Double Takes: ‘Nighthawks’ (1978) ★★★ / ‘Strip Jack Naked: Nighthawks 2’ (1991) ★★★

Being gay sure seemed sexier when I was in the closet. Not that I regret coming out—Lord knows, I stayed in the closet far longer than I should have—but I when I finally did it seemed, I dunno, anticlimactic. Oh, there were tears shed by my family, with assurances that they would love me “even if you were a child molester.” (Pro tip: if someone comes out to you, please don’t ever tell them this, no matter how well meaning.) This I was prepared for and considered it the price of entry. Having paid it, I was ready for all the sexy fun. Instead, I discovered that living as an out gay man was not, as I’d hoped, like living in a Falcon or Kristen Bjorn video, but instead just as mundane as living as a straight man.

I might have been better prepared if I had watched Ron Peck’s 1978 film Nighthawks instead of all those Falcon and Kristen Bjorn videos. The movie follows Jim (Ken Robertson, delivering the film’s most natural performance), a young-ish schoolteacher who spends his nights prowling London’s gay clubs for fresh cock. That lurid premise is amplified by the film’s grainy cinematography and unpolished acting that gives Nighthawks the aesthetics of a ’70s porno flick.  

The well-built Robertson's nude scenes notwithstanding, Nighthawks isn’t all that lurid or sexy. Peck and his collaborator Paul Hallam are more concerned with capturing the awkward moments before and after Jim’s hookups, how in each instance either Jim or his Mr. Right Now make it plain that they hope this one night might lead to something more, even as they have an eye peeled for Mr. More Right. The movie perfectly captures the quiet desperation of being rejected, as when Jim waits hours in a pub for his cutest hookup to arrive for a second date, refusing to believe he’s been stood up. Yet Jim is shown to be equally callous when the hard-on is in the other man’s pants.

The film also nicely captures the delicate dance gay men of the time had to maintain between their private and professional lives. Jim is careful to drop his tricks off a block away from their jobs the next morning. Even though several of his colleagues know he’s gay, Jim tries to be discreet at his job—until near the film’s end, when one of his students asks if he is “bent.” Jim, fed up with having to hide his true self, tells the student he is, then proceeds to answer all his students’ follow-up questions, no matter how offensive. Surprisingly, he is not fired for doing so, only reprimanded, suggesting that 1978 London was still better than present-day Florida.

Nighthawks may be a significant movie, but it is not exactly an entertaining one. At nearly two-hours, this plotless film often rambles and is frequently boring, with several scenes that left me wondering if the movie had a point. There are scenes of Jim just standing in nightclubs, his eyes darting around, scoping out potential tricks, that go on for several minutes—minutes made more excruciating by Nighthawks’ atrocious ersatz disco soundtrack. 

Peck’s 1991 follow-up Strip Jack Naked: Nighthawks 2 isn’t a sequel so much as a personal essay mixed with a making-of documentary, with some bonus footage of naked men wandering around for no apparent reason other than shoehorning in some prurient content. The movie features several scenes cut from the original film (among Peck’s revelations is that the initial cut of Nighthawks was nearly three and a half hours long), and in showing them you begin to see the potential for a better edit than what was ultimately released. I, for one, would’ve gladly sacrificed one of Jim’s morning after scenes for the scene in which he goes home with a man who wants to play rough as the scene illustrates the darker side of hooking up. Then again, since this scene is explicitly sexual it may have been cut for censorship reasons. 

More compelling are Peck’s reflections on growing up queer, including a schoolboy crush gone wrong, coming out, and navigating gay life in the 1970s, when he was always on the hunt for sex but secretly hoping to find Mr. Right. “And when I thought I came close, I saw another who I thought would take me closer, and another, and another. And many a time he’d give me the slip after one night…or turn down the offer of a drink or a cigarette with a smile before walking away, as [I] did [myself] to so many others.”

Perhaps more relatable to today’s audiences are Peck’s recounting of the election of Margaret Thatcher and her government’s attack against civil liberties, specifically those regarding the LGBTQ community. The emergence of HIV-AIDS in the 1980s only added fuel to the homophobic fire. “Across the media, gay now equaled AIDS,” Peck observes. He does end Strip Jack Naked on a hopeful note, because one had reason to be hopeful in the 1990s. Not so sure about 2024.

Short Takes: ‘Gloria’ (1999) ★★

 Sharon Stone tries to downplay her
involvement in the1999 bomb Gloria by
appearing as Jodie Foster on the poster.

I remember my first reaction upon seeing trailers for the remake of Gloria in 1999 and hearing the few clips of its star Sharon Stone speaking in a Noo Yawk accent: Oh, no! Is she going to talk like that for the whole movie?

She does, but really, it’s not that bad, and neither is this Sidney Lumet-directed remake. That said, its falls well short of John Cassavetes’ 1980 original.

This time out Gloria isn’t a tough-as-nails broad but, as portrayed by Stone, a foul-mouthed, smartass floozie. Upon release from a Florida prison—one that generously provides hair and makeup services for its prisoners—she heads back to New York to break up with her gangster boyfriend Kevin (an underwhelming Jeremy Northam) and collect the money she was promised when she took the fall for him. To Gloria’s apparent surprise, her criminal boyfriend is less than accommodating. Worse, Kevin’s goons have kidnapped the 7-year-old son of the gang’s double-crossing (and recently murdered) accountant, and they have plans to make him join the rest of his slaughtered family. Not if Gloria can help it! She overtakes one of Kevin’s henchmen with a sharp knee to his nuts, grabs his gun and then forces the roomful of gangsters to empty their pockets and strip (“Unduh-weah too!”). She takes off with all their money, jewelry and the boy, Nicky (Jean-Luke Figueroa, who isn’t too irritating).

Gloria spends the rest of the movie clomping across NYC in four-inch heels, trying to protect Nicky while simultaneously looking for someone to take the kid off her hands. Along the way she dispenses such words of wisdom as: “You got a small pee-pee, men got big pee-pees. Well, some of ’em. And hopefully, one day you will too.” (Between Stone’s performance and Steve Antin’s script, I half suspect that this movie was originally intended to be a comedy.)

Though it received mostly negative reviews upon its release in January 1999, going on to earn just over $4 million against a $30 million budget, Gloria isn’t anywhere close to being the fiasco I’d anticipated. Stone has certainly done worse (take your pick). What’s surprising is that for all the name brand talent involved (in addition to Lumet and Stone, you get Cathy Moriarity, Bonnie Bedelia and George C. Scott in his final film role), Gloria feels like a B-movie, the type of thing in which Stone would’ve appeared pre-Basic Instinct, albeit as a supporting character. Stone even wears the same hairstyle from that period of her career. Maybe if the movie had been made as a belated rip-off of Gloria rather than a full-fledged remake (Sharon Stone is, uh ...Gina!) people could appreciate it as matinee trash with delusions of grandeur rather than dismissing it as failed Oscar® bait from a star trying to extend her leading lady status beyond her sell-by date. 

Race to the Middle: Ginger vs. Traci

 “Ginger, do you really think they’re going to give you an Oscar? You suck cock for a living, for God’s sake!” 

— Amber Lynn, reacting to Ginger Lynn’s
decision to pursue a mainstream acting career

The above quote came from the podcast Once Upon a Time in the Valley, which, besides revealing Amber Lynn as a surprising voice of reason, sought to uncover the mysteries behind the Traci Lords scandal. Though the podcast ultimately generates as many questions as it answers, it’s still worth a listen.

1980s-era Ginger Lynn,
photographed by Suze Randall

But back to Amber’s comment. While porn stars won’t necessarily be barred from mainstream entertainment, they’ll be lucky if they’re able to make it as far as the D-list. Sure, Sibel Kekilli’s porn past as Dilara didn’t keep her off Game of Thrones, and Sasha Grey was the lead in Steven Soderbergh’s The Girlfriend Experience, but they are recent exceptions. The sad truth is, if you suck cock for a living, you’ll not only be denied an Oscar®, you also could be denied a spot on a network reality show.

Still, as long as they make peace with the fact that they’ll never be awarded a gold statuette or know the respect attendant to reality show fame, porn stars can transition to mainstream careers. Inspired by the Once Upon a Time in the Valley podcast, I thought I’d take a look at a couple of the legit movies made by Ginger Lynn and Traci Lords, two of the biggest porn stars of the 1980s and fierce rivals (seriously, Ginger hates Traci), and see if they have the talent and star power to carry a film without sucking any cock (or doing DPs, or anal, or girl-on-girl...).

Right off the bat, I’ll say Ginger Lynn is at a disadvantage. While she has been in some bigger mainstream movies like Young Guns II and The Devil’s Rejects, those roles were too small to provide much of an impression. Also, I fucking HATED The Devil’s Rejects and have no intention of watching it again, ever. How much did I hate it? At least as much as Ginger hates Traci. I hated it so much that I watched two VICE ACADEMY movies instead.

The Vice Academy franchise is the brainchild of writer-director Rick Sloane, the man behind Hobgoblins. Suffice it to say, these movies aren’t exactly going to launch anyone’s career. If anything, the Vice Academy movies are the kind of cinematic dross that leads actors to give up on their Hollywood dreams and just do porn, so I really have to wonder what Ginger Lynn was hoping to achieve by appearing in them. Maybe she just welcomed the opportunity to appear in movies that didn’t require her to fuck Ron Jeremy, which, fair enough.

Ginger Lynn begins to wonder if maybe
Amber had a point.

VICE ACADEMY (1989) is terrible, but it is better than Hobgoblins, if only because its campy sensibility comes off as intentional rather than a byproduct of incompetence. In this Z-grade Police Academy rip-off, Ginger, using her serious actress moniker Ginger Lynn Allen, plays Holly, the stuck-up daughter of the police chief and the top of her class in the titular vice academy (mitigating factor: the combined I.Q. of all the characters in Vice Academy is 35.) Holly’s adversary is DiDi (scream queen Linnea Quigley, squawking all her lines), who, along with friends Shawnee (busty Karen Russell) and Dwayne (Ken Abraham), a character whose sole reason for existence is a repeated nut shot joke, is among the worst students in the class. In a twist, DiDi is the horny one while Holly is Miss Goody-Two-Shoes, though she dresses only slightly more modestly than DiDi. This twist means that it’s DiDi who goes undercover to bust a porno ring and later a prostitution ring. BTW, it also means Quigley is the one showing any skin. You want to see Ginger naked, watch a Ginger Lynn video. Ginger Lynn Allen is above such crass exploitation—for now, at least.

Karen Russell (center) provides half the gratuitous nudity
in Vice Academy.

Linnea Quigley provides the other half, her breasts taking
priority over including her scene partner,
Steven Steward, in the shot.

Ginger Lynn Allen isn’t in Vice Academy to do much of anything, it turns out. With the bulk of the movie devoted to DiDi’s undercover work, Vice Academy is more Quigley’s movie than Ginger Lynn’s. The few scenes featuring the leads together are often commandeered by Jayne Hamil, who cranks it up to eleven in the role vice academy instructor Miss Devonshire. The scenes not overpowered by Hamil are handily stolen by Russell and, in the role of criminal mastermind Queen Bee, Jeannie Carol — or, more accurately, Carol’s wig. Ginger Lynn gets left on the sidelines.

No one can upstage Jean Carol’s wig in Vice Academy.

Marina Benvenga is a slightly less awesome
villain in Vice Academy Part 2.

This dynamic changes in VICE ACADEMY PART 2 (1990), which has Holly and DiDi, both now officially on the police force, being assigned to take down the diabolical Spanish Fly (Marina Benvenga, looking like Ann Magnuson parodying Siouxsie Sioux), who has threatened to poison the nation’s water supply with, well, Spanish fly unless she’s given $20 million by… the LAPD? The details don’t matter. The point is, Holly and DiDi must try to infiltrate Spanish Fly’s lair at the Vicerama, which is, per Miss Devonshire, “the sleaziest, seediest and vilest nightclub in town!” (“That place isn’t so bad,” DiDi says. “They have good drink specials at happy hour.”) So, they set out to go undercover as strippers, only to find out that the Vicerama’s single job opening (“I hope you girls realize there’s only one position available,” drools the club manager) is for a bookkeeper.

When Holly and DiDi fail, the LAPD implements its newest weapon: BimboCop (Teagan Clive, of Alienator, um, fame?). BimboCop’s first assignment? Switchboard duty, proving herself to be more competent than the current dispatcher, Jeannie (Jo Brewer), who spends more time making dates with horny truckers and satisfying the sexual demands of Officer Petrolino (Scott Layne) than doing her job. Determined to show their worth to the vice squad, Holly and DiDi return to Vicerama, this time under the guise of being strip-o-gram dancers, ensuring gratuitous nudity from Quigley and Ginger Lynn. But they’re cover is soon blown, as is Miss Devonshire’s when she shows up to fill the bookkeeper job, and Petrolino’s when he just shows up. It’s up to BimboCop to save the day. Too bad Jeannie has sabotaged BimboCop’s programming (that’s what happens when you include an easily accessible “worthless” setting). Can Spanish Fly be stopped? Can the Vice Accdemy series? Rick Sloane kept on making these things, ending with Vice Academy Part 6 in 1998. I chose to stop at Part 2.

Holly braces herself for a night of #MeToo with Officer Petrolino.

Introducing BimboCop (groan).

 It’s not just the women providing the gratuitous nudity this
time around.

That may not be a cucumber in his pants.

Vice Academy Part 2 has slightly higher production values (it features a real police car!) and a lot more skin (in addition to Quigley and Ginger Lynn, Toni Alessandrini, as Vicerama stripper Aphrodite, and future Playgirl model Layne do their parts to increase the movie’s flesh quotient), but Vice Academy has more laughs. These are movies to watch with bong in hand.

The many faces of Jayne Hamil.

But how to judge Ginger Lynn’s acting ability in movies where no one gives a real performance? I’ll say that while neither Quigley nor Ginger Lynn are particularly good, they do work well as a duo, and that Ginger Lynn doesn’t stand out as egregiously terrible. But no one should really have their talent judged on their performance in a Rick Sloane movie. Ginger Lynn did get positive notices for her star turn in Bound & Gagged: A Love Story, a 1993 indie comedy co-starring Chris Mulkey and Karen Black, though the movie itself is reportedly painful to sit through. It’s also not yet available for streaming. Ginger Lynn made enough of an impression to be considered for the female lead in Martin Scorsese’s Casino, but the studio wanted Sharon Stone for the role — at least, according to Ginger Lynn’s IMDb bio; the Casino IMDb page reports that a different ex-porn star was considered for the part.

From Scandal to the C-List

 Traci Lords, 1980s

Unlike Ginger Lynn, Traci Lords had to leave the adult industry, burning so many bridges on the way out that she either had to pursue a career in mainstream entertainment or go back to being Nora Kuzma. She chose the former, obviously. While I’m sure it wasn’t easy for her to establish a mainstream career, Lords didn’t have the same burden as Ginger Lynn. Not only could Lords’ porn past be blamed, rightly or wrongly, on predatory adults taking advantage of a stupid teenager (who nevertheless was smart enough to get a fake I.D. to enter the business of adult entertainment), much of the evidence of that career had been scrubbed from the marketplace. Lords was essentially starting in Hollywood with an almost-clean slate.

(One of the theories put forth in the Once Upon a Time in the Valley podcast is that Lords’ underage porn career was part of a long con; that she intended from the beginning to report her underage status when the time was right and escape the porn business as a “survivor.” It’s an interesting theory that I don’t entirely dismiss. I certainly don’t believe Lords was an innocent teen exploited by the industry, as she reportedly portrays herself in her 2004 autobiography, but I doubt she had formed this Machiavellian scheme when she first started as a nude model.)

Lords never made the A-list, but she’s done OK on the C-list, kicking off her mainstream career by starring in the 1988 remake of Not of This Earth, directed by schlockteur Jim Wynorski, but getting even more attention for appearing in John Waters’ 1990 comedy, Cry-Baby. There were guest appearances on Married…with Children, Melrose Place, and Roseanne, as well as a role in the TV mini-series The Tommyknockers. She even released an album, 1,000 Fires, in 1995. But most of her Hollywood career has been spent starring in direct-to-video fare. Among those DTV movies was EXTRAMARITAL (1998).

Traci Lords: Journalist.

Lords plays Elizabeth, an aspiring journalist (just go with it) interning at We@r magazine, where she must endure her editor Griff (Jeff Fahey, showing off what he learned in the Kevin Spacey School for Portraying Sleazy Southerners) belittling her at every turn. Elizabeth — who sometimes goes by Beth, sometimes Lizzy — is married to Eric (Jack Kerrigan, looking like an alcoholic Mark Ruffalo), who is not altogether supportive of Lizzy/Beth pursuing her dreams, especially since she gave up a high-paying job to do so, jeopardizing their chances of getting a loan to finish renovations on their L.A. home. Nevertheless, Eric takes Elizabeth to the airport so she can fly to San Francisco to interview “a city big-wig who’s been implicated in a huge sex scandal.”

On her flight Elizabeth meets Ann (statuesque Marìa Dìaz), traveling from her Malibu home to Napa Valley where she and her husband have a ranch. The two women later bump into each other in San Francisco when they discover they’re staying at the same hotel. What are the odds? Ann is accompanied by Bob (child actor-turned-hot cub Brian Bloom), who is most definitely not her husband. And just to make doubly sure that Elizabeth understands that Bob is her side piece, Ann and Bob get the foreplay started in full view of the reporter before they’ve even opened the door to their room, which is, in yet another coincidence, right next door to Elizabeth’s.

Though mystified by Ann’s unapologetic adultery, Elizabeth is also fascinated. Isn’t it convenient that We@r magazine is doing a sex issue, allowing Elizabeth to use Ann as a source? Ann is positively eager to answer the budding reporter’s questions. When Ann isn’t telling Elizabeth about her extramarital activities, she’s showing the audience, meeting Bob at an apartment for some afternoon sexy time. It’s during this encounter that we learn Ann likes to videotape their trysts and Bob likes to spice things up, paradoxically, by wearing a cunnilingus-impairing rubber mask that makes their sex scene look like a Halloween porn parody.

The mask is supposed to be of Ann’s favorite actor,
so... Ray Liotta after suffering a debilitating stroke?

Is this sudden introduction of videotapes and Michael Myers cosplay really just a shoehorned in plot-device? You bet your cheap champagne and lace thong it is! As is Ann’s calling Elizabeth so the reporter’s answering machine can record Ann getting plowed by her masked lover (as one does). But, oops, instead of a hot cock Ann gets penetrated by the cold steel of a knife, repeatedly.

Even if is the first erotic thriller you’ve ever seen, it should be no surprise that all of these coincidences aren’t that coincidental, that Elizabeth is being used, and that Bob is being set up, but by whom? Well, rest assured, Elizabeth will figure it out, right after she samples some of Bob’s lovin’ for herself.

Serious actresses don’t show their nipples.

“I’m not laughing at you, Jeff, I’m laughing ...
OK, you got me. I’m laughing at you.”

Extramarital was released by PM Entertainment, so it goes without saying that it’s not very good. It does more closely resemble a professionally made(-for-TV) feature than the Vice Academy movies, but that doesn’t necessarily mean Extramarital is better, just more polished. Screenwriter Don O’Melveny’s story is a bit of a mess, implying that Ann was somehow complicit in setting up her own murder, and it never quite clears one of the potential suspects. Jeff Fahey, the actor you call when Eric Roberts is busy, gives the movie a needed injection of camp, but not enough to boost the Extramarital’s entertainment value. 

As for Lords, she’s fine. She holds her own against the talents of Fahey and Bloom, and she’s Meryl Streep in comparison to Dìaz, who delivers all her lines as if she’s dubbing a Doris Wishman movie. But while Lords’ is a competent actor, she isn’t a very compelling one. It’s not surprising that the bulk of her acting work has been confined to the small screen; she just doesn’t have a movie star’s magnetism. She’s got sex appeal, but Extramarital, and likely Lords herself (she’s credited as an executive producer), has little interest in playing that up. I get it, she’s playing against type and, you know, trying to distance herself from her porn notoriety, but this is an erotic thriller, so the audience can’t be faulted for having certain expectations. Alas, there are Lifetime TV movies that have hotter sex scenes than those featured in Extramarital.

Final verdict? Lords is the better actress in her bad movie, but Ginger Lynn is a lot more fun in hers.

Despite Lords’ assertion, per her IMDb bio, that she still bears the stigma of her porn years, she continued to be cast in TV shows (Profiler, First Wave) and movies (Blade, Zack and Miri Make a Porno). Ginger Lynn, who wholeheartedly owned her porn stardom, never gained much traction as a mainstream actor. Her TV roles were sporadic (guest appearances on NYPD Blue and Silk Stalkings) and her mainstream movies were mostly direct-to-video dreck like The Stranger. Predictably, Ginger Lynn returned to porn in 1999. Today, both women’s careers face a far bigger roadblock in Hollywood than their involvement in the porn industry: getting old.

Cigars, Loud Jackets and Poontang

This an instance where you can judge
a movie by its don’t-give-a-shit cover art.

There were many ways I could’ve spent the U.S. Election Night: Obsessively checking my phone for updates, watching TV news to see how many different ways anchors could say, “No, not yet,” or just getting drunk. I chose to watch a shitty 1993 direct-to-video thriller, SOUTH BEACH.

Fred Williamson stars as Mack Derringer, a retired pro football player who now runs a private investigation agency with another ex pro football player, Lenny (Gary Busey). When we meet them, they’re playing a round of golf, smoking cigars and talking shit. The two pals are seemingly without a care in the world, even though they have plenty of reasons to worry. As Lenny points out, they haven’t had a case in five weeks, a payment is due on Mack’s houseboat and their bar tab at their favorite watering hole, The Sports Page, “is as long as a tapeworm.” Mack isn’t worried, though, telling Lenny that “big things can happen at any time.”

Then Lenny leaves for a Jamaican vacation, and though his timing is questionable his departure helps ensure the amount of Gary Busey in the movie is kept to a tolerable level. Mack then takes his wheelchair-bound mom (Isabel Sanford) to the mall. He leaves her parked outside a store while he goes shopping in what looks like a Hallmark card shop, but Mama Derringer just can’t stay put, rolling to the jewelry store next door, where she witnesses a robbery in progress. 

Fred Williamson chews more cigars in South Beach, but
Gary Busey chews more scenery.

An alarm goes off and Mack rushes out of the Hallmark store, his gun drawn, though he has no idea the reason for the alarm. I mean, for all he knows, it’s a fire alarm. Anyway, Mack blows away the mullet-headed robbers, police Det. Coleman (Robert Forster, who worked with Williamson in the far superior Vigilante) lets Mack know he’s sick of his shit, and Mama Derringer hams it up for the local TV news.

Meanwhile, Mack’s ex-wife Jennifer (Vanity), who manages a phone sex business, is being stalked by one of her callers, a guy identifying himself as Billy. Jennifer dismisses the stalker as an annoyance, until she shows up at work one day, wearing a slinky black dress with matching opera gloves, as one does, and discovers the naked corpse of her dim-bulb co-worker Suzi on the office floor. 

It was Nightclub Wednesday at the office.

You might think, as I did, that hunting for Suzi’s killer/Jennifer’s stalker would become the main driver of South Beach’s story, but that’s merely a B-plot. At the Sports Page, while cutting up with his buddy Jake (a barely recognizable Peter Fonda), yet another former pro ball player, Mack is approached by Francesca (Sheree Deveraux, who, despite what her name and acting style suggests, did not do porn). She wants to hire Mack to protect her from a jealous ex-boyfriend. He reluctantly agrees, because pussy, and accompanies her to a party aboard a yacht.

It’s a set-up, of course, and before the party is over Francesca has disappeared and Mack is framed for a murder. With Jake’s help, Mack goes hunting for the person who framed him, getting occasional too-convenient-to-be-true assists from Lenny. He might also try to find out who’s after Jennifer, and, what the hell, go after the people behind that jewelry store robbery since the helmet-haired daughter of the store’s owner (Shay King) so obviously wants to get into Mack’s Dockers. 

Shay King’s movie career consists solely of
supplying South Beach’s nudity.

These three storylines—Mack being framed, Jennifer’s stalker and the jewelry store robbery—are loosely wrapped up by the end, but don’t ask me to explain how because the movie sure doesn’t, not coherently, at least. But South Beach isn’t about the destination; it’s the meandering journey, during which our leading man models loud jackets, chews through about thirty cigars and considers all the sweet poontang he’s offered, including the well-seasoned meat pocket of Stella Stevens (watching the then 54-year-old throw herself at Williamson is only slightly less cringey than the scene featuring Marquis Ross’s beachside rap performance).

Stella Stevens is actually a more age-appropriate partner for
Fred Williamson, but the movie pretends she still looks
like her 1960s self (right).

A Black Burt Reynolds

South Beach seems to be going for a vibe similar to one of Burt Reynolds’ ’80s crime movies, a mix of gritty action and smartass humor. It certainly sold me on the idea of Williamson as a Black Burt Reynolds. His ’stache isn’t as iconic and he lacks a signature laugh, but Williamson projects the same blend of no-bullshit machismo and easy-going humor as Burt. I could easily see him playing the lead in Stick or Heat.

Peter Fonda and Fred Williamson are just
a couple of zany bros.

Unfortunately, I could just as easily see Reynolds in South Beach, which more closely resembles the DTV shit he was making by the late 1990s. Michael Thomas Montgomery’s script, with its muddled plotting and underwritten characters, is partly to blame for the movie’s poor quality. I say partly because I suspect there were more than a few sequences that were improvised, e.g., the opening golf scene. And, honestly, can any scene involving Gary Busey really stay on script? Casting Busey in a movie after his 1988 motorcycle accident is like giving your best man a microphone at your wedding reception after he’s downed his sixth glass of Prosecco with a cocaine chaser. Semi-coherence is the best you can hope for.

But most of the blame goes to the director… Fred Williamson (IMDb lists Alain Zaloum as a co-director, though his name doesn’t appear on the movie’s opening credits). As cool as he is in front of the camera, Williamson isn’t so capable behind it. South Beach is sloppily made, with flubbed lines and visible safety rigging. There’s also an over-reliance on close-ups and waaaaay too many shots of Williamson grinning into the camera and handling a fucking cigar (seriously, I think he’s a fetishist about those things). 

One of the few scenes in South Beach that’s not
shot in close-up, and it captures the stunt man’s safety
rigging and filming equipment in the background.

 

 

South Beach has an interesting cast, at least. The movie can now boast that it stars three Oscar® nominees (Busey for The Buddy Holly Story, Fonda for Ulee’s Gold, and Forster for Jackie Brown), plus an Emmy winner (Sanford for The Jeffersons) and a Golden Globe winner (Stevens, but the category was Most Promising Newcomer, the Hollywood equivalent of being crowned homecoming queen). Vanity never won any awards, but she boned Prince, so that’s got to count for something. I always found her a welcome screen presence, and wish she was more of one in South Beach, her next to last movie before she quit cocaine and show business to become an evangelist (no one ever turns to God when things are going great). Rounding out the cast are cameos from Henry Silva and Flash Gordon star Sam J. Jones. The movie also has the distinction of having a high body count amongst its cast: Sanford, Forster, Fonda, Vanity, Silva and (as of Feb. 17, 2023) Stevens are now all deceased, and yet Busey is still with us.

Unless you’re a fan of the lead actors you could probably skip this one and re-watch one of their better movies. That said, there were worse things I could’ve watched on Election Night.

Fun fact: South Beach features four actors who have posed
nude for Playboy/Playgirl: Stella Stevens, Fred Williamson,
Vanity, and Sam J. Jones.

Striking Terror in the Hearts of Homophobes

It’s Halloween, so I feel compelled to review something seasonally appropriate. The works of Romero, Carpenter and Craven are typical fodder for this sort of thing, or I could look at a couple of Frank Whale and Jacques Tournier films if I wanted to get all New York Times about it (I don’t). Instead, I thought I’d explore a different type of horror director, one who pays homage to horror conventions yet puts his own unique spin on the genre. This Halloween, I’m delving into some select works from David DeCoteau.

No one should watch a David DeCoteau horror movie expecting to be scared. Even his best ones are standouts not because they succeed as horror movies, but because they possess that so-bad-it’s-good magic. Yes, DeCoteau is that kind of filmmaker, occupying the same strata as Fred Olen Ray.

Like FOR, DeCoteau is extremely prolific, with 165 directorial credits to his name as of this writing (FOR only has 159, but he has more writing and acting credits than DeCoteau). Also like FOR, DeCoteau has worked in numerous genres, from hardcore porn to family-friendly Christmas movies. Yet, regardless of the movie’s genre, the era in which it was made, or pseudonym the director uses, there are certain signifiers that reveal a movie as being a DeCoteau product, signifiers that I’ll highlight in the movies below. Though many of these themes and techniques aren’t unique to the director on their own, they are hallmarks of a DeCoteau product when combined with some very specific, recurring tropes.

DREAMANIAC

The moment Thomas Bern realized he
didn’t want to be in movies anymore.

DeCoteau’s first horror movie was this 1986 Nightmare on Elm Street cash-in (one of the movie’s taglines was, “You Don't Have to Live on Elm Street to Have Nightmares”). Adam (Thomas Bern, in his screen debut/swan song), an aspiring heavy metal musician who is never shown playing or listening to it, agrees to let his girlfriend’s snooty sister Jodi (Lauren Peterson) rent his place to host a party for her prospective sorority. When Jodi’s guests arrive it’s soon evident that the sorority she wants to join is Phi Kappa Kunt. “Do I know you?” Jodi’s sister Pat (Kim McKamy) asks Francis (Dixie Carter lookalike Cynthia Crass), a sorority member bedecked in a giant foreskin. “I doubt it,” Francis sniffs. “I went to private schools all my life and I’m rich as shit.” The men attending this party don’t fare much better, being either dorky, goofy or smarmy. Only Pat is remotely likable, though I found her initial interaction with Adam to be borderline abusive.

Julia Sugarbaker goes to college.

Luckily for the good of humanity, Adam’s also into black magic (don’t let that Def Leppard tee fool you) and has summoned a succubus, Lily (Sylvia Summers), who’s down to fuck and/or kill the party guests, though she drags her feet doing either. Among the notable-but-improbable kills: Lily entices one of the hotter guys, Ace, to strip down to his tighty whities, wraps an extension cord around him and electrocutes him, somehow. Another head-scratching kill scene has a character getting decapitated by a power drill.

Though Dreamaniac has a few OK practical effects (it’s one of DeCoteau’s bloodier movies, though that “too gory for the silver screen” tag on the poster art is total bullshit), whatever schlocky potential it may have had is dashed by Helen Robinson’s lame script, the high school play-caliber acting and heavily padded runtime. That it was shot on video doesn’t help, though the quality of its cinematography is more early ’80s porn movie than shot on shitteo. That said, the picture is still pretty murky and fuzzy, making it even more of a chore to watch. 

What makes a David DeCoteau film unique? Exhibit A.

Story-to-Runtime Ratio: Barely 40 minutes of story to an 82-minute runtime. (I swore when I first watched it the movie was 1 hour, 42 minutes, but maybe it just felt that long.)

Method(s) Used to Pad Runtime: Repeated footage; footage of people walking/running; repeated footage of people walking/running; slooooow pans; even slower opening and end credits.

Kim McKamy considers whether porn
might be less demeaning.

Has Been/Porn Star in Cast: Kim McKamy took the name Ashlyn Gere in 1990 and had a long career in adult video.

Homoerotism Level: Lower side of medium, though after executive producer Charles Band screened the movie someone from his office called DeCoteau and asked, “Are you gay?”

Percentage of Runtime Male Cast Members in Underwear: Less than 10%, though Dreamaniac has more male nudity than other DeCoteau titles.

Will it Scare Homophobes? They may bitch about the amount of man-ass on display, but otherwise, no.

THE KILLER EYE

Ryan Van Steenis never saw the Eighth
Dimension coming.

DeCoteau takes the 1950s drive-in creature feature into the craptastic direct-to-video market of 1999, spicing it up with a heavy helping of homoeroticism and a generous side of naked women. Right off the bat we have “mad” scientist Grady (Jonathan Norman) hiring a hustler (pouty twink Ryan Van Steenis) to be his lab rat. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather screw, Doc?” the hustler asks. “’Cause my rates are the same.” Unfortunately for him, Grady wants a test subject, not a blowjob. The scientist administers eye drops that should, if successful, give the subject a view into “the Eighth Dimension.” Instead, the drops transport an entity from the Eighth Dimension into the blonde twink’s eye, causing it swell so large that it pops from his head and becomes sentient. (I just wrote that!)

Grady, however, was too busy arguing with his horny wife Rita (“You want to talk about you and your orgasms now?”) to notice any of these developments. It’s only after Rita (Jacqueline Lovell) leaves to have a three-way with their downstairs neighbors, hunky stoners Tom and Joe (David Oren Ward and Roland Martinez, respectively), that Grady notices his subject is now dead. So, he calls his assistant Morton (Kostas Koromilas), who conveniently lives in the same building, to, well, assist him, much to the chagrin of Morton’s young wife Jane (Nanette Bianchi). Though it would seem that a giant floating eyeball would be hard to miss, quite some time passes before it’s discovered, even though it’s frequently hovering only a few feet away, using its phallic-like optic nerve to get Rita off while her two stoned studs doze on either side of her, then feel up Jane while she showers. 

A typical night with Jerry Falwell Jr., his wife
and their pool boy.

Meanwhile, Creepy Bill (Blake Adams, billed here as Blake Bailey), a guy who, near as I could tell, just hangs out in the apartment building’s attic, happens upon the dead hustler’s body. Because Bill’s not quite right in the head, he has no interest in blackmailing Grady (“When you tell on others, you’re just telling on yourself,” he says). Instead, he joins the search for the titular Killer Eye, which at this point is more accurately described as the Creeping Molesting Eye. Rita, Tom, Joe and Jane join their efforts to trap the giant eye, to no avail. (“It’s been floatin’ and fucking for hours, so it’s got to be getting tired,” observes Creepy Bill.) But it soon becomes quite obvious that one member in their group has no interest in stopping the sentient eyeball.

The giant, phallic eyeball from
the Eighth Dimension.

This one’s kind of fun, actually. The movie knows what it is and does what it can within its limited budget, managing to deliver a few laughs in the process. It doesn’t do it efficiently, however. For all the amusing moments, there are just as many sluggish, pointless ones. The acting is weak, but still leagues above what was seen in Dreamaniac, with several cast members delivering semi-professional performances.

Story-to-Runtime Ratio: Really only enough story here to support 70 of this movie’s 90 minutes.

Method(s) Used to Pad Runtime: Extended PG-13 sex scene; extended R-rated shower scene; repeated footage, especially of that big rubber eye; slooooow pans; even slower end credits.

Has Been/Porn Star in Cast: Jacqueline Lovell worked in adult film under the name Sara St. James.

Homoerotism Level: High (see below).

#NoHomo

Percentage of Runtime Male Cast Members in Underwear: David Oren Ward and Roland Martinez never once put on pants, so a good 30-40%.

Will it Scare Homophobes? They’ll definitely be nervous, though Lovell and Bianchi are well utilized as the movie’s beards.

VOODOO ACADEMY

The spirit of Voodoo Academy
possesses Chad Burris.

Much like this movie’s young protagonist when he enrolls in the Carmichael Bible College, my husband and I didn’t fully know what we were getting into when we rented this DeCoteau offering in the early 2000s. We knew it was trash, of course, and our expectations were appropriately low, but then we started watching it and soon realized we’d happened upon a true hidden gem.

Like The Killer Eye, this 2000 release takes a premise that would’ve been common on the movie screens of yesteryear and pulls it into the 1990s, with DeCoteau putting his own, unmistakable spin on the material.

Christopher Sawyer (Riley Smith) is a devotee of Rev. Holice Carmichael’s “Neurocystic Christian Church” (a mix of Catholicism and Scientology, as one character describes it), so he’s thrilled to be accepted into the reverend’s bible college. Of course, the school’s extremely small, all-male student body — Christopher would be the school’s sixth student — is a bit of a red flag, but Mrs. Bouvier (Debra Mayer), the school’s sole administrator, explains that’s only because Carmichael Bible College is still an experimental institution. The school isn’t even accredited yet, another red flag, as is Rev. Carmichael’s sudden introduction of confessional booths. And seeing how the Rev (Chad Burris, who looks like he could be Jeff Stryker’s little brother) interacts with his students — placing hands on their muscular thighs, fixing his seductive gaze on their young, handsome faces — you just know those booths have a glory hole. 

Kevin Calisher looks over Carmichael
Bible College’s newest student.

It’s not until Christopher’s hunky classmates succumb to the effects of drugged wine (Christopher, a staunch teetotaler, abstained), and begin writhing in masturbatory torment that the devout new student decides to investigate. When one of the students, Rusty (Huntley Ritter), walks, zombie-like, upstairs to Mrs. Bouvier’s apartment (“That’s it, Rusty, follow your urges,” Mrs. B intones), Sawyer follows and discovers the truth: Carmichael Bible College isn’t a religious school at all—it’s a front for a voodoo priestess, and its students are all sacrifices to Macudo!

Simply put, Voodoo Academy is DeCoteau’s masterwork, second only to his one stab at indie legitimacy, 1997’s Leather Jacket Love Story. While the acting isn’t that good (it’s still a DeCoteau movie), the male cast gamely sells the homoerotism, especially Burris and, as class smartass Billy, Kevin Calisher. What’s amazing about this movie is that though its content is relatively tame, it’s so heavily suggestive that by the time the final credits roll you’ll swear you saw the guys suck each other off.

The boys of Voodoo Academy can’t fight the feeling.

Story-to-Runtime Ratio: Though 92 minutes is a wee bit longer than it needs to be (80 minutes is closer to the mark), Voodoo Academy doesn’t overstay its welcome. 

Rusty is swiftly punished for following his urges.

Method(s) Used to Pad Runtime: Lingering shots of guys writhing in their underwear; repeated footage; extended opening credits; slooooow pans.

Has Been/Porn Star in Cast: Despite all the guys in the cast looking like they were plucked from Chi Chi LaRue’s stable, none of them have done porn. Debra Mayer was in several Full Moon films prior to her death in 2015, but no porn.

Homoerotism Level: Were it any higher it would be hardcore gay porn.

Percentage of Runtime Male Cast Members in Underwear: Oh, 60%, easy.

Will it Scare Homophobes? They’ll be fucking terrified.

EDGAR ALLEN POE’S HOUSE OF USHER

Frank Mentier and Michael Cardelle make
awkward, awkward love.

With his 2008 retelling of the famous Poe tale, DeCoteau doesn’t waste time with mere homoeroticism. This one’s motherfuckin’ gay! What’s more, he made it for Here! TV, the gay network that gave us the wonderfully terrible series Dante’s Cove and The Lair. Was I giddy at the prospect of watching this? You bet your Tommy Hilfiger boxer briefs!

Unfortunately, Here! TV didn’t get the director of Voodoo Academy; it got the director of the 1313 series. DeCoteau’s interest in the material doesn’t go much further than cashing a paycheck, so what should have been a campy homo horror is a boring slog. He couldn’t even be bothered to eliminate the street traffic noise from scenes that are supposed to be taking place in the gardens of a remote country estate.

Part of the movie’s undoing is its casting. Frank Mentier, as the eccentric Roderick Usher, and Michael Cardelle, as his childhood friend Victor Reynolds, are emblematic of DeCoteau’s erotomania: buff, smooth and young. While Cardelle does look good in boxer briefs — because of course DeCoteau’s going to get him stripped down to his underwear — it’s nigh impossible to believe that his character has traveled the world and seen some shit when we suspect the actor playing him is filming his scenes during his high school spring break (and, based on Cardelle’s performance, between bong hits). Mentier, looking and sounding more bored than stoned, appears to be slightly older — he was possibly on his spring break from university — but not much more believable. These characters needed to be played by men who could act, not boys who could not. Jaimyse Haft, as Roderick’s sister Madeline, tries to deliver a real performance, bless her heart, but, alas, she just doesn’t quite have the acting chops to pull it off.

Who farted?

OK, I know better than to watch DeCoteau’s movies for the acting, but when so little regard is shown for all other production aspects (the script, art direction, the pacing) you become less forgiving. The one possible saving grace House of Usher had was its sex scenes, something to appease the viewers until there’s a Next Door Studios’ House of Usher, but again DeCoteau drops the ball. Mentier makes out with both Cardelle and a blonde whatsisname, yet it barely qualifies as softcore. The actors never even remove their underwear, instead yanking them below their buttocks but keeping their genitalia covered. You’d think a man who has directed gay porn would have a better grasp of the mechanics of sex. I wasn’t expecting to see any dicks, but I thought we could get sex scenes that reached the same level of explicitness as a Shannon Whirry erotic thriller, or, you know, Dante’s Cove.

Unless you share DeCoteau’s fondness of cute guys walking around in their underwear, House of Usher isn’t even worth hate watching. Better to stick with Roger Corman’s 1960 adaptation. Or try your luck with this 1989 adaptation or this one from 2006, both movies looking like they deliver the fun kind of bad DeCoteau didn’t. If nothing else, the acting should be better.

Michael Cardelle reminds us we’re watching
a David DeCoteau movie.

Story-to-Runtime Ratio: Though there should be enough story to flesh out an 84-minute movie, Simon Savory’s uninspired script, coupled with the sluggish pacing and bad acting, make House of Usher barely tolerable for one hour.

Method(s) Used to Pad Runtime: Repeated footage; lingering shots of guys in their underwear; people walking; extended softcore sex scenes; slooooow pans.

Has Been/Porn Star in Cast: Jill Jacobson of Falcon Crest fame(?) has a cameo so inconsequential it’s insulting.

Homoerotism Level: Extremely high.

Percentage of Runtime Male Cast Members in Underwear: 50%, augmented with some male rear nudity, but neither helps.

Will it Scare Homophobes? Yes, but they’ll be bored soon enough. 

Boo!

Dreamaniac and The Killer Eye are currently streaming on Tubi.