(Not-So-)Short Takes: ‘Mea Culpa’ (2024) ★ 1/2

It’s as bad as you thought it would be.

With his latest Netflix venture, Mea Culpa, Tyler Perry tries his hand at writing and directing an erotic thriller with predictable results.

Kelly Rowland stars as Mea (oh, for fuck’s sake...), a very successful Chicago attorney with a very stressful homelife. Her husband Kal (Sean Sagar), a recovering addict, lost his job and doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to find a new one—a fact he’s keeping secret from his overbearing mother Azalia (Kerry O’Malley, who might as well be wearing a mustache so she can twirl it) and his smug older brother Ray (Sean’s real-life brother, Nick Sagar), neither of whom approve of Kal’s marriage to Mea. Mea grudgingly keeps her mouth shut about Kal’s past drug problem and current unemployment because Mom’s got cancer and only has so much time left, but playing nice is increasingly hard to do. “Don’t worry, son, your second wife will be on time,” Azalia says when Mea shows up late to her birthday dinner (Perry’s writing is as subtle as ever). Mea shoots her a look that makes it clear she just wishes the bitch would die already. The topper of this shit sundae is Kal might also be cheating on her.

Enter Zayair Malloy (Travante Rhodes, a long way down from Moonlight), a famous painter charged with murdering his girlfriend. He wants Mea to represent him, but she’s hesitant. Her punchable brother-in-law, who also happens to be the assistant D.A., is prosecuting the case. But when Kal, Azalia and Ray forbid her to accept the accused murderer as a client, Mea all but volunteers to represent Zayair pro bono. BTW, if you think there’s a potential conflict of interest in her taking the case, Perry is ahead of you, including a scene in which Mea and Ray consult a judge who acknowledges the conflict exists before deciding he’ll just sit back and see what happens.

The newly plot-armored Mea then gets down to the business of building a defense for her client, but it’s an uphill battle. Zayair not only appears guilty as hell, but he also appears more interested in boning his attorney than staying out of prison. Their meetings go thusly: Zayair mumbles some sexually suggestive lines, Mea swoons temporarily before coming to her senses and repeating lawyer-ish lines familiar to anyone who’s watched an episode or two of a TV legal drama (“It’s important you tell me everything you know.”) This goes on for almost a full hour.

Eventually, Mea caves and fucks her client, and from there Mea Culpa goes from boring to stupid, then fucking ridiculous. 

I’ve only seen one other Tyler Perry movie, Temptation (or Tyler Perry’s Temptation: Confessions of a Marriage Counselor), which was bad, but in a fun way. However, it was fucking Oppenheimer next to Mea Culpa, the plot of which suggests Perry tried to retrofit one of his past soapy dramas with a thriller plotline. That might have worked if Perry prioritized quality at least half as much as he does quantity.

Mea Culpa isn’t without its enjoyably silly moments, such as when a conversation between Zayair and Mea is interrupted by a naked woman with a speech impediment, with Zayair then leading the naked woman a few steps away so she can blow him in full view of his attorney (it makes no more sense in context). There's also a scene where Mea follows Zayair to a sex party that's happening in the back of the parking garage of his building. Is that always going on? Do tenants pay extra for that? To his credit, Perry doesn’t shy away from including a few hard-R sex scenes, but they do little to offset the movie’s leaden pacing. The batshit ending might jolt audiences awake, however, forcing them to rewind to figure out how any of it makes sense. That is if they cared, which they likely won’t.

Rowland and RonRaceo Lee, as a smartass P.I., give competent performances, while O’Malley, Nick Sagar and Angela Robinson, as a gallery owner and Zayair’s former lover, act like they’re in a Tyler Perry movie. Worst actor award goes to Rhodes, who mumbles all his lines in a bored monotone (nice body, though). However, even if this thing starred Kerry Washington and Michael B. Jordan it’s doubtful that they could overcome Perry’s indifference to pacing, character, composition, lighting (in Mea Culpa it’s either too bright or too dark, but seldom just right), editing, and believability, not to mention his problematic messaging (i.e., married career women are selfish bitches). The real mystery at the heart of Mea Culpa is how a filmmaker who has written and directed over sixty films and TV series has only gotten worse at his craft.

‘A Good Gay Item’

I remember when I first saw a copy of an International Male catalog. It was in the mid-1980s, when I was a senior in high school. My mother, a librarian, found a copy in the library’s catalog bin and brought it home. Most of the family—save my dad, who has no interest in fashion and dresses accordingly—flipped through the catalog, making fun of the clothes, though no one made fun of them more loudly than me. Yet inside I couldn’t wait to get the catalog alone, in the privacy of my room, so I could fully appreciate its contents.

But it wasn’t meant to be. After we all had a laugh at International Male’s expense, my mother promptly tucked the catalog back into her tote bag and returned it to the library the next morning. It was a good decade before I came out, but in retrospect it was clear that even then she had her suspicions. Her allowing only a limited, supervised viewing of that International Male catalog confirmed it. She also inadvertently elevated it from a mere clothing catalog to pornography in my mind.

The 2022 documentary ALL MAN: THE INTERNATIONAL MALE STORY may not be a perfect, but it perfectly encapsulates the clothing brand’s importance to, in the words of the late David Rakoff, “a certain kind of boy,” specifically those who came of age between the latter days of disco and the height of grunge.

Directors Bryan Darling and Jesse Finley Reed, with narrator Matt Bomer’s help, give us a (mostly) breezy tour of International Male’s founding, subsequent success and slow decline, as well as commentary on IM’s cultural impact, which means of course Carson Kressley and Simon Doonan are on hand to give their two cents, with an un-needed assist from stylist and “influencer”🙄 William Graper, to appeal to the kids, I guess. It’s like an episode of VH-1: Behind the Music, except instead of the pressures of recording a new hit single and touring relentlessly while battling drug addition, it’s about the pressures of selling Buns™  underwear and trying to look butch while modeling gold lamé thongs. Call it Behind the Baskets.

Fitness wear or fetish wear? The California Splits shorts allow for easy access when you go to Probe, while the handles of the digital jump rope could easily double as butt plugs. And exactly who was wearing that jock strap pendant on the lower right page? No straight (or gay) man that I know.

Luckily, Darling and Reed were able to get on-camera interviews with IM founder Gene Burkard before his death in December 2020. After a stint in the Air Force during the Korean war, Burkard took a job as a European sales rep for a liquor distributor selling exclusively to American military bases. The job afforded Burkhard, who was gay, an opportunity to not only experience the queer bars of Europe, but European culture as well (“I was always on the prowl,” he says, adding wryly: “learning, of course.”) Though the documentary makes special mention of the fact that men’s underwear design was becoming more daring in 1960s Europe, it was an item spotted in the display window of a medical supply store in London that inspired Burkard.

From left: Gene Burkard in the Air Force in the 1950s; on an appearance on the game show
What’s My Line? in 1974; and being interviewed for All Man: The International Male Story.

“There was this strange garment there. It was called a suspensory,” Burkard recalls. “I said, ‘You know, this would make a good gay item.’ So, I went and bought one.”

It wasn’t until after Burkhard returned to the U.S. in the early 1970s, settling in San Diego, Calif., that a lightbulb went off. After reading How to Make $1,000,000 in Mail Order, he designed, with the help of a pattern maker, the product that would ultimately lead to the creation of International Male: the Jock Sock.

From medical garment to sexy underwear to fashion (?) empire: the Jock Sock.

As described by IM’s former Senior Art Director Dennis Mori, the Jock Sock “is a waist band with a cup in front that hooks around your balls.” Or, as a friend of mine described it: a bag for your balls. The initial advertising for the item was restricted to publications like The Advocate (“They’d take any ad,” Burkard says), but Burkard wanted to expand his reach, so he borrowed money from a friend to place an ad in Playboy. That’s when, Burkard says, all hell broke loose. “We had so many orders, and I had one guy helping me, and he was stoned half the time.”

The timing couldn’t have been better. The recent sexual revolution had relaxed attitudes, and Playgirl was sexualizing men for women’s enjoyment (sure). Burkard decided he wanted to launch a clothing company that would, ironically, butch up how it presented men’s sexy fashions, and its catalog would be like a magazine. And so, International Male was born.

The cover and inside pages of an early issue—possibly the debut issue—of the International
Male catalog.

‘PG-13 Porn’ vs. ‘a Fag Magazine’

As portrayed by All Man, International Male, with a staff of predominantly gay men and a few straight women, was a fun, if disorganized, place to work. None of the former employees have any dirt to dish on Gene, and it’s inspiring to hear how this group of people, almost all learning on the job, were able to create such a successful company—so successful that it opened brick and mortar stores in San Diego and West Hollywood. The clientele was predominantly, but not exclusively, gay. Even superstars Cher and Barbra Streisand shopped there (that tracks).

Another one of International Male's signature items, Buns™ underwear.

Yet the patronage divas wanting something sexy for their boyfriends did little to earn International Male much respect. The IM catalog was alternately dismissed as selling sex or, per one former employee, a “fag magazine.” Yet Burkard saw it as neither. The catalog was for all men. As for sex: “You never saw the words ‘hot’ or ‘sexy.’ I didn’t want that emphasis on sex.”

But sex was certainly on the minds of many of us who got the catalog. “The day the International Male catalog would come was on par with the Sears Christmas catalog coming when you were a kid,” says writer, comedian and one-time Daily Show correspondent Frank DeCaro. “You were going to be transported into this gay fantasy. And then you were going to spank one out.”

The Undergear section (later spun off into a separate catalog) was likely a highlight for many
a horny homosexual. This section here is notable for featuring an Asian model.

Scissor Sisters’ lead singer Jake Shears details his baffling IM jack-off ritual of tearing off tiny bits of toilet paper to cover up the models’ crotches to better imagine them naked. Not judging, but this extra work seems unnecessary, given that one of the appealing aspects of the IM catalog was the models’ bulging crotches, often with the outlines of their junk plainly visible. Well, whatever works for you, Jake. (Also, the strappy bodysuit Jake wears in Scissor Sisters’ “Any Which Way” video looks like it was inspired by one of IM’s creations, if not purchased directly from the company itself.)

Actor Parvesh Cheena recalls the catalog just showing up in the mail one day. “I never signed up for it. I was never that bold. I was never, like, ‘Please, send me PG-13 porn.’”

As, um, inspiring as the models could be, few of the people featured in the documentary were taking style cues from the International Male catalog. Says actor Drew Doerge: “I’d feel ridiculous wearing this stuff, but there’s something really sexy about a model who doesn’t feel ridiculous wearing it.”

To be fair, Dalmatian print boxers with matching robe aren't the silliest of
International Male’s fashions.

Except, they did. Frequent IM model Brian Buzzini (who also posed for Playgirl) describes IM clothing as “clothes you had to be paid to wear.” Another former model, Robert Goold, says models would often try to trade assigned outfits and describes trying to affect a masculine pose while wearing them as “a professional challenge.” And those smiles on the models’ faces? That was laughter over the silly outfits they were asked to wear. Even the people putting the catalog together express astonishment that people were buying what IM is selling.

Brian Buzzini, then and now, looking just as good.

AIDS, Selling Out and the Puffy Shirt

International Male’s success continued from the hedonistic ’70s into the 1980s, when Miami Vice and MTV dominated pop culture, people were getting into shape, and paradoxically, cocaine. The ’80s also saw the emergence of HIV and AIDS, and its impact on IM was substantial. The frothy tone of All Man turns bleak as it includes a slide show of all the staff members the company lost to the virus. I counted at least 16 who died. And as the death toll from AIDS increased, so did homophobia, making it more difficult to market IM to straight men.

It was during this time that Burkard, no longer finding the business he started fun, sold the company to Hanover Direct for $25 million. (The specific year of the sale was 1987, something I had to Google as All Man isn’t big on providing specific dates.) The sale to Hanover made IM employees nervous, with good reason. “There was a terrible day in the office where they fired almost everybody,” art director Maureen Dalton-Wolf recalls.

“One day I was walking past the vice president’s door, and one of the people from Hanover was there,” says Mori. “I heard this gentleman say, ‘So, what are we going to do about the gay problem?’” Mori says he confronted them, asking, “What do you mean, ‘the gay problem?’” Unfortunately, the VP and the Hanover rep’s response is not shared on camera, though it’s clear Mori wasn’t with the company much longer.

IM’s new creative director Peter Karoll brought in a straight photographer and support crew for the catalog shoots to put the models, who were mostly straight, at ease. “There was a big gay crew who worked there, and it made me uncomfortable—it made me uncomfortable for the models.”

David Knight says he was one of two openly gay models when he worked for International Male. Goddamn, do these guys not age like normal people?

I’ll admit I found Karoll’s concern for the straight dudes’ comfort a punchable offense, especially in an age when “Don’t Say Gay” laws are a thing. My gay rage was tempered a bit when the documentary points out that Karoll employed more diverse models (including, per Wikipedia, Shemar Moore). 

Dennis Mori admits that in the six years he was art director for International Male, he only
  used two Black models. The reason: clothes modeled by POC supposedly didn’t sell as well.

As the 1990s progressed, IM faced a more competitive marketplace. The cheesiness of IM’s colorful prints, Baroque designs and synthetic fabrics was amplified when compared to Abercrombie & Fitch and Calvin Klein’s more sophisticated designs and artful marketing. Not helping was the Seinfeld episode, “The Puffy Shirt” (sold as “The Ultimate Poet’s Shirt” in the IM catalog), and the 2001 male modeling spoof Zoolander. Having entered the mainstream, IM was now a laughingstock. And yet, as All Man makes plain, so many of us (i.e., gay Boomers and Gen X’ers, with possibly a few older queer Millennials) still have a certain nostalgia for the days when we got a new edition of the catalog. Yeah, we laughed at the clothes, but the bodies that filled them we took very seriously. It wasn’t just PG-13 porn, it was starter porn.

These days, of course, kids have the Internet, so they don't need to bother imagining what treasures are stuffed in an Aussie Rower or what they’d do with the guy modeling the Brawn Bikini. They certainly can’t imagine ordering clothing from a printed catalog that arrives in the mail (what is mail?) It’s a fact that International Male, like so many retailers in the early days of the Internet, was slow to realize, and had to play catch-up when it finally started selling online. Today, the only remnant of the company is online, at undergear.com. The clothes are still cheesy (or just plain hideous), but its PG-13 porn days are clearly far behind it. 

Consider UnderGear when deciding what to wear to your next sex party: the Male Power Hose Thong, the Wicked Web Thong, or the Male Power Mesh Thong. Incidentally, these photos show more dick than you’ll see in All Man, yet the documentary does include full-frontal footage of a nude woman, as well as several pictorials from Playboy, presumably so all the straight guys watching (it’s a possibility!) don’t get too uncomfortable.

Short Takes: ‘Nuovo Olimpo’ (2023) ★★★

Strength of acting and direction keeps Nuovo
Olimpo from devolving into a soap opera.

Spanning from 1978 to 2015, director Ferzan Özpetek’s Nuovo Olimpo is epic in scope, but its story is simple. When aspiring filmmaker Enea (Damiano Gavino) locks eyes with med student Pietro (Andrea di Luigi) at the opening of the film, the attraction is as immediate as the moment is fleeting. The two men encounter each other later at the titular Nuovo Olimpo, a revival movie theater and gay cruising spot. This moment is less fleeting, and they eventually share a romantic night in a vacant (but conveniently, fully furnished) penthouse apartment owned by a friend’s grandmother. In this one night they forge a connection that promises more of such nights, and they immediately make plans to see each other again.

Of course, that’s not going to happen. The pair are separated during the ensuing chaos of a police crackdown on a student protest happening near the Nuovo Olimpo and never find their way back to each other. When their paths cross decades later—after several near-misses—there’s anticipation that they can rekindle what they had so long ego, but they may have to settle for closure instead.

Though enjoyable as a whole, Nuovo Olimpo’s first act is its best, making one wish writers Özpetek and Gianni Romoli gave Enea and Pietro at least one more night together, and give the audience a little more time to enjoy Gavino and di Luigi’s chemistry. The movie becomes slightly less interesting once it leaves 1978, with the intervening years providing little beyond updates on the characters’ careers, love lives and graying hair. Enea becomes a renowned director, partnered with the hunky Antonio (Tony Danza lookalike Alvise Rigo), while Pietro becomes a respected surgeon, married to Giulia (Greta Scarano). Interestingly, during all this time, AIDS is never mentioned. Not that it had to be, but it was very much on the minds of gay men in the 1980s so it’s not unreasonable to expect the issue to be acknowledged when Nuovo Olimpo checks in with its characters in 1988.

But Nuovo Olimpo isn’t about social commentary. It’s a romantic drama, and a pretty good one at that, never becoming sappy and/or histrionic, the pitfalls of many a romantic drama, though there are several instances where it comes dangerously close (the circumstances facilitating Enea and Pietro’s reunion could’ve been lifted from any soap opera.). Özpetek’s direction is largely responsible for the movie’s relative restraint, but it’s the performances of his leads that sell it. Gavino gives the “bigger” performance, by virtue of the fact that Enea is a more emotional character, yet he never goes over the top. Di Luigi is more subtle, communicating Pietro’s inner turmoil without having to say a word. Finally, it should be noted that both men look good naked.

Short Takes: ‘Gold’ (2022) ★★ 1/2

Zac Efron tries to convince us he’s more
than a pretty face the same way hot celebs
wear glasses to convince us they’re smart.

If he wanted to, Zac Efron could quit acting and live just as comfortably making a series of Playgirl-style videos, available exclusively on his website. The series could be called Efrotica—or possibly Zefrotica. The first episode could open with Zac, face down on a king size bed, the top sheet kicked off, revealing his tight, muscular butt encased in a pair of white briefs, a tease at what’s to come. Zac could then lazily roll out of bed, looking adorably disheveled, walk over to a window and open his drapes with a flourish, his godlike body shimmering as it’s bathed in the sun’s golden rays. The camera could then slowly glide down the length of his body, studying its rigid, perfectly sculpted contours, pausing at the bulge in his tighty-whities just long enough for us to wonder if we’ll see the full Zac. Maybe, but not in episode one, and certainly not at the standard subscription tier. That’s fine. We’ll pay the V.I.P. price, Zac, so long as you hold up your end of the bargain.

But Efron seems pretty committed to this acting thing, and lately he’s been trying to stretch, or at least prove he’s more than just a pretty face. And what better way to do that than fuck that face up in a bleak post-apocalyptic semi-western?  

Efron’s pretty face gets fucked up real good in writer-director-co-star Anthony Hayes’ Gold. When we first meet his nameless character—listed in the credits as Man One—his face is merely dirty, with a jagged scar cutting down one side of it, rendering him ruggedly handsome rather than simply beautiful. He’s hired Hayes, the cantankerous Man Two, to give him a ride to “the Compound,” their trip stalling in the middle of a desert hellscape, a.k.a. the Australian Outback, when their truck breaks down (Hayes told Efron this would happen if he turned up the A/C). It’s while Hayes is fixing the truck that Efron discovers a huge, bolder-sized chunk of gold buried in the sand, so big it will take an excavator to get it unearthed.

The bulk of the movie is devoted to Efron guarding the rock while Hayes is off to get said excavator. In Hayes’ absence, Efron must contend with scorpions, snakes, wild dogs, relentless heat, sandstorms, a dwindling food and water supply, and a smart-ass nomad (Susie Porter) who just won’t fuck off.

Though hardly the best movie of 2022, Gold is the best of the three movies Efron starred in that year. His performance is commendable, but not transformative. The raunchy comedies he’s appeared in (Neighbors, That Awkward Moment) may have successfully put his High School Musical days behind him, but Gold can’t make us see past his pretty face, no matter how blistered, cracked and bloody it gets. It does, however, succeed—frustratingly so—in hiding his highly fuckable body. 

Queer Christmas 2022 Gets Sweet n' Sticky

It probably has nothing to do with conservatives getting all worked up over LGBTQs—especially Ts—in 2022 (it’s 2004 all over again!), but there was a dearth of queer-themed holiday movies this year compared to last. Though I only reviewed Single All the Way, 2021 also had The Christmas House 2: Deck Those Halls; Under the Christmas Tree; The Bitch Who Stole Christmas; Love, Classified; Christmas at the Ranch; Christmas on the Farm; and A Jenkins Family Christmas. Christmas 2022 has a paltry three LGBTQ-themed holiday movies (four if you count Falling for Christmas, Lindsay Lohan’s attempt at a soft comeback on Netflix, which I do not).

Though Merry & Gay provided an opportunity to shine a spotlight on some lesbian holiday action and A Christmas to Treasure, a Lifetime movie directed by Jake Helgren, provided low-hanging fruit ripe for picking, I decided to check out Hallmark’s THE HOLIDAY SITTER, starring The Christmas House’s Jonathan Bennett.

But then I learned about another queer holiday movie, Falcon Studios’ CUMMING HOME FOR CHRISTMAS. Though I really didn’t want to subscribe to another streaming service, I figured, what the hell, it’s Christmas. Besides, Falcon was having a sale on memberships. How could I resist?

The two movies do have a lot of similarities. Both feature main characters who lead very hectic lives in New York City, played by men who nicely fill out a pair of slacks, though I suspect only one of them is wearing any underwear. In Sitter, Sam (Jonathan Bennett) is a financial adviser to the super rich. “Right now, I’m trying to convince one client not to buy a social media company,” he tells a date at the beginning of the movie. In Cumming, Dan (Dan Saxon) is an attorney working “twenty-four-hour days.” Maybe that’s why he’s so sleepy.

Jonathan Bennett (right) of The Holiday Sitter and Dan Saxon
of Cumming Home for Christmas play very busy men, though
only one appears to be handling the stress well (#edibles).

The characters in both movies visit families living in smaller towns for the holidays, albeit on different coasts and for different reasons. Sam originally planned on spending his holidays in Hawaii, but as he’s packing for his trip, he gets a call from his sister Kathleen (Chelsea Hobbs), asking for a favor. The surrogate with whom she and her husband Nate (Matthew James Dowden) are having a baby has gone into labor a week early. Could he watch his 13-year-nephew Miles (Everette Andres) and 8-year-old niece Dania (Mila Morgan) while they go retrieve their newborn? He’s not their preferred choice, but Mom’s in Italy and Dad’s up at the hunting cabin in Vermont where there’s no cell reception. Sam may be career-obsessed and self-absorbed, but he’s not an asshole, so he reluctantly agrees to watch his niece and nephew, postponing his trip to Hawaii and heading for the New York suburbs.

Dan, on the other hand, travels to sunny California where his brother Trevor (Trevor Brooks) lives in the family home with his partner Dakota (Dakota Payne), simply because he wants to visit. So, clearly, Dan doesn’t need to be guilted into spending time with his family. Maybe that’s because his family, unlike Sam’s in Sitter, doesn’t give him shit about putting so much energy into his career.

Jonathan Bennett smiles bravely as he walks through hell.

Of course, the families in both movies have gone all out for Christmas. Sitter’s fictional suburb of Brayden has an edge simply because it has snow and almost all its residents—all as white as the snow blanketing their town—seem to always be fighting back an urge to sing carols. In sharp contrast, there are hardly any other residents in the un-named town where Cumming is set, and the ones we do meet, while a bit more racially diverse, all appear to have a take-it-or-leave-it attitude towards the holiday, which I fear unfairly plays into conservative beliefs that the godless liberals of California have outlawed celebrating Jesus’ birthday and are mandating gay marriage between the races. However, the people populating both movies—none of whom appear to earn less than six figures—have appropriately and tastefully decked their halls, though the holiday décor of Cumming appears to be a little more upscale, like a Neiman-Marcus Christmas display. The holiday decorations of Brayden, on the other hand, are accessible to any Target shopper.

Jason (George Krissa) kisses his Mr. Right in The Holiday Sitter
while Dan Saxon kisses his Mr. Right Now, Cole Connor, in
Cumming Home for Christmas.

But while everyone in both movies appears to have ample income, not everyone enjoys financial security. Jason (George Krissa), the attractive contractor in Sitter who lives next door to Kathleen and Nate (not Kate n’ Nate, though that seems too precious for Hallmark to pass up so maybe I’m misremembering), is doing alright, but he’ll need additional funds to cover attorney fees if he goes forward with plans to adopt a child in the coming year. This need for extra cash is why Jason accepts Sam’s offer to hire him as a “co-nanny. Or manny.” Also, Jason has a bit of crush on Sam, the power of boners making him deaf to cringe portmanteaus.

The financial concerns are a bit more dire in Cumming. Trevor tells Dan that the family bakery is not doing well and could close its doors for good if business doesn’t pick up before Christmas. A bigger, corporate bakery is already angling to buy them out, cheap. As in Sitter, help comes from outside the family unit, in the muscular form of Dan’s high school boyfriend DeAngelo Jackson, played by—you guessed it—DeAngelo Jackson. Though Dan is initially reticent about getting back together with DeAngelo, he soon lets him back into his life. When Dan tells DeAngelo about the plight of the family bakery, his former-soon-to-be-current beau offers to help, arranging a meeting between DeAngelo’s friend Isaiah Taye, who “runs a bunch of restaurants in the area,” and Dakota.

Dakota is a shrewder negotiator than Trevor.

The kitchen figures in the narratives of both movies as well. Sitter establishes that Sam is not much of a cook, the movie frequently referencing the last time he babysat Miles and Dania and nearly burned down Kathleen and Nate’s house (he burned a fucking omelet, but that was enough for Kathleen and Nate to file an insurance claim, apparently). However, after Jason, who’s a fabulous cook, teaches Sam how to squirt Redi-Wip on pancakes, Sam’s suddenly whipping up a whole breakfast buffet, complete with vegan options.

Which is about as believable as the movie’s assertion those
muffins are homemade.

Meanwhile, in Cumming, DeAngelo assists Dan in the kitchen when (spoiler alert!) Isaiah Taye orders a thousand holiday cookies to serve in his restaurants. Why is the attorney being tasked with fulfilling this order and not his brother or Dakota—you know, the guys who actually run the bakery? Well, because Trevor and Dakota “have some making up to do in the bedroom.” This casual disregard for overseeing operations gives the audience insight as to why their bakery was failing to begin with. Alas, leaving Dan and DeAngelo unsupervised further jeopardizes the bakery’s future. At least when Sam finally declares his love for Jason, he has the courtesy to do so in a fashion that does not get pubes in his family’s Christmas morning breakfast.

The lawsuits alone will finish this bakery once clients discover
where the butter has been.

Who Christmases Best?

TV holiday movies are so formulaic that whether they feature CisHet or queer leads, Whites or people of color, you pretty much know what you’re in for and The Holiday Sitter and Cumming Home for Christmas are no exception. Both exist in a fantasy world where all problems, be they personal or financial, are easily solved with a Christmas miracle. The Sitter at least takes a moment to acknowledge the realities of gay life, albeit mildly, as when Sam tells Kathleen about why he’s never considered fatherhood: “You’ve known your whole life that marriage and kids were at least an option. That hasn’t been my experience.”

Yet, while Falcon gets props for casting people of color in Cumming Home for Christmas, it makes no mention of LGBTQ’s historic struggles to get the rights to marry and to adopt, instead perpetuating the myth that the only hardship a gay man faces is having to decide which hot guy to fuck and when. Well, that has not been my experience, Falcon Studios. On the other hand, it was refreshing to see a queer storyline in the 2020s that didn’t feel beholden to hetero-normative values. As John Waters once observed, not having kids is one of the privileges of being gay.

The subtle acting style of Jonathan Bennett.

Both The Holiday Sitter and Cumming Home for Christmas have strong production values, with Sitter feeling a bit more TV bound (please don’t judge the cinematography on the shitty SD stills in this post) while Cumming directors Steve Cruz and Ben Rush give their movie a more vibrant, cinematic feel. Alas, when it comes to acting, Sitter is the hands-down winner, though only Bennett truly shines (Bennett also has a story credit and was one of The Holiday Sitter’s executive producers, so this may be by design). He mugs shamelessly, but he still makes for a charming lead. Though there are a couple standout performances in Cumming Home for Christmas (Dakota Payne and Cole Connor, in a bit part as one of Dan’s hookups), most of the cast are so wooden you could use them for tentpoles. Dan Saxon has beautiful eyes and a sweet smile, but you’ll never believe for a moment that he has a job that requires an advanced degree.

Cade Maddox and Taylor Reign make
ATM festive (but no less disgusting)
for the holidays.

Of course, how can audiences expect Emmy (or Grabby) winning acting when both movies trade in cliches, with characters so blandly written that you barely remember them (this might be why Cumming’s screenwriter Rush just has the performers’ names double as character names). There are a few attempts early in Cumming to suggest it will be campy fun (Dakota: “I thought the main characters couldn’t even kiss until the last frame of these holiday greeting card movies.” Trevor: “But did anyone ever say no anal in act one?”), but that’s quickly dropped once the fucking starts, and then it’s the same ol’ “suck that big dick” drivel we’ve heard time and time again. That said, I would adopt a child just so I could sacrifice it if George Krissa were to gasp, “Oh, I love your hole,” before burying his face in Bennett’s ass, just as Dakota Payne does before giving Trevor Brooks a toe-curling rim job in Cumming.

Ultimately, for all their similarities, The Holiday Sitter is the better of the two queer Christmas movies. However, Cumming Home for Christmas does set itself apart in one important way: it’s likely one of the few Christmas movies you’ll see this year to feature candy cane butt play.

Your move, Hallmark.

Toxic Relationships Build Self-Confidence And Other Unhealthy Life Lessons

Trigger warnings: This post includes references to sexual assault and abusive relationships. It also features photos of men kissing and Charisma Carpenter nude, but I can’t believe either of those things is a problem for readers of this blog.

Goddammit! I thought I had a good six months before I’d have to review the third 365 Days movie, but that was, like a lower subscription price or fewer transphobic comedy specials, just too fucking much to ask of Netflix. So, on August 19 the streamer dropped The Next 365 Days, and now, because I hopped on the bandwagon of reviewers shitting on this softcore sludge, I feel duty-bound to review it.

But first, let’s check out one of the first Fifty Shades of Grey knockoffs, 2015’s BOUND, from the studio that brought us the Sharknado franchise.

The Asylum was so eager to capitalize on the Fifty Shades sensation buzzing between pop cultures’ trembling thighs that it not only released the first Fifty Shades-inspired knockoff, the studio released it a full month before the first movie adaptation of E.L. James’ tragically popular porno books hit theaters.

Now, just because a movie is released by the Asylum doesn’t automatically mean it will be bad. They did give us Stuart Gordon’s King of the Ants, which is actually good, and the company has put out a few Christmas-themed movies that have a gotten five-out-of-ten stars or (slightly) higher on IMDb. The fact that Bound’s story did not include any supernatural elements also gave me hope as it would not be hindered by any shitty CGI. Plus, Bound stars Charisma Carpenter of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and its spinoff Angel. That’s a good sign, isn’t it? After all, she was quoted in 2003 as saying, “I’m not going to just do anything simply because the money is good. If I can't love a project, then I’m not interested.”

This is likely the expression Charisma had
when she got to page 5 of the script.

Then I watched the movie. Charisma lied. Or, maybe she agreed to take the part only knowing the movie’s title, thinking she’d be appearing in a remake of Lana and Lily Wachowski’s acclaimed lesbian thriller, only to realize too late that she’d been duped. But, most likely, her position changed as the years went by and the career momentum from Buffy and Angel began to wane. The only reason anyone appeared in Bound is the only the only reason the movie was made to begin with: to make a quick buck.

But while Bound is a cash-in on Fifty Shades, director and co-screenwriter Jason Cohn has done what he can to ensure that it isn’t a total rip-off. Michelle Mulan (Carpenter) is no naïve college student but a single mother with a daughter about to start college and a boyfriend, George (Mark McClain Wilson), who can’t make her cum.

Though maybe don’t feel too sorry for Michelle. Sure, she may have to use a vibrator to get off, but she also lives in a house the size of a Comfort Inn.

This is Michelle’s house. I call bullshit.

Daniel Baldwin, delivering the performance
you’d expect of him.

How is Michelle able to afford a mansion, and in Southern California, no less? She’s an executive for a real estate development company run by her father Walter, played by Daniel Baldwin (OK, you can go back to feeling sorry for her). But the company is not doing so well, and Walter’s right hand man Preston (“that guy” Michael Monks, cranking it up to 11) is pushing Walter to accept a bid to be bought out by a rival. Michelle is opposed to the sale, but she doesn’t yet have an alternative idea and is immediately dismissed by Preston, who’s an asshole. Lest you think Michelle has her father’s ear, Walter says he’s “inclined” to take Preston’s recommendation. “You said you wanted to sit at the table with the big kids,” Walter tells his frustrated daughter. It should be noted that all the other “big kids” are men.

So, Michelle might live in a mansion (yes, I’m going to keep harping on it, because it’s fucking  ridiculous), but she’s not respected at work, and she’s got daddy issues. And George can’t find her clit to save his life!

Ryan hopes Michelle will overlook his Big
Rapist Energy.

Then she meets Ryan (the late Bryce Draper, no stranger to Z-grade material), who makes eyes at her from the bar while she and her daughter Dara (Morgan Obenreder) are having dinner at what looks like a nightclub repurposed as a restaurant. Michelle ignores him at first, but only because she’s in the company of her daughter. After they get back home, she realizes she “forgot” her credit card and returns to the restaurant. Ryan’s waiting for her. After introductions, he invites her to have a cigarette with him. Michelle tells him she doesn’t smoke, to which Ryan responds: “Yeah, you do.”

Let’s discuss Ryan for a moment. I get that the character is supposed to be self-confident and arrogant, with an air of danger—all qualities someone with a shaky self-esteem and a hankering for excitement might respond to. But Bound has the same problem as Darker Shades of Elise: its male lead immediately comes off as creepy and repellent rather than sexy and mysterious. Draper isn’t bad looking, but he doesn’t project the sexual magnetism his role requires. He’s not so fuckable that one would overlook Ryan’s charmless personality. I can see the desire to fuck Jamie Dornan or even Michele Morrone (were his character not a kidnapper, that is) being so strong one would ignore the warning signs, for one night at least; Draper is easier to resist.

Michelle doesn’t resist, however, and is soon letting Ryan go down on her atop her father’s desk…

“I can’t wait for him to ask where all the snail trails came from!”

… and accompanying him to a BDSM sex club, exposing her to the mild side of kink (no fisting, piss play or CBT here).

Cordelia discovers the Bronze is under new management.

Ryan’s attempt to fuck her in the alley outside the club, in full view of a guy in a leather face cage, gets a hard no from Michelle. Ryan shows he’s open to compromise and takes Michelle back to his place, which looks like they just re-arranged the sex club set. Though Michelle is cuffed to a chair and blindfolded, the BDSM trappings do little to raise the temp of this lukewarm sex scene. At least Michelle liked it, and soon thereafter she’s ditching boring, stable George for a man who gives strong serial rapist energy.

You just know the Asylum wanted to put a starburst on the
DVD cover, urging people to “See Angel’s Charisma Carpenter
nude!” Too bad Carpenter beat them to the punch by posing for
Playboy a decade earlier.

But Michelle’s improved sex life negatively impacts her career. She blew off an important meeting with the head of Elliot and Associates, one that could possibly stave off the sale of her father’s company, to take a tour of the wild side (“wild” if you think French vanilla is daring). A day or so later, she brings Ryan along to a company-sponsored fundraiser. Though the event appears to be held in the entranceway of Michelle’s home, they hire a chauffeur to take them there, and during the ride Ryan gives Michelle a clit vibrator that’s remote controlled, and guess who has the remote? 

“Oh, shit. This movie isn’t going to get any
better, is it?”

Ryan wastes little time abusing his privilege, revving up the sex toy during Walter’s speech about finding a cure for Alzheimer’s. Ryan later pulls her into a bathroom for a quickie, then insists she not fix her makeup before they rejoin the party, so she steps out of the bathroom with her lipstick smeared down one side of her face like “a messy whore.” And who should be standing in front of the bathroom door but fucking Preston, who introduces Michelle to Jesse (Noel Arthur), the head of Elliot Associates! It should be noted that Preston enjoys Michelle’s humiliation more than Ryan does.

Less amused is Walter, who chastises her for bringing a “drug dealing car thief” to the fundraiser (like Daniel Baldwin can talk). This is not only the first the audience learns of Ryan’s criminal past; it’s also the first time Michelle learns of it, and yet she never comments on this revelation or in any way seems concerned by her lover’s alleged criminal history.

This is Michelle and Ryan, two scenes later.

What ultimately brings an end to this toxic relationship is Michelle suggesting some role reversal. How about if she spanked Ryan? Ryan coldly tells Michelle to leave, then goes after someone even more vulnerable: Michelle’s daughter Dara.

Bound is neither as terrible as I thought it would be nor as fun as I’d hoped. Carpenter does what she can, but her performance seems less committed as the movie goes along, as if she realized midway through that there’s no polishing this turd, so why bother? Even with the f-bombs and nudity, it feels like a Lifetime movie, and not a particularly well-made one. The movie seems to have a particularly hard time grasping how time works: it’s nighttime when Michelle arrives home from work, but once inside her house the mid-day sun is shining through her kitchen window. Later in the movie, the camera shows the clock on Michelle’s office wall moving from 1:50 to 4:20 p.m., right before Michelle makes 2 p.m. lunch appointment for that same day. Michelle travels further back in time to drop by a Terrell Owens-hosted pool party (sure, why not) to see Ryan on her way to this 2 p.m. appointment, telling him she can only stay a minute because the restaurant where she has her meeting is 30 minutes away. It’s like a math word problem that only has wrong answers.

The nipple clamps of vengeance.

To the movie’s credit, it doesn’t pretend its story is a romance, acknowledging that Ryan and Michelle’s relationship is abusive. In a scene in which Michelle returns to the sex club for some independent research, a dominatrix warns her that Ryan isn’t in for the kink; he’s a predator. “People like Ryan give people like us a bad name.” Bound’s messaging is still a bit dicey, suggesting that abusive relationships are merely character-building. Nevertheless, it was fun to see Michelle finally beat shithead Ryan with his own cat o’nine tails, though I still felt she was a little too merciful. It’s a scene that would’ve benefitted with the addition of a crocosaurus.

Torn Between Two Kidnappers

Bad as Bound is, it at least has a story to tell, with a beginning, middle and end within a compact 90 minutes. There are now three movies in the 365 Days franchise and there’s not a complete, cohesive narrative among them. THE NEXT 365 DAYS is like trying to fuck while drunk: it never gets good, and it never finishes.

In This Day’s climactic gun battle, Laura (Anna-Maria Sieklucka) was shot by her husband/kidnapper’s ex-girlfriend Anna, whereupon Nacho (Simone Sussina)—not a gardener but the son of a rival Mafia family—shot and killed Anna. Massimo (Michele Marrone), a.k.a. Scowly, then shoots his twin brother Adriano (also Marrone), a.k.a. Twitchy. At the beginning of The Next 365 Days, it’s revealed that Adriano, who took a bullet in his shoulder, is dead, while Laura, whose liver was aerosolized, survived, suffering only a barely perceptible scar and a bad dye job. When Scowly checks on her, she wakes up and immediately she wants to fuck. 

Americans struggle to get insurance coverage
for insulin but Laura is provided false eyelashes
while recovering from a near-fatal wound. Healthcare
really is so much better in Europe.

Remarkably, Massimo urges Laura to cool it; she’s still recovering, after all. Laura storms out of the bedroom in a snit and joins her pal Olga (Magdalena Lamparska, even more annoying this time out) on the patio, because I guess Olga now lives with them permanently (for those who give a shit, Olga has “changed her mind” about marrying Domenico, though I don’t know if that means she is or isn’t marrying him and the movie never clarifies the matter). Olga tells Laura they were all afraid of losing her and Laura says she’s grateful to have a second chance. Then Olga says what I was thinking: “More alcohol! I can’t look at that hair sober.”

In stunning turn of events, a makeover montage does not follow. Instead, the movie cuts immediately to the after, when Laura, hair done and wearing a sexy black dress, interrupts Scowly’s meeting with his fellow gangsters and asks her beloved kidnapper to see her when he’s done. Though Scowly was just hours earlier refusing to give Laura a hot meat injection for fear it might put her back in the ICU, he immediately excuses himself from his meeting to go fuck the bejesus out of his horny wife (time code 10:20, but it’s not really worth it).

What’s up with that tarp? Are Scowly’s loads so huge
the walls need protecting?

But just when it looks like the couple are about to rekindle that moment in Laura’s initial captivity when she said, “Fuck it, he’s hot,” she gets a call from Nacho, who, interestingly, also kidnapped Laura, albeit in a friendlier fashion. Laura later spots Nacho at a nightclub but is intercepted by Scowly before she can say hello. Later, Scowly accuses Laura of cheating on him with Nacho, plus he’s pissed that she didn’t tell him about being pregnant. Laura snaps that she lost their baby because of his enemies. It’s so sad to see a criminal and his victim fighting. 

Laura Torricelli: Businesswoman.

There’s an attempt at make-up cunnilingus later, but Scowly intuits (through taste?) that her thoughts are elsewhere, and he’s correct: Laura is fantasizing about Nacho eating her pussy. And so begins the cold war between the Torricellis. Since the lives of these “characters” revolve almost exclusively around fucking, Laura and Scowly must find other ways to pass the time while giving each other the silent treatment. Laura, remembering she was given a fashion house for Christmas in This Day, decides to throw herself into her business, while Scowly pursues other interests: jacking off in the shower and snorting cocaine.

The rest of the movie is devoted to Laura trying to decide between two kidnappers. Since those are the only two options (the third, more sensible option of escape, followed by intense therapy, is never on the table), it should be a no-brainer: Nacho. Sure, he kidnapped her, but he at least made it appear like he was rescuing her, and he’s way more pleasant, besides. Also, in all the sex scenes in which Nacho appears (three in fantasy, one real), he seems to be a more giving lover (Scowly fucks like he’s late for an appointment). Alas, The Next 365 Days can’t make it that easy, or that final. I’m saddened to report that this one also ends on a cliffhanger, meaning there could be fourth one of these things.

Massimo Torricelli: Pud pounder.

That the possibility of a fourth installment of this supposed erotic franchise fills my heart with dread should tell you all you need to know. The Next 365 Days isn’t quite as offensive as its predecessors, but only because the movie brushes the circumstances of Laura and Scowly’s first meeting in 365 Days under a cum-stained rug and never acknowledges them. Plus, this franchise gets less and less engaging each time out so by this point I couldn’t even work up the energy to be mildly annoyed by its fucked-up sexual politics.

If you think getting drunk and screaming a lot
is funny, then you’re in for a treat: The Next
365 Days features 30% more Olga.

About the only thing The Next 365 Days has going for it is featuring more Nacho—or rather, more nude scenes from Sussina. If you were to just watch the scenes with him and Sieklucka together, you might even mistake this movie for being the erotic romance it’s pretending to be. It’s a good thing, too, because Marrone has noped out of doing any nude scenes for this one, and Sieklucka gets naked less frequently. Had directors Barbara Bialowas and Tomasz Mandes (really, it took two directors?) not included some sex scenes involving superfluous characters and/or extras the movie would be in danger of having a whole 20 minutes go by without any simulated humping. If you think that’s a complaint, it’s not. I’ll take gratuitous sex scenes over pointless montages—or “comic relief” from Olga—any day. Unfortunately, whether people are bumping uglies or slow walking into a restaurant, it’s going to be soundtracked to irritating Europop with godawful lyrics like: “Kiss me like a stranger/Come and taste my flavor/You don’t need no chaser/Just vibe on my danger.” There are no fewer than 27(!) songs featured on the soundtrack. The original cast recording of Evita only had 23, and that’s a fucking musical.

The “Good Parts”

Psych! This is as far as they go.

22:30: In the VIP room of a nightclub, Laura fondles Scowly’s crotch while an exotic dancer performs. She then joins the dancer on stage, acting like she’s about to treat Scowly—and the audience—to some girl-on-girl action, only to dismiss the dancer so she and Scowly can have some hard-pounding (but fully-clothed) sex.

A box lunch with Nacho.

30:19: Laura dreams of Nacho going down on her, and the scene really does Sussina’s ass justice. The scene transitions into Scowly eating out Laura for “real”, but Marrone keeps his pants on for the scene.

Scowly suspects this meal isn’t for him.

“Quack like a duck!”

39:00: Scowly goes with some of his Mafioso colleagues to a fetish club where lines of coke are served on trays like hors d’oeuvres. He makes out with a silicone-inflated club girl but can’t bring himself to cheat on Laura. The camera instead turns its attention to another guy in Scowly’s booth having a three-way with two latex- and leather-clad women.

41:35: Laura walks in on Emily, the lead designer at her fashion house, getting rammed from behind by a hunky model.

Emily and her boy toy pad the run time.

52:10: More fantasy sex with Nacho, this time featuring a full menu of positions: rear entry, missionary and cowgirl, all performed in smoke-filled studio under a tent of bamboo garden netting and lit by a flashlight.

Laura fantasizes of Nacho while the audience has fantasies
of the producers of The Next365 Days hiring a
lighting technician.

1:08:23: Real sex with Nacho. You know Laura is really with Nacho because you can actually see what’s going on.

Laura about to get covered in hot Nacho sauce.

1:19:08: Laura in the shower. No sex, just titties. (You’re welcome, straight male and lesbian readers.)

1:27:57: Laura is in a ménage à trois with Scowly and Nacho. The guys work their way down Laura’s body, then pause to look into each other’s eyes…and kiss! To the actors’ credit, they fucking go for it. Yes, there is tongue, and not just a little bit. Alas, just as the scene is getting interesting, Laura wakes up, because of course it’s just a dream. 

OK, now I’m interested.

If there is in fact going to be a fourth movie, I can only hope Scowly and Nacho will make my dreams come true by going all the way. But this is the 365 Days universe; nothing that interesting would be allowed to happen.

The end? That’s about as likely as Sussina and Marrone fucking
on camera.