Short Takes: ‘Alpha Delta Zatan’ (2017) 1/2 ★

Gay porn without the gay or the porn.

Alpha Delta Zatan, features a cast of hot men delivering performances that can charitably be described as amateurish (absolute shit if just being honest), so naturally I checked their filmographies to see if any of them had done porn. None had—at least according to IMDb—but many of them should. I didn’t have to bother checking the filmographies of director Art Arutyunyan or writer Armand Petri for porn credits, however. Alpha Delta Zatan makes it clear that they wouldn’t know how eroticism works if it slapped them in the face with its dick.

But Alpha Delta Zatan is supposed to be a horror film, and Arutyunyan and Petri don’t have much of a grasp of how that works, either. Or basic storytelling, for that matter. This is Alpha Delta Zatan in a nutshell: A hunky member of the ADZ house strips down to his skivvies, unaware of a knife-wielding guy wearing a black Zentai body suit and harlequin mask (not “Harley Quinn,” as one actor insists on calling it) doing poses in the hall. Hunky guy then steps out of his underwear and into the shower, whereupon he’s attacked by the harlequin-masked killer. Rinse, repeat. 

That’s it. That’s Alpha Delta Zatan’s story, man-ass and murder, played on a loop, with only the color of the lighting (Artyunyan fucking loves his gels) to differentiate them from each other. There’s some business about Frat Dad Brad (Jared Fleming) mandating these killings for possible “Zatanic” reasons, and a lot of the frat brothers are shown drinking blood, but none of it is fully developed, let alone explained.

As one would expect, Alpha Delta Zatan is about as scary as David DeCoteau film. Yet, DeCoteau—early 2000s DeCoteau, specifically—would at least play up the homoeroticism, even if the guys in his casts seldom take off their boxer briefs. The guys of Alpha Delta Zatan, however, are decidedly asexual, or possibly just autosexual. They are always admiring their own bodies yet show zero interest in sex with any gender. Admittedly, several of the ADZ’s cast’s bodies are quite admirable, and certainly more to my taste than the twinks DeCoteau favors, but I started getting bored by the third shower scene; by the fourth I was hoping at least one of the guys would go full frontal, just to break the monotony (spoiler: no penises are ever shown). You’ll derive more enjoyment from watching 30-minutes' worth of “fitness inspiration” videos on YouTube than watching Alpha Delta Zatan. Or you could just watch the hard stuff [NSFW, but you knew that].

Short Takes: ‘A Closer Walk with Thee’ (2017) ★

David Gordon Green’s The Exorcist: Believer was released earlier this month to reviews ranging from meh to just don’t. I just didn’t and instead watched the 2017 gay-themed possession story, A Closer Walk with Thee, a movie The Exorcist: Believer is most definitely better than.

A group of missionaries belonging to a Christian denomination with very strict edicts against set decoration have set up shop in an East Los Angeles house with the hopes of bringing area residents to the Lord. They have their work cut out for them. Their first convert, Ascencion (Deborah Venegas), comes staggering back possessed by a demon within minutes of being baptized. (This is a horror film, after all, though it’s easy to forget that given the film is as moodily lit as the interior of a CVS.) Fortunately for Ascencion, Brother Eli (Gregory Shelby) is a crack exorcist and casts that demon out of her in time for her to be home for lunch.

But there’s a more insidious possession taking hold in one of the mission’s own members, sweet-faced organist Jordan (Aj Knight), who is not only cursed with Shane Dawson’s hairstyle but is also overcome with impure thoughts of Brother Eli (and, in one scene, the body of Christ). Jordan does his best to keep these feelings under control, but he’s powerless to resist his urges when he spies on Eli in the shower—urges that are so strong (because Brother Eli’s ass is that fine!) that he never once considers consequences of jacking off outside the bathroom door. He’s just asking to be caught by Lindsey (Kelsey Boze), the most judgmental of his fellow missionaries. But it’s going to take more than Brother Eli shouting, “Reveal yourself, you fag demon!” to turn Jordan straight.

It’s the treatment of Jordan’s possession where A Closer Walk with Thee goes from bad to patently offensive, and when my rating dropped from a star and a half to a single star. Had the writing-directing team of John C. Clark and Brie Williams chose to fully commit to satirizing the hysteria of religious fanaticism, as they do periodically in the movie’s first half, or base the horror in that same fanaticism, which, as we’ve seen again and again, is pretty damned terrifying, I might have been able to simply blame the movie’s shortcomings on a low budget and limited filmmaking experience. Unfortunately, Clark and Williams chose to literally equate being gay with demon possession, with Jordan becoming a rape-y, homicidal homo, making A Closer Walk with Thee more closely aligned with the shit peddled in an evangelical Christian “hell house” (albeit better acted) than a movie purportedly aimed at LGBTQ audiences.

And yet it’s distributed by Altered Innocence, a company “dedicated to releasing LGBTQ and Coming-of-Age [sic] films with an artistic edge.” I’d argue that A Closer Walk with Thee belongs with a different company, but faith-based outlets generally shun content with f-bombs and butt stuff. A shame, because A Closer Walk with Thee has the potential to be the best thing in PureFlix’s catalog instead of one of the worst in Altered Innocence’s. #PureFlixAfterDark.

Short Takes: ‘The Shadowed Mind’ (1988) ★★

Peter Greenaway at half price? An early work of an especially horny—and bi-curious— Richard Stanley? South African director Cedric (American Ninja 3 & 4) Sundstrom, comes really close to earning either distinction with his artsy horror/thriller The Shadowed Mind. If only he had succeeded.

Set in a private mental health hospital operating out of what appears to be an abandoned factory, Dr. Hildesheimer (Towje Kleiner), with the help of his worshipful assistant Helen (Trish Downing), treats patients with all manner of ailments, mostly of the sexual variety. Patients include childlike Matthew (Simon Poland), wrestling with body dysphoria and sexual identity; Julia (Hayley Dorskey), a victim of child sexual abuse who shows signs of multiple personality disorder; and General (Simon Sabela), who marches around in full military dress, randomly barking orders. Tellingly, General is the hospital’s most “normal” resident.

The newest arrival is Stephanie (Adrienne Pearce), a compulsive exhibitionist. She, of course, attracts the attention of others at the hospital, especially Paul (Rufus Swart, who also co-wrote the script), a patient who heretofore has been struggling to ignite a long-dormant libido, and, conversely, orderly Kurt (Evan J. Klisser, showing some serious camel toe whenever he’s clothed), who’s always hunting for partners to satisfy his hyperactive libido. Though Stephanie is quick to flash her tits, she doesn’t give in to either man’s advances as readily. Kurt, knowing he has willing partners in nurse Alice (Jennifer Steyn) and fellow orderly Nick (Nicholas Ashley Nortier), takes Stephanie’s rejection in stride. Paul, not so much.

Then people start getting murdered, and the timing couldn’t be more inconvenient, as the clinic is about to receive a $1 million grant.

Though The Shadowed Mind falls short of being good, many of its flaws are also what make it such a curious viewing experience. The script is often silly and nonsensical, but it’s also enjoyably weird. Sundstrom, helped by Ruth Strimling’s art direction and George Bartels’ cinematography, makes the most of the film’s location, yet you can’t quite suspend disbelief that a private hospital would operate in a warehouse with crumbling walls and busted out windows, no matter how artful the lighting. The performances are uneven, with several actors—Pearce and Dorskey especially—speaking as if they learned their lines phonetically, and yet these off-kilter line readings kind of work with the film’s overall vibe. The Shadowed Mind also pushes the envelope a little further than most American movies, at least as far as the sex and nudity goes, to say nothing of the queer content (the violence is tame compared to your average U.S.-made slasher), yet somehow remains in limbo between arthouse and grindhouse sensibilities.

I didn’t regret watching The Shadowed Mind, but wishing it lived up to all it could’ve been prevented me from enjoying it as much as I hoped I would.

Reading This Book Qualifies as a #MeToo Experience

The cover is the only thing I like
about Rosemary Rogers’ The Insiders.

Trigger warning: This so-called romance is chock full of sexual assault and stupidity, so proceed with caution. Also, the review is a bit long (sorry about that).

Well, I have no one to blame but myself. Though I’m not a fan of romance fiction, I went ahead and bought a copy of the late Rosemary Rogers’ 1979 novel THE INSIDERS, anyway.

In my own defense, The Insiders is from a period in the late ’70s and early ’80s when Rogers, primarily known for writing bodice-rippers, was writing more contemporary—and more explicit—fare that seemed to be aimed at Jackie Collins’ audience. Indeed, cover up Rogers’ name and The Insiders could easily be mistaken for one of Collins’ or Harold Robbins’ novels. Even the book’s synopsis (“From the breathtaking northern California coastline to the fierce, competitive media worlds of Los Angeles and New York City, Eve is caught in a whirlwind of the beautiful and the rich…”) suggests it’s more about a woman trying to make it in the sordid world of show business—well, TV news in this instance—than finding true love. I may not like romance novels, but I love books about the sordid world of show business!

I was tempted to read these Rosemary
Rogers' titles as well...until
I read The Insiders.

The Insiders is not about show business, or the TV news business. It’s not really a romance novel, either. What it is, is a total piece of shit.

The synopsis was at least honest about one thing: Eve is our main character. I guess she’s supposed to be the heroine, except that would reply she’s admirable in some way, and Rogers makes it clear that the only thing admirable about Eve, a former model turned TV reporter, is her beauty. In fact, Eve’s hotness is one of her defining character traits. The other two traits (she only has three) are her inability to get over her ex-boyfriend David and being a total idiot.

The book’s first chapter details how Eve is sleeping with Peter, “San Francisco’s most fashionable analyst,” but only on weekends, and only to distract her from David’s absence. “I take other men’s rejected lovers and make them over, doll,” Peter tells Eve. “I fuck them into forgetfulness.” Yet despite that claim, he just can’t fuck David out of Eve’s thoughts. Eve barely sheds any tears over David’s predecessor, the rich, handsome Mark Blair, who was not only instrumental in getting her a job at a local TV station but was also her lover for two years before he fucking died, yet breaking up with David has left Eve practically curled up on the floor in a fetal position, blubbering helplessly—until it’s time to fuck Peter, of course.

Given Eve’s crippling heartbreak, one would think that David is unbelievably handsome, with a successful career, a great sense of humor, a giving lover, and always supportive of Eve and her interests. Only the first two things are true. David’s most dominant characteristic is being an hemorrhoidal asshole. Rogers tries to soften David’s edges with a past tragedy, revealing that both his parents were killed in a car wreck, leaving him to care for his siblings, ranging in age from 7 to 17, yet David’s care amounts to little more than looking in on the kids every now and then. He doesn’t even live with them, paying a live-in housekeeper to stay with them in the family home in Albany, because who wants to look after kids when you could be getting laid? (OK, I’ll grant him that, but still….)

So, why did these two break up? During a weekend house party thrown by Howard Hansen, a senior partner at David’s law firm, Hansen’s conniving admin assistant/mistress Gloria sent another male guest to get into bed with a sleeping Eve, with the sole purpose of stirring shit up (and steering David to her bed). Eve protested as soon as she discovered it wasn’t David on top of her, but the man refused to stop doing what he was doing until David walked in. Eve was sexually assaulted, but David just thought she was a cheating ’ho and immediately broke up with her. Consider that foreshadowing. 

Of course, a relationship as toxic as Eve and David’s can’t end so easily. Eve poses for some cheesecake photos that appear in Stud magazine, the photos first enraging David, then making him so horny that he gives Eve a call. Eve, ever the doormat, is all too happy to let David back into her life. David, however, stipulates they will not be a monogamous couple. Though not entirely comfortable with this arrangement, Eve goes along with it if this is what it takes to keep David. David, of course, is jealous of her screwing other men, but feels he’s entitled to other women. Here’s an excerpt, detailing David’s views on commitment:

Someday, David knew, he would marry. Because it was expected of him and because it would help him form and mold the façade he expected to present to the world. But the woman he would marry would be carefully picked by his head and not by his loins. A suitable wife—suitable was the key word. Well-bred and intelligent, but not too intelligent. Not too astute or worldly-wise. Because there would always be other women—this he already realized and accepted.

Eve eventually comes to her senses and dumps David. Her taste in men, however, doesn’t improve. In fact, she ends up with someone much worse: Brant Newcomb.

The Psychopath and the Jailbait Masochist

Eve encounters Brant Newcomb earlier in the book, when she accompanies her fuck-buddy Peter to a party thrown by “a well-known rock singer” (Eve accepts the invitation when told she’d likely appear in the society pages on Peter’s arm, which would make David jealous). Brant is described as very handsome, very blond and very tan. Eve wonders if he might be gay, though it’s not exactly clear why she thinks this, especially when she knows he has a playboy reputation. Brant is also ridiculously wealthy, and about as charming as Elon. “I think—I just have the feeling we might like the same kind of things,” he says when he meets Eve. “Why don’t you come home with me tonight and find out? I’d really like to fuck you, Eve.” As charming as that offer is, Eve refuses. So, Brant offers to pay her. Eve (and the reader) come away from the encounter thoroughly disgusted.

In case it’s not entirely clear how loathsome Brant is, Rogers introduces a subplot involving David’s rebellious 17-year-old sister, Francie. After school one day, Francie, her dark hair hidden under a blond wig, hitches a ride with “some old guy driving a late-model Caddy” into San Francisco (allowing him to finger her for his trouble), where she has an appointment with photographer Jerry Harmon—the same photographer who took the pictures of Eve for Stud. Jerry hires her on the spot and starts taking photos immediately. There’s one other person present for the photo session, however: Jerry’s good friend Brant Newcomb. Brant wastes little time propositioning her, telling her that he’ll pay double what Jerry’s paying (exact amounts are never discussed) for her to pose for a “special” photo, without the wig, or much else. Following the official picture-taking, Francie joins Brant and Jerry in the bedroom, the men taking turns snapping Polaroids of her taking turns with them. Looking at the photos afterwards turns Francie on so much she “began clawing at Brant’s groin with her hands [as opposed to clawing with her nose?] until he tumbled her down onto the floor and began screwing her again, taking his time this go around, laughing all the while at her eagerness and wildness.”

And, in case a three-way involving two adult men and an underage girl aren’t enough for you:

His laughter seemed to mock at [sic] her, and she got so mad she began to bite and claw at him; then he slapped her hard, slapped her coldly again and again until her anger and viciousness subsided, and she was clinging to him, begging him in a choked voice to do it to her again, quickly.

“You’re one of those, are you, you little hellion? You dig being hurt. Okay, honey, I’m willing to oblige. Sometimes it even turns me on.”

Francie is fully in Brant’s thrall by the time he drives her home. Two days later she’s back for more abuse:

“How old are you, by the way?”

His question caught her by surprise, so that she stumbled over her lies, her voice uncertain.

“I’m—I’m twenty.”

He slapped her hard, knocking her off the bed and onto the floor.

“You’re a lying cunt. Now tell me.”

“Okay, okay, so I’m still nineteen.”

This time, he got off the bed and pulled her to her feet by her hair, walking her over to the far corner of the room, where he proceeded to wipe off all her carefully applied makeup with tissues dipped in cold cream.

Francie wriggled and cried and called him all the filthy names she could think of until he smacked her a few more times across the rump. Then she begged him to stop.

“I’m seventeen,” she sobbed. “Really, I swear it. But I’ll be eighteen this year, soon after I graduate. Honest, Brant, I’m not lying this time.”

Like an alley cat, she rubbed herself up against him, touching him eagerly, licking at his skin with short, urgent jabs. Suddenly, he began to chuckle, his anger gone.

Yes, decades before Erika Mitchell ever wrote her first sentence as Snowqueens Dragon, Rosemary Rogers was confusing abuse with BDSM.

Rosemary Rogers demonstrating in 1985 how best to enjoy her work.

Though he only visits on weekends, David notices a change in Francie’s behavior. By the time he confronts her, Francie has been a regular fixture at Brant’s place in San Francisco, helping herself to whatever drug is offered and letting herself be used by Brant and whoever happens to be visiting, including a rock band that treats her so rough that even Brant feels compelled to intervene. However, David can’t get her to confess to anything, and spanking her only turns her on, which horrifies her oldest brother (remarkably Rogers doesn’t cross that line). Only after Francie runs away does David learn of her relationship with Brant, Francie ratted out by their younger siblings.

David is furious, yet he refuses to get the police involved. Why? Because Brant Newcomb is a client of his firm. Yep, David is putting his career ahead of the safety of his sister. Eve just happens to know that Brant is having a party that very night (she was invited to attend as a gay actor’s beard) and suggests David attend so he could look for Francie. David is adamant that he cannot be involved. Eve, on the other hand…. Eve refuses, but caves when David applies just a little bit of emotional manipulation.

When Eve arrives at the party she’s surprised by, as well as suspicious of, Brant’s polite treatment of her. She accepts a drink from one of the nudie models in Jerry Harmon’s company and then wanders through Brant’s house, keeping an eye out for Francie. This part includes one of my favorite observations from Eve, one I had when I first moved to Atlanta: She could smell the acrid, burned-leaves odor of marijuana—it seemed to hang in the air, stinging her nostrils. Didn’t anyone smoke cigarettes anymore?

Eve spots Francie, looking strung out, her dress torn, and her body bruised. The crowd is too thick for Eve to get to her. Then, to Eve’s horror, Brant announces he’s having a slave auction, and Francie is the featured merchandise. Eve does try to fight her way through the crowd to get to her, but only after Brant smacks Francie around when she protests being sold to some hippie dude named Derek and is forcibly carried away to go live on his commune in New Mexico. Let’s repeat that: Eve passively watches Francie get auctioned off and only springs into action when the girl is being carried out the door. As suspected, David sending Eve to rescue his sister made about much sense as asking Lauren Boebert to lead a college course in theatre appreciation.

Obviously, Eve’s too-late attempt to do fuck-all is unsuccessful. Brant dismisses her protests, assuring that Francie was auctioned off for her own good and that Derek is a psychiatrist “into social work.” Do you trust him? Me neither, but Eve and the reader are asked to take him at his word, because Francie is now out of the book for good.

Now, with Francie gone, Eve must contend with Brant, who gets her another drink and then, under the pretense of wanting to discuss Francie, takes her to another room. This other room is his “playroom,” and the only thing Brant wants to discuss is fucking Eve. Eve announces she’s leaving. Brant accuses her of putting on an act. “Eve, it’s too late to stop anything. If you want it to be rape, then I guess I can oblige you.” And so, he does, slapping her around for good measure. As if that’s not bad enough, the party’s other guests barge in (“We watched you through the two-way mirror for a while,” says one), and proceed to join in, making this a gang rape.

It only gets worse from here.

Sorry About Raping You. Will You Marry Me Now?

We’re only at the novel’s midpoint, and already Rogers has crammed in an epic amount of offensive material. I’ll admit I was kind of impressed as I didn’t think she’d have it in her. I also hoped this would be the point in the story where Eve might develop a spine if not a personality and dump David, get violent revenge on Brant and, only because this is allegedly a romance novel, meet a man who actually treats her well.

Instead, this happens: Eve regains consciousness after her gang rape (her drinks were drugged, naturally) in Brant’s bedroom. Brant tells her that he had a physician friend check her out while she was out, assuring Brant that Eve would be OK. Isn’t that sweet? You better think so, because from this point forward Brant will be gaslighting Eve (as Rogers is gaslighting her readers) into falling in love with him, though maybe he’d stand a better chance if he didn’t start slapping her and threatening her with blackmail/revenge porn the moment she says she’ll go to the police.

Brant drives Eve home, where David is waiting for her. David, seeing Eve get out of his car, is immediately and predictably consumed with jealousy. Though Eve doesn’t do the best job of explaining what happened to her, she does make it clear she was raped. David, however, doesn’t believe her (“My God, everything you’ve told me sounds like part of some crazy trip—some coke nightmare.”) He says he’s going to leave and come back when she’s regained her senses. In a rare show of spinal rigidity, Eve tells him not to bother, they are through. Good for you, Eve!

Alas, Eve just can’t stand up to Brant (the only character to do so is Marti, Eve’s lesbian roommate, whose own story arc has very little bearing on the overall narrative other than adding homophobia to the list of this novel’s sins). His courting very much reads like an abusive husband pleading with his wife to come back from her mother’s, insisting he’s changed. Of course, in this case the abuser has unlimited funds and connections, enabling Brant to arrange for Eve to get tapped to audition for a nightly anchor spot with a New York City station, one of the few times in the book when her career is mentioned. Eve thinks she was selected because of her on-camera skills (that she allows her possible co-anchor introduce her to the joys of anal sex should also give her an edge) but learns the truth when Brant surprises her on her return flight home.

Then Brant proposes, which proves, once and for all, that he is certifiably a psychopath, especially when he says: “You’re a bloody Puritan in some ways, and yet you like to fuck, but only when you’re ready and when you want it—and that night you wouldn’t give in, would you, you stubborn bitch? You made us take it[.]” See, it was Eve’s fault for just not giving in.

Eve is not stubborn bitch. Stubborn implies she is capable of thinking for herself. No, Eve’s a stupid bitch, because she ultimately marries Brant and has a son with him! Good thing Brant is rich, because that boy is going to need lots of therapy, especially when he’s old enough to hear about how his parents met. Christ, I think Massimo and Laura of 365 Days had a healthier relationship.

This book was written during a time when rape-and-forgive trope was common in romance fiction, especially in the bodice-rippers, which had been Rogers’ bread and butter. The thing is, while rape is no less problematic in a story set in the 1800s, the mental gymnastics to explain it away as fantasy are less strenuous: the 1800s weren’t exactly a time of sexual permissiveness, especially for women, who were culturally discouraged from openly enjoying sex. “No” was the default answer, and thus men wouldn’t always accept it. But Rogers’ rape fantasy schtick doesn’t work so well in a story set in the late ’70s, making the mere act of reading of The Insiders feel like #MeToo experience. Yes, men need to learn about what consent means, but it seems like romance authors could also benefit from sitting in on those consent workshops college athletes have to attend. It’s too late for Rosemary, but maybe E.L. James could sign up, and since she’s on campus, sign up for a few writing courses as well.

I mentioned waaaaay back at the beginning of this review that The Insiders seemed to be Rogers’ attempt to muscle in on Jackie Collins’ territory. Rogers had a more expansive vocabulary (Rogers attended the University of Ceylon; Collins was expelled from Francis Holland School at age 15), but Collins was way more playful and, in her prime, had no problem getting raunchy (The Insiders has a lot of sex, but Rogers refrains from getting too graphic). The two writers had lot in common stylistically, with both taking a laissez faire—if not just plain lazy—approach to plotting (I’m pretty sure Rogers never wrote an outline for The Insiders and just made it up as she went along); both writing American characters that sound British; and neither author having much patience for describing settings, to the point where San Francisco, New York and Los Angeles could just as easily be Fresno, St. Louis and El Paso. Like Collins’ novels, The Insiders is populated with hot, vapid people, but none of the Jackie Collins novels I’ve read were ever this mean-spirited, vile and misogynistic. Eve has no real identity or agency, so maybe it’s no surprise she’s stuck choosing between two abusers. All I know is even Collins would balk at having, say, Lucky Santangelo marry her rapist. No, Lucky would make the motherfucker pay.