing in two Al Pacino movies, Cruising and Scarface. He also had a small part in the 1983 TV movie Rage of Angels and was a regular cast member in the failed Norman Lear sitcom a.k.a. Pablo. Amusingly, the trivia section on Santana’s IMDb page states that it was the actor’s weight gain—hey, maintaining that Dune Buddies physique had to be exhausting—that prevented him from landing bigger roles, not his gay porn past. Santana passed away in 1987 at age 37. No cause of death was given, and I found nothing online to confirm my suspicions, so I won’t speculate here.

From Dune Buddies to Scarface, from Malo to Arnaldo Santana.

An actor’s death is a sad conclusion to a blog post, but, then again, who isn’t at least a little sad at the end of a vacation, even a vicarious one? Especially when we know we have to return to 2020. <sigh>

‘Life is Not Always a Basket of Meat’

June is Pride month, so what better way to celebrate than with classic gay porn? Actually, there are a lot of better ways to celebrate Pride, but I watched an old gay porno film and it’s June, so…Happy Pride!

But the old classic gay porno I watched isn’t just some compilation of Nova loops. No, this is a movie, one about the moral compromises one young man makes in his pursuit of Hollywood stardom, a story brought to life by drag queens, cumshots and clowns. This is THE LIGHT FROM THE SECOND STORY WINDOW, the 1973 showcase for its writer-director-star, David Allen.

Lee Jones (Allen) is “an innocent little boy from out of town,” who has taken a job with a mysterious Mr. Cury in Los Angeles. Meeting him at the bus station are Mr. Cury’s assistants, Karl (Winston Kramer), a perpetually annoyed soul brother, and Mother (Richard Lindstrom), a perpetually annoying drag queen. I’m not sure if the character of Karl was supposed to always be in a bad mood or if that was the only way Winston Kramer was capable of playing him. He rocks a big-ass pendant and does justice to a pair of tight, white pants, however, so we’ll let his one-note acting slide. More intriguing is Lindstrom as Mother. Looking like a genetic experiment that combines the DNA of Ruth Buzzi, Linda Belcher and an arachnid, Lindstrom puts his entire spindly body into each syllable Mother utters, making her look like a marionette controlled by a palsied puppeteer. Even RuPaul would be telling this bitch to tone it down. Yet, while I found Mother as irritating as Karl does, I couldn’t take my eyes off her, the same way you can’t look away from a gruesome car wreck.

Lee meets Karl and oh, Mother-fuck, no!

But this isn’t Mother’s story, it’s Lee’s. After Mother flits off to buy a dress, Karl takes Lee back to a male whorehouse, where he has Lee wait outside (“You won’t run away, will you? You do, I’ll find you.”) while he goes off to do…something. Lee is left waiting with Alma, an older woman waiting for the titular light from the second story window that lets her know her manwhore is available. (“I’ve been waiting all day to get fucked,” she sniffs.) Alma is played by Ann Noble, writer and star of the 1972 movie Sins of Rachel, who is bit of a question mark. Her IMDb page simply states she was an actress and writer, but her mannerisms and her penchant for high, Adam’s apple-concealing collars scream drag queen. Either way, you go girl!

Ann Noble turns on her womanly charms.

That second story window finally lights up, but the available hustler is taken by a bewigged man appearing out of nowhere, pushing past Alma as he hurries up the stairs, rubbing his crotch and mumbling, “Gotta fuck.” This leads to the movie’s first sex scene. How hot is it? Well, if you’re into stilted twink-on-men-who-look-like-Linda Hunt action, prepare to paint the walls white. The rest of us are going to hit fast forward.

With apologies to the B-52’s.

Meanwhile, Lee gets broken in by Karl, and is then put to work by the still unseen Mr. Cury. His first clients are a father and son (“I guess their philosophy was that a family that plays together, stays together,” Lee titters in a voice-over). Next, he services a closeted movie star whose house is the epitome of ’70s décor, with dark paneling, orange shag carpet and chairs and tabletops suspended by chains from the ceiling. The movie star is played by muscular Rick Cassidy, billed here as Jim Cassidy, who was a more familiar presence in straight porn, including The Danish Connection and New Wave Hookers, the latter starring an underage Traci Lords. That he had done gay porn was a surprise to me (his other gay titles include Desires of the Devil and A Deep Compassion, which also starred Allen). Cassidy was certainly one of the better looking—and better built—men in straight porn, and he’s one of the best-looking men in Second Story. It’s Cassidy’s body that elevates his scene with Allen, though it’s clearly a gay-for-pay situation.

Rick Cassidy knows how to make an entrance.

Lee offers his body to another prominent Ric(k) from straight porn, Ric Lutze, billed as Richard Lauette. Lutze plays a cop who shows up at Mr. Cury’s place during a dizzying orgy sequence that has Lee, a gold-faced clown and Mother, her dick a danglin’, treating the crowd to some performance art before the fucking commences. There’s so much reverb during this unwelcome bit of political theater that it’s often hard to understand what they’re saying, though I clearly heard the clown say the N-word, quickly followed by Lee wailing, “Down with racism!” I preferred watching the orgy, even if Stu Drexl, credited with directing the sex scenes, employs camera tricks that make the scene more headache inducing than erection producing.

“Hello, whore.” (Actual dialogue)

Officer Lutze enjoyed pounding Lee’s tiny butt so much during that orgy that afterwards, when he meets with Mr. Cury (Stephen Lester, onscreen at last) to collect his protection fee, he pushes for a personal session with the young hustler. “I hate faggots,” the officer says, adding that Lee’s a “pretty lil’ shit, ain’t he?” The cop is thoroughly nasty in his treatment of Lee (“You don’t like cum in your face, huh? You love it! You love it!”), and while some fetishists [link NSFW] might consider such abuse foreplay, the mistreatment sends Lee over the edge. As Lee’s emotional breakdown scene edges toward Lonely Lady territory, Mr. Cury shows up to jab a syringe full of nerve-calming smack into the sobbing blonde’s ass.

Second Story spends its second half on Lee clawing his way up from the depths of despair. This is also when David Allen indulges his writerly side. A middle-aged snake breeder (!), played by William Lasky, who had a career as a second unit director in mainstream film and TV, finds a disheveled Lee wandering the streets of L.A. and takes him home. “You know, I’d really like to have sex with you,” says the man bluntly. Lee politely refuses (“I’m tired of being a whore”), and the man waxes philosophical about the compromises made by homosexuals:

“We conform to the world’s standards, to their laws, their ideas of right and wrong. … You know, we came to believe they knew best: homosexuals are evil creatures. And we swallowed it. Their destructive attitudes towards us made us destructive to ourselves, and then to each other. I always wanted a friend who accepted his homosexuality and who could help me accept mine. … That’s it, you know: to love without the need for darkness, without caring about them.”

Ray Todd demonstrates his mastery of
the huh? facial expression.

Pretty heavy for a dirty movie, though at this point the Second Story appears to forget it’s porn as forty minutes pass before the next sex scene. Lee, after making one more fuck flick for Mr. Cury (his porn films are referenced frequently in dialog, but Lee is never shown appearing in one), finally gets his big break in a legit movie, also courtesy of Mr. Cury. So, I guess in the world of Second Story, talent agents are also pimps? Sounds about right. Anyway, Lee becomes a huge star, and befriends Alma’s young cousin Chuck (sure), whom he meets during a celebratory gathering at the Sunseteast [sic] Showbar. “Careful, darling, he’s straight,” Alma warns.

Of course, Lee is immediately smitten, and it’s easy to see why. Chuck is played by Ray Todd, who vaguely resembles Warhol star Joe Dallesandro, and who can be counted among the best-looking performers in the movie. Unfortunately, though Todd has the sex appeal of Dallesandro, he possesses neither Dallesandro’s charisma nor his acting ability, limited though it may be. As portrayed by Todd, Chuck is not only straight as a board, he has the emotional range of one, too. So, as much as I want to ridicule the decision to have Chuck, over at Lee’s house for a swim, remove his Speedo because he’d “feel more free-er” [sic], I’ll instead praise Allen’s directorial choice for realizing where Todd’s talents lie and getting him naked as quickly as possible.

Lee’s attempts to help Chuck discover his inner bisexual fail, so the movie star hires a hustler, Big John (Joey Daniels). “Nice place you got here,” the blonde rent boy remarks upon entering Lee’s home, a comment that had me wondering what sort of shitholes his other clients lived in as Lee’s house is just a dowdy 1940s-era three-bedroom. The set for Mr. Cury’s whorehouse was more befitting a movie star. Anyway, after Lee asks his houseboy to bring drinks (beer for Big John, Champale for Lee), Big John gets down to business. “What do you like to do? Suck cock?” No, Lee couldn’t be that easy. He wants to talk. “Life is not always a basket of meat,” Lee explains. Undaunted, Big John strips so Lee can “inspect the merchandise” (for the record, he ain’t that big, but maybe he’s a grower, not a show-er), becoming indignant when Lee still shows no interest in sex. “When you’re in the fucking business and your body doesn’t sell, where do you go?” Big John asks. He storms off, leaving behind the $20 Lee paid him.

Lee returns to Mr. Cury’s brothel, this time as a client. He’s dismayed when Chuck arrives, wanting to work for Mr. Cury, but that doesn’t stop Lee from being Chuck’s first client. Allen clearly enjoys himself during this final sex scene, but Todd is as exciting a sexual performer as he is an actor, no doubt maintaining his hard-on thinking about how he’d spend his paycheck. He’s easy on the eyes, nevertheless.

During their post-fuck conversation, Lee makes one final plea for Chuck to be his lover, but Chuck resists. The movie ends with Lee, outside the theater premiering his latest movie, wondering if fame was worth the price he had to pay.

The Light from the Second Story Window is actually an adaptation of a 1972 novel of the same name—David Allen’s novel.  I can’t speak to Allen as a novelist (the cheapest copy of his book I could find was just shy of $90, so, no, I’m not reading it), but he could’ve used some guidance with his screenplay and, by extension, his directing. He clearly had a lot of ideas he wanted to express, and he was going to express every fucking one, tone, pacing and budget limitations be damned. With a nearly two-hour runtime, Second Story is half campy melodrama, half hardcore porn movie, and the two halves, unsurprisingly, don’t coexist easily. When you follow a facial with police brutality, a nervous breakdown and a monologue about the loneliness of being a homosexual, you’ve pretty much killed the mood. Though, too be fair, none of the sex scenes are particularly arousing. Between gay-for-pay performers going through the motions and performers who, politely put, are less than photogenic, it’s a porn film that defies masturbation. (Allen was too much of a twink for my tastes, but I will give him props for being appropriately enthusiastic in his sex scenes, though, interestingly, he never got hard in any of them. His scene with Lutze might have been the hottest in the whole movie had Lutze’s character not been so despicable.)

Which begs the question, why was Second Story a hardcore porn movie at all? Wouldn’t it have worked better as a softcore film? It would, but I suspect the decision to go hardcore was a commercial one. Allen was already in the porn biz, and a gay porn film was virtually guaranteed to at least break even in the early ’70s. A low-budget drama about a gay man trying to make it in Hollywood? Not so much.

Second Story is more of an adult film curiosity than porn classic, but it’s still worth checking out to get a glimpse into gay life of its era. I just wish I could find out more about the making of the movie. Unfortunately, most of the people connected with it have either died (Lutze, Cassidy, Lasky) or just disappeared. Second Story was Allen’s swan song, but if he’s still with us I’d love to hear about his experience making the movie and why he quit just as he was getting started.

ADDENDUM: I was tooling around the internet, researching for a Halloween 2021 post, when I stumbled upon what is now my new favorite podcast, Ask Any Buddy, hosted by film historian Elizabeth Purchell (who directed a film of the same name) and Tyler Thomas. In each episode the pair review and discuss gay porn movies made between 1968 and 1986, including The Light from the Second Story Window. It’s a fascinating listen, revealing that this movie’s original runtime was three hours (!), that Ann Noble was indeed a woman, that the cast was almost wholly comprised of members of the Society of Pat Rocco Enlightened Enthusiasts (SPREE), and that Stu Drexl was, in fact, Pat Rocco. I don’t necessarily agree with their assessment of Ray Todd as an actor and sexual performer (really, you thought he was good?), but we agree on the movie as a whole. Ask Any Buddy also discusses Tom De Simone’s The Idol, which I’ve also reviewed.

The Hot Promises of the NC-17 Rating Turn Cold — Again

The cover art for the Vinegar
 Syndrome release.

When the NC-17 rating was introduced in 1990 it was supposed to carry the weight of an X without any of the stigma associated with it. It was the rating that let moviegoers know that while a film was for adults only, it was not porn.

That’s all well and good, but that didn’t stop most of us from thinking that any movie slapped with an NC-17 must be chock full of explicit sex. Or was that just me?

I know it’s what I thought when I spotted the 1990 film IN THE COLD OF THE NIGHT on a Blockbuster shelf in the early ’90s. At the time, I was not aware that Blockbuster did not carry NC-17 films or that In the Cold of the Night had been cut to receive an R. All I knew was this movie was a trashy erotic thriller and, according to the VHS box on the Blockbuster shelf, it was rated NC-17, meaning it would be extra trashy. I eagerly grabbed that fucker and rented it.

The tacky VHS box that I
saw on the Blockbuster shelf in
the early 1990s.

Needless to say, my expectations were quickly dashed. It had plenty of titties and f-bombs, but nothing that made it dirtier than your standard R-rated movie. Of course, it was an R-rated movie, but would an uncut version really be much different? Very few NC-17 movies ever seem to live up to such a severe rating, the line between an R and NC-17 often so thin as to be undetectable. Usually it means a penis or two appears on screen, but, frustratingly, not always. A story with a lot of sex seems more likely to get an NC-17, but said sex wasn’t necessarily hardcore. It could, as Kirby Dick pointed out in his documentary This Film is Not Yet Rated, just come down to the actors thrusting one too many times. At least XXX porn is unambiguous. NC-17 is a sham.

And yet I fall for it every goddamned time. It’s why, when I discovered that Vinegar Syndrome released the original NC-17 cut of In the Cold of the Night on Bluray and DVD combo, I had to purchase a copy of this movie. Maybe this director’s cut would be the “good” version of the movie Blockbuster denied me back in 1990s. (Spoiler alert: this is a Nico Mastorakis film. There is no good version.)

In the Cold of the Night’s protagonist, Scott (blond n’ bland Jeff Lester), is a successful Los Angeles photographer, specializing in photos of scantily clad babes, some of whom will happily spend the night with him. After all, who can resist rolling around on that lighted-up waterbed of his? But Scott’s post-coital slumber is disrupted by a nightmare in which he creeps through a spacious single-story mansion, discovers a beautiful woman showering and then proceeds to strangle her. When Scott wakes up he’s in the middle of choking his real-life bed mate, Lena (Shannon Tweed). Lena is a surprisingly good sport about Scott’s sleep strangling, but then this shouldn’t be too surprising as her character is written essentially to be an inflatable sex doll come-to-life (“I’m a one-night kind of girl. Guys usually invite me to dinner before, not after,” she quips). His best friend (Brian Thompson) makes jokes about the dreams and a psychiatrist (David Soul) assures Scott his mental health is sound, but neither allay Scott's worries about the recurring nightmares.

A glowing waterbed may not promote a restful night’s sleep,
but fuck it, it looks cool.

Then come the hallucinations, Scott going into a trance during a photo shoot as he sees himself prowling the mystery woman’s home. Later, while at Venice Beach, he sees what appears to be a Ramones wannabe wearing a t-shirt with an airbrush portrait of the woman of his homicidal dreams. He chases Ramones Wannabe to get his shirt and find out where he got it (Ramones Wannabe ran because he stole the shirt, it not occurring to him he could’ve just lied and said a friend gave it to him). This sends Scott to one of those tacky beachside t-shirt shops, where he tries to get info about the woman’s identity from the proprietor (John Beck), but, as we all know, the relationship between a mediocre airbrush artist and his clientele is strictly confidential and cannot be breached. Scott leaves him his card, nonetheless.

The next day who should show up at his door but the woman of his nightmares, Kimberly (Adrianne Sachs), making this visit specifically to tell Scott to fuck off. Undaunted, Jeff turns up the charm and before you know it, Kimberly is parking her motorcycle (yes, she rides a motorcycle) in his studio and letting him drive her to a lunch date with her mother. Scott drives a restored classic Chevy, by the way, this being a movie where the lead characters are given unique vehicles in lieu of interesting personalities.

Adrianne Sachs’ nuanced portrayal of a stoned woman experiencing
a stroke while checking out a man’s package.

It’s not long after that that Kimberly’s stunt double is giving Scott’s stunt double a motorcycle ride through her house (yes, through her house). The boxy mansion she calls home is, unsurprisingly, the same mansion Scott has visited in his dreams. Though the motorcycle ride ends at the bedroom, the couple decides to keep their hands to themselves—until Scott barges in on Kimberly taking a shower (“What took you so long?” she asks). At this point the movie idles in Skinemax territory. Sachs’ breasts, which are just a little too firm and perfectly shaped to be true, get a lot of screen time, though I imagine the MPAA watchdogs were more troubled by the millisecond appearance of Lester’s flaccid penis, which most definitely was not in the R-rated cut. The two actors may have thrust and gyrated more times than the MPAA is comfortable with as well. Personally, I’d demand cutting a sequence in which Lester pours a bowl of marbles onto Sachs’ body and rubs them over her breasts, not to ensure an R rating but because it’s stupid. But was any of this hot enough to justify the NC-17 rating? No, not even for 1990.

Kimberly’s involvement with Scott is not coincidental, of course, and neither are Scott’s dreams. More surprising are the revelations of a mind control experiment and Marc Singer’s participation in this movie.

In the Cold of the Night could be described as Body Double crossed with Videodrome and not as good as either. Among its many problems is its being nearly two hours long, which is at least twenty minutes longer than the movie needs to be, and you’ll feel every excess minute. There’s a lot of extra fat in the movie’s first half, with scenes that exist for contrived reasons, like Scott fleeing his home to sleep among the homeless on the beach, just to set up his spotting the Ramones Wannabe the next morning. (He also treats the homeless guy on the neighboring bench to an all-you-can-eat pizza buffet, something I think was meant as comic relief, but the scene’s neither funny nor necessary.) Other scenes—interrogating John Beck’s t-shirt shop owner; that lunch with Kimberly’s mom, played by Tippi Hedren(!)—seem to exist solely to give some name actors screen time, actors who deserve a much better movie.

The lopsided casting is another one of the movie’s flaws, but it’s also what makes it such a curiosity. In the Cold of the Night is brimming with overqualified actors in small roles. Brian Thompson is married to Mastorakis’s daughter, so maybe he was just helping out his father-in-law, but how to explain David Soul, John Beck and Tippi fucking Hedren being in this thing? Even Beastmaster star Marc Singer and direct-to-video erotic thriller queen Shannon Tweed seem out of this movie’s league, especially when they’re acting opposite such uninspiring leads. Jeff Lester (a.k.a. Mr. Susan Anton) later went on to guest on Baywatch, and “Baywatch guest star” perfectly describes his talent level as an actor (he’s doing quite well as a director today, so good on him). Adrianne Sachs never landed a guest spot on Baywatch, though her talent for modeling swimwear was perfect for that show. She’s a less than ideal choice to play the femme fatale in an erotic thriller, although I guess her willingness to get naked early and often should count for something (Sachs later went on to appear in Alien Intruder, in a significantly smaller role 😕). Ultimately, I wish Mastorakis had spent less money on notable supporting players and splurged on more capable leads.

It’s clear Mastorakis was aiming for something a little more highbrow with In the Cold of the Night, but no amount of Miami Vice-inspired art direction (i.e., lots of neon decor) or notable B- and C-list names in the cast can completely cover up the director’s low-brow sensibilities. Just enough of Mastorakis’ signature tackiness bleeds through to make you wish he just gave up this attempt at being a half-priced DePalma and made the type of crass exploitation movie audiences expect from the director of Island of Death. In short, if he was going to make an NC-17 movie, he should’ve fucking made it count.