‘I Don’t Understand…This Free Love’

There’s something horribly
wrong with Morgan
Royce’s neck!

The 1970 film SONG OF THE LOON has nothing to do with Thanksgiving beyond depicting a fantasy of how settlers in the New World interacted with Native Americans. Instead of celebrating bountiful harvests/colonization/enslavement of natives, however, Song of the Loon celebrates free love among white men and white men in redface. So…better?

The movie’s central romance is actually between two white dudes in the Old West. We meet one of those dudes at the film’s opening, Cyrus (Jon Iverson, looking like he stepped out of a Winston cigarette ad). The handsome settler, sporting a mustache that’s been sprayed gray, is walking through the woods when he happens upon two nude men on a blanket in a clearing, one white, the other also white but wearing a black wig so, “Native American.” But faux indigenous people aren’t the movie’s biggest break from reality. The Native American knows Cyrus and goes over to greet the older man. Cyrus then turns his attention to the young white guy, Luke (John Drake). “How do you like my partner?” he asks.

“You’re partner?”

“Well, lover if you like.”

Luke apologizes, but Cyrus assures him it’s cool, because in Song of the Loon, life in the 1870s western frontier was like living in the 1970s Castro District. Back at Cyrus’ cabin, while the guys sit around a fire eating stew, the older man tells Luke that he reminds him of a man he once knew, who had blue eyes and “corn-colored hair” (never mind that Luke’s hair is brown).

They’re practically twins: Luke (left) and Ephraim.

The movie then segues into a flashback that makes up the rest of the film, when the young man with corn-colored hair, Ephraim (Morgan Royce, who is indeed blond), arrived in the western frontier. “Ephraim was different….He knew nothing,” observes Cyrus in a voice over, adding: “Ephraim wanted to learn, and I wanted to teach him.”

Huh?

We have a pretty good idea of what’s included on Cyrus’ syllabus, but it’ll be a minute before he can begin instructing Ephraim in Penis Appreciation and Rectal Relaxation 101. When Ephraim paddles his canoe into the wilderness of the West (Big Pines, Calif., specifically), he is greeted by Singing Heron (John Kalfas). Singing Heron offers the blond himbo a meal and a place to rest, listening as Ephraim tells him about how his friend and traveling partner Montgomery fell for a Mr. Calvin, a spiteful preacher who turned Montgomery against Ephraim. Not that Montgomery was much of a friend/fuck buddy to begin with. “Whenever he wanted to sleep with me, he’d get drunk and say I’d forced him into it,” Ephraim says.

The Redface Tribe of Song of the Loon.

“I would show you happiness,” Singing Heron offers helpfully. Alas, despite the scene being shot like it’s for a porno film, with lots of close-up shots of Kalfas gazing seductively at Royce, nothing dirty happens.

Jon Iverson’s au naturale nature walk.

Cyrus (Jon Iverson) getting wet for Ephraim.

Nothing dirty happens when Ephraim finally meets Cyrus, either, even though the older man, now clean shaven, wastes little time encouraging Ephraim to bathe in a nearby lake (Ephraim may be cute, but he stanky), telling him he’ll join him later. Despite the set-up, the men do nothing more daring than go skinny dipping. It’s here that I should break the news that, despite its original X-rating, despite its copious nudity, and despite the fact the movie is usually streaming on adult sites (I rented it through GayHotMovies.com), Song of the Loon is not pornographic. It has more in common with a genre from the previous decade, the Nudie Cutie, except the Nudie Cuties usually tip-toed around the existence of sex. Song of the Loon does include a couple sex scenes, but they’re shot in such a way as to show fuck all of the fucking.

Hot.

The romance between Cyrus and Ephraim is kind of sweet if superficial. It’s also not exclusive, but that’s just the Old West way. Singing Heron has already chided Ephraim about his puritanical adherence to monogamy, telling him he suffers from “the white man’s disease. It’s called jealousy, sometimes selfishness.” During a tender campfire conversation with Cyrus, Ephraim says: “I don’t understand, about you, and Singing Heron, and this…free love.”

Cyrus explains free love to Ephraim.

“What free love means to you and me, it’s different to these people. It’s more of a spiritual nature. For instance, if I love someone, that doesn’t mean I can’t be with someone else,” explains Cyrus. “You have to forget your fears and jealousies.”

Cyrus silences Ephraim’s questions
about polyamory.

It’s a pitch familiar to anyone whose partner suggests opening a relationship, though I think Cyrus might be the first to attribute it to the wisdom of Native Americans (a.k.a. “these people”). To his credit, Ephraim, who is not a greenhorn so much as just plain dumb, doesn’t immediately buy into this reasoning. Cyrus’ rebuttal: “Would it make any sense if I said I was in love with you?” This brings a glycerin tear to Ephraim’s eyes—and some painful attempts at emoting to Royce’s face—and the two men kiss.

Ephraim isn’t quite ready to settle down just yet, however. He’s still on a journey, and next on the itinerary is a meeting with Bear-Who-Dreams (Lucky Manning), another member of the Redface Tribe. BWD gives Ephraim a magic mushroom and sends him naked into the woods to experience his “medicine dream” and become enlightened to the concept of free love. Stumbling around in the woods, tripping balls and with bugs biting your dick doesn’t seem like it would persuade anyone to embrace polyamory, but I’ve never done ’shooms so what do I know?

Though Ephraim is tripping solo, his mind conjures up plenty of company: Singing Heron, Cyrus and some random hot bodied Native American (possibly BWD, or maybe Iverson in a wig). Ephraim and the “Native American” get busy on the rocky shore of a river, and while this sex scene is more explicit, it’s also filmed in boner killing negative.

Artsy.

Better! Also, uncomfortable! Seriously, on the rocks? Ouch.

Jon Evans as Montgomery, strategically posed.

Another man Ephraim encounters during his medicine dream is Montgomery (beefy Jon Evans, also in Vixen!), sitting naked on rock in a position that carefully hides the good parts, pointing a gun at him. “I’m gonna kill you, you damn queer,” Montgomery snarls. But not-real Cyrus shoots an arrow into not-real Montgomery’s chest before the hirsute hunk can pull the trigger. Ephraim then wraps his arms around a tree and sobs. “You have seen many things a white man would see only in the Indian way,” BWD later pronounces, before urging the air-headed twunk to “go walk in beauty and happiness.” That walk, unsurprisingly, leads Ephraim right back to Cyrus.

Tree fucker.

A Landmark in Queer Cinema. Also, Kinda’ Boring.

Richard Amory’s gay pastoral
novel became a classic.

Song of the Loon was adapted from Richard Amory’s 1966 novel of the same name. The closest I’ve come to reading the book was attempting to buy an original paperback copy from an online queer bookseller a decade ago, only to get the disappointing news that the book had already been sold. Since then, the price of the original paperback has only gone up (it was reprinted with a don’t-give-a-shit cover design by Arsenal PulpPress in 2005). I did find this review on the Speak Its Name blog, which reports that despite the book including some cringe poetry (My hardened penis downward dips / Into your asshole darkly tight / Warmly endlessly lost from sight), it has “a tone of earnest sweetness that overcomes the camp factor.”

I found two contradictory stories regarding Amory’s involvement in the movie adaptation. According to one source, Amory wrote the movie’s screenplay (there is no screenwriter credit given in the movie, but Amory’s name and title of his benchmark novel are prominently featured in the opening credits). The more common story I found, and the one I more inclined to believe, is the author had nothing to do with the movie adaptation and was in fact disgusted by the film. All that said, the movie does strive to evoke the same “earnest sweetness” of Amory’s novel, and it often overcomes that camp factor. Unfortunately, what that means is the movie is often too inane to be taken seriously yet too well-meaning to laugh at. Also, it’s kinda’ boring.

Song of the Loon has not yet been
 released on Blu-ray, but if you have
a high tolerance of low-resolution
penises you can get a DVD
from BijouWorld.com

Though filmmaking is more competent than expected, Song of the Loon suffers the same issues of many low budget productions: the pacing is sluggish, the script unengaging, the performances community theater level—though that’s better than one would expect for a movie where the cast’s physical appearance and willingness to get naked on camera were likely given more weight than acting talent. Iverson gives the movie’s best performance while Royce gives the worst, though to be fair, I completely believed him as a man who knew nothing.

All these shortcomings might’ve been forgiven had the movie been at least titillating, yet Song of the Loon: The Movie is almost devoid of eroticism. Supposedly the novel is much more graphic (I just might have to get over my graphic design snobbery and buy that Arsenal Pulp reprint…), but the sexy content was significantly watered down for the film. One might blame this on the movie being filmed in 1969, but even at that time exploitation movies were pushing the envelope. Though Song of the Loon was lauded for being the first softcore film to portray gay love, harder fare was becoming more common when it was released in 1970. Naked men paying lip service to free love in a fantasy gay western is all well and good but personally, I prefer Tom DeSimone’s show-don’t-tell approach in Dust Unto Dust (if only the bearded blond settler could maintain wood…).

According to IMDb, Scott Hanson and Joe Tiffenbach* were hired as Song of the Loon’s director and cinematographer, respectively, but were fired when filming was nearly complete. Directing credit was given to editor Andrew Herbert, who assembled Hanson and Tiffanbach’s footage into a releasable movie. This might account for the movie’s unsatisfying conclusion, wrapping up with a montage of previous scenes and a title card summarizing “What happened to Ephraim?” The answer: he left Cyrus after a while to continue his journey. It’s a toss-up as to whether this was intended as sequel bait (Amory did write two sequels to Song of the Loon) or the filmmakers simply running out of ideas, though I’m leaning towards the latter. It might have been better if they instead ended it with some poetry about butt fucking.

Asses up!

*FUN FACT: Joe Tiffenbach went on to direct gay porn movies throughout the 1980s before his death in 1992.

The Horrors of Tacky Jewelry

Well, this was supposed to be my Halloween post, but alas, I have minimal control over how my time is prioritized and bosses usually aren’t sympathetic to employees taking a half day off for, well, anything, but especially for finishing a blog entry. But that’s fine, because in the U.S., November 2024 is way more terrifying than Halloween ever thought about being. So, consider these porno horrors a respite from the terrors of real life.

I first learned about the 1975 movie SEX DEMON from an episode of the Ask Any Buddy podcast I’d listened to a couple years ago. Host Elizabeth Purchell’s excitement at having found a print of director J.C. Cricket’s long-lost film was infectious. I immediately wanted to see it, but it turned out I’d need to book a flight—on a time machine. The podcast dropped on October 8, 2021, and it was largely focused on promoting upcoming screenings of the film in New York and Los Angeles. So, like my wanting to look like Jake Gyllenhaal, I had to accept that viewing Sex Demon was another thing that wasn’t going to happen for me.

Vintage newspaper ad via 
Dirty Looks.

Fast forward to this year. I’m still no closer to looking like Jake Gyllenhaal (apparently that requires more than prayer), but Sex Demon did get released on Blu-ray by AGFA and is now sold through Vinegar Syndrome’s sister site, Mélusine.

Lovers Jim (Steve Spahn, left) and John (Jeff Fuller) begin
their second (or third) year together.

A traditional gay anniversary gift.

At the movie’s opening, Jim (Steve Spahn, who looks like Heather Matarazzo cosplaying as a young John Travolta) awakens his older lover to announce it’s their third anniversary (referenced later in the movie as their second because Sex Demon has more important concerns than continuity). Jim then presents a tube of KY to his boyfriend John (Jeff Fuller, who sort of looks like Chris O’Dowd if you’re not wearing your glasses). John forgot their anniversary, but Jim sucks him off anyway. Even so, John rushes to a Christopher Street antiques store for “something special for someone special.” The special something he buys is a godawful gold medallion that Flava Flav would find a little much, overpriced at $20. Jim loves it, though, and refuses to take it off, even wearing it while he and John finally get around to using that KY.

The curse of bad taste.

But, as we learn via an unpacking flashback scene at the antique shop, complete with a Vaudeville-style voice over, “THIS MEDALLION IS CURSED!” The first sign of the curse occurs while Jim is doing dishes. He breaks a glass, then cuts his hand trying to pick it up. He promptly passes out, which isn’t surprising as he spills enough blood to make one wonder if he severed an artery. Then the cabinet doors fly open, and a box of cake mix falls to the counter and a colander falls to the floor. Scary! Later, though, John asks about why all the dishes were on the floor, suggesting that director Cricket initially had something more spectacular in mind than the ejection of a single box of cake mix.

Considering the city’s rat problem, I’m sure most New
Yorkers would prefer a kitchen poltergeist instead.

Jim dreams of an occult orgy, the participants of which are all wearing white eye shadow and gold glitter face paint. The sucking, fucking and fisting (yikes!) all takes place around a small altar displaying that cursed medallion front and center, along with a ceramic skull and a bunch of candles for extra spookiness. John awakens early in the morning to hear animal like grunting coming from the kitchen and goes to investigate, losing his tighty whities along the way. He discovers his lover sitting in front of the open fridge, eating raw meat.

Caught.

Foreshadowing.

An unhappy ending.

Now fully possessed by the sex demon, Jim goes to the nearest gay theater, the Gaiety Male Burlesk, which was managed by Cricket at the time. In the theater’s restroom Jim forces a guy to blow him (never mind that the guy pretty much offered to do so willingly). Jim then bends the guy over a sink and fucks him, breaking his neck and killing him the moment he cums. Another trick gets taken back to the apartment. After another forceful fuck (“Cum, you bitch!”), Jim stabs the guy in the ass with a screwdriver. Upon discovering the scene, a horrified John can no longer deny that his lover is possessed.

A scruffily attractive Good Samaritan, who had come to John’s aid earlier when Jim assaulted him on the street and who remains by his side for the rest of the movie, has remarkable insight on the situation, even knowing from which antiques store John bought the cursed medallion. John and Scruffy immediately go searching for a priest to exorcise Jim. Panama Johnson is the unfortunate man of the cloth tasked with casting the demon out of young Jim’s body, getting a mouthful of piss for his trouble. God’s one weakness! But it turns out what God can’t fix, a flight of stairs can.

Not even an exorcist can help: Panama attempts to cast out Jim’s
demon while John and a scruffy Good Samaritan look on.

So, was Sex Demon worth the wait? Yes and no. If you approach it as a grimy gay indie, Sex Demon can be a lot of fun, especially if watched with other people (those New York and L.A. screenings must’ve been a blast). It’s over the top in the best way, a cult movie in need of a cult. Cricket may be spoofing The Exorcist, but he wisely plays it straight, as it were. Fuller gives a more believable performance, but it’s Spahn who steals the show, never letting his non-existent acting skills stop him from just fucking going for it.

John hopes using the anniversary KY will vanquish
 Jim’s medallion demon.

Sex Demon is less successful as porn, with only Spahn’s flair for sucking cock and that occult orgy saving it from being a total erotic failure. Put another way, only those turned on by that scene in Pink Flamingos where Divine blows Danny Mills will need to have tissues and Jergens (and maybe a therapist’s phone number) handy while watching Sex Demon.

Sex, Murder and Crisco

Though I was glad to finally have a chance to see Sex Demon, I’d feel kind of cheated if I’d paid almost $30 for one hour-long movie. However, I paid almost $30 for three hour-long movies (the disc’s full title is Sex Demon…and Other Hauntings). Plus, you get trailers for other vintage gay porn titles. What a value!

Possibly the former lady of the house.

The homo horror continues with 1971’s DEADLY BLOWS, directed by Max Blue. Our lead is a young, overall-clad man who kind of resembles an extremely stoned Elijah Wood. (Though performers are listed, their roles aren’t. Stoned Elijah may be the performer credited as Stewart Morrison, but I could find no confirmation). Anyway, Stoned Elijah spends his days at his (?) large, Spanish colonial house, working in the garden or just chilling in his tree house. He doesn’t seem to get out much, but he does get a fair number of visitors. “Many people come to my house. Each one comes for his own reasons. None of them were invited,” says a narrator who sounds better suited for a film warning teens about the dangers of drugs than a gay porno. He certainly doesn’t sound like the sleepy-eyed, curly-haired stud we see on screen.

Stoned face.

Among those visiting Stoned Elijah are a handsome dark-haired artist and a friendly looking, bearded hitchhiker. Stoned Elijah seems welcoming at first. The artist initially wanted to draw Stoned Elijah’s house, but suspecting there might be more going on beneath those overalls asks to draw Stoned Elijah instead (“I could feel his eyes stripping away my clothes and my defenses,” intones our narrator with all the passion of a loan officer explaining the terms of your mortgage). The hitchhiker is treated to a bowl of broth and some bread (“I was in one of those paternal moods,” explains the narrator), then offered use of the shower, which he is more than happy to share with his host.

Stoned Elijah does indeed have a beautiful body, so it’s easy to understand why his visitors are so taken with him. But Stoned Elijah also has a big sexual hang-up: he can’t finish without finishing off the guy he’s fucking. The artist he beats to death with a hammer. Fittingly, the artist appears to have red paint running through his veins. Using that red paint as lube, Stoned Elijah strokes his cock in time to a Johan Sabastian Bach composition (Invention 4, maybe?). Sexy.

This is one way to avoid an awkward encounter with a trick afterward.

At least the artist got to cum first. Stoned Elijah strangles the hitchhiker mid-fuck, which is just plain rude.

The fine line between erotic asphyxia and murder is about to be crossed.

Murder is wrong, but the hair of Stoned Elijah’s
visitor is a crime.

Our homicidal hunk worries that his next unexpected visitor is a policeman even though he’s driving a green muscle car (“Maybe it was the police, and they were using a special trick car that didn’t look like a police car,” wonders our increasingly unhinged narrator). But it’s the artist’s roommate, who’s got too much sideburns and not enough mustache. Also, he might be wearing a wig. Stoned Elijah is at first evasive, then invites Sideburns inside. The artist is quickly forgotten, the two guys making out as Toccata & Fugue in D minor blares on the soundtrack. (“The whole thing was not what I was going to do, but I knew I was going to do it,” says the narrator, now sounding like he’s reading the transcript of a Sarah Palin press conference). Sideburns is extended the courtesy nutting before Stoned Elijah attempts strangling him. Things don’t go as planned, though, and Sideburns gets away. Stoned Elijah realizes there’s only one way his story can end, and that way ain’t prison.

Deadly Blows kind of has as similar vibe as Tom DeSimone’s Sons of Satan, which isn’t a surprise. Max Blue was a nom du porn of Nicholas Grippo, who produced many of DeSimone’s films before becoming a caterer to the stars. Deadly Blows is better than Sons of Satan in many ways, with a simple but slightly elliptical storyline, lush cinematography and a better-looking cast. Unfortunately, with the exception of our main character using red paint blood for lube, the sex scenes are as bland as those in Sons of Satan. There is little variation in the action and, apart from Stoned Elijah and the hitchhiker, little heat generated by the performances. 

Only the third feature, 10:30 P.M. MONDAY (1975), directed by Lucas Severin, really delivers as porn, albeit porn aimed at specific tastes. With its black and white wrap-around and overall surreal narrative, it’s also the most artsy movie on this disc if not the most original (it’s basically a grittier rip-off of/homage to Wakefield Poole’s Bijou). The main characters are a couple in their mid-to-late 30s. One of the men—tall, lanky and bearded Jeremy Wheat—is still very much in love, but his boyfriend—stocky Jeff Staller, with a thick mustache and dick—is growing bored. Staller openly cruises other guys in front of his lover and ignores Wheat’s attempts to initiate sex, preferring to jack off instead.

Marriage.

Getting ready for his big night.

The next day Staller puts a letter in their mailbox before he leaves for work. Wheat opens it later, and all it says—spelled out in letters cut from a magazine—is “10:30 p.m. Monday.” Wheat doesn’t know what it means but gets ready for whatever it is when the hour nears, taking a shower, blow-drying his hair (and balls) and donning his freshest denim ensemble. At 10:29 a Rolls-Royce pulls into the driveway and, voila, 10:30 p.m. Monday is now in color. The car delivers Wheat to a warehouse, where he’s greeted by a sexy bartender in leather chaps (Sextool’s Val Martin), who gives him a beer. Other men arrive, all of them wearing strategically ripped jeans. The men stand around talking and drinking beer, then hands begin to wander. One man bends over the table, offering his ass up as a snack to the guy next to him. Others follow suit

Let’s get this party started.

A sensual moment before breaking out the Crisco.

Weeeeee!

So far, so good. A cast of rugged guys, all into what they’re doing and enjoying doing it. Then the fisting started. A whole bunch of it, and not the comparatively reserved ass play seen in Sex Demon and Left-Handed, but full-on, Crisco-up-to-the-elbows, let-me-see-if-I-can-reach-your-esophagus-from-here handballing. For me, this is when 10:30 p.m. Monday became a horror film. The cast, however, appears to be having a good time. Per Elizabeth Purchell’s commentary track, the cast features men from L.A.’s leather scene, so all this fisting was, well, just another Monday night for them. It’s the cast’s excitement for what they’re doing that really sells 10:30 p.m., making it the hottest of the three movies on this disc, though only if you’re into fisting. Like, really into it.

Another relationship saved by group sex and fisting.

All in all, Sex Demon…and Other Hauntings is best enjoyed as a time capsule, a journey back to when, as Purchell has noted, there was no distinction between gay porn and gay cinema. Consequently, the sex in these movies often seems incidental to the filmmaking, rough though it may be. But regardless of erotic impact, Sex Demon is worth the investment. There are certainly worse gay takes on The Exorcist you could watch.

Double Takes: ‘The Louisiana Hussy’ (1959) ★★ / ‘Desire in the Dust’ (1960) ★★★ 1/2

Great title, so-so movie.

I love a good, sweaty Southern melodrama, and I can love a bad one even more. Books and movies about horny Southern belles, hunky rednecks, conniving good ol’ boys and scheming trailer tramps always pique my interest, so I was immediately drawn to these two movies from the Eisenhower era that promise all sorts of sordid shenanigans in the Deep South.

I knew I had to see The Louisiana Hussy the moment I discovered it streaming on Tubi. Its title made it all but mandatory. Nan Peterson, who sort of resembles a pre-plastic surgery Melanie Griffith, plays the titular hussy, and she causes plenty of trouble when she arrives in the bayou shanty town known as the Pit. Well, she doesn’t so much arrive as she’s brought there by brothers Jacques and Pierre (Peter Coe and Robert Richards, respectively) after they find her in the woods, unconscious after having been thrown from a horse. She comes to long enough to give her name as Minette Lanier and accuse Jacques of stealing her jewelry, before returning to a state of semi-consciousness.

The plot synopsis on Tubi says that Minette “sows discord” between the two brothers, which is only partially true (Tubi also describes New Orleans as “a small bayou town,” so maybe don’t put too much stock in their synopses.) Jacques was already pissed at Pierre for marrying Lili (Betty Lynn, before she joined the cast of The Andy Griffith Show as Thelma Lou), whom he had the hots for, but Minette just makes things worse. First, she seduces Pierre—on his wedding night no less—then, when he starts getting too suspicious about her past, she runs to Jacques, claiming Pierre forced himself on her, only to belie that accusation by promptly fucking Jacques. Jacques, the big lunk smiling for the first time in the movie, is now firmly on Team Minette, and is none too happy when Pierre relays Doc Opie’s (Tyler McVey) discovery that the real Minette Lanier committed suicide in nearby Grange Hill. Jacques’ refusal to believe him spurs Pierre and Lili (who never learns of her husband’s cheating with the hussy) to take their pontoon boat across the bayou to Grange Hill to find out just who the fuck is this woman claiming to be Minette Lanier. 

Pierre and Lili not only find out the backstory of the Pit’s visiting vixen, but they also uncover why The Louisiana Hussy isn’t quite working as a movie: the interesting part—a sexy young woman ingratiating herself into the lives of a wealthy couple, seducing the husband and driving his wife to suicide—is a mere subplot, told in flashback. The hussy of Grange Hill doesn’t sound like a woman who would be content to hang out among the poor folk of the Pit, even if she is screwing its two most attractive men (pickings are slim in the Pit, OK?), but this inconsistency is of no concern to screenwriters Charles Lang and William Rowland. Their movie is about Jacques and Pierre; the hussy is just a device to titillate audiences.

Director Lee “Roll’em” Sholem, as befitting his nickname, keeps things moving along at brisk pace, continuity be damned (Peterson is wearing flats when leaving one location, but arrives at her destination wearing high heels), delivering a few grindhouse thrills along the way, including a daring-for-its-time skinny dipping scene. But for all the movie’s efforts to appeal to audiences’ prurient interests, The Louisiana Hussy never lives up to the awesomeness of its title.

20th Century Fox transformed Harry
Whittington’s 1956 pulp novel into
a very sweaty Southern melodrama.

1960’s Desire in the Dust, also set in Louisiana, is not only better, but sweatier, too. Seriously, almost every shirt actor Ken Scott wears in this movie is sopping wet. Scott plays Lonnie Wilson, the hunky son of sharecropper Zuba (Douglas Fowley, who’s sweaty and dirty). At the movie’s opening, Lonnie is returning home after doing time for killing the youngest son of town big wig Col. Marquand (Raymond Burr, wearing dry suits but frequently wiping perspiration from his scowling face) when driving drunk. Newspaperman Luke Connett (Edward Binns) has his suspicions Lonnie was wrongly convicted, but Lonnie has more pressing issues than confirming Luke’s hunches, specifically the issue pressing up against the zipper of his pants. “After six years of goin’ without it ain’t likely he’s gonna like to be sittin’ around chatting with us,” Zuba tells his oldest daughter Maude (Margaret Field, Sally’s mom) after Lonnie drives away in the family Jeep on his first night home.

Marquand’s blonde bombshell daughter, Melinda (Martha Hyer, giving a performance that should appeal to Morgan Fairchild fans), is the woman who relieves Lonnie’s six-year case of blue balls (I can’t believe he served his entire sentence without once messing around with a cellmate, but such things weren’t acknowledged in 1960). Lonnie’s post-nut bliss is quickly dashed when he learns Melinda has married Dr. Ned Thomas (Brett Halsey). “I waited six years for you!” Lonnie rages. “You had no choice,” Melinda smirks. Melinda is content to keep Lonnie as a side piece, but Lonnie doesn’t want to share. But can he get his revenge before Marquand—with the help of Sheriff Wheaton (Kelly Thordson, also very sweaty)—silences him for good?

At the movie’s periphery are Marquand’s mentally unbalanced wife (Joan Bennett), who refuses to believe her youngest son is dead and goes ballistic whenever her nurse (Irene Ryan, better known as Granny from The Beverly Hillbillies) tells her the truth; Paul Marquand (Jack Ging), who is basically the Eric Trump of his family; and Cass (Anne Helm), Lonnie’s little sister, who’s having an affair with Paul but getting impatient for him to stand up to his domineering dad and marry her.

Desire in the Dust benefits from a strong cast (Burr, Scott, Hyer and Fowley are all great in their roles) and William F. Claxton’s direction is solid if not exactly distinctive. The movie’s greatest strength, though, is respecting Harry Whittington’s 1956 novel on which it’s based. It’s not 100% faithful, but it’s close enough to where I’d say the movie is just as good as the novel. Some aspects of the movie are a bit icky, however, and by icky, I mean incestuous. Marquand and Melinda’s interactions often suggest they are lovers rather than father and daughter, and upon seeing his little sister Cass for the first time in six years Lonnie leers, all but saying he’d like to tap that. Not sure if the suggestion of incest is meant to play into Deep South tropes or not, but it’s definitely there. It should also be pointed out that each movie features exactly one (1) Black person and they are servants to their movie’s respective wealthy characters, which just doesn’t reflect the population of either movie’s setting, though this very much reflects the time in which these movies were made.

Its uncomfortable familial interactions and unrealistic racial representation aside, I love Desire in the Dust and credit it with introducing me to the work of Harry Whittington. The only thing that would make it even better is if it had been made in the mid-1960s by Russ Meyer. Unfortunately, Desire in the Dust is not available for streaming or on Blu-ray. However, if you’re not too picky about video quality, you can get a perfectly watchable DVD-R here.

Gorilla Handjobs, Pickled Heads and Edible Dildos

The poster photo of George Kuchar and
Marion Eaton makes it clear that this ain’t
Deep Throat.

2022 has no shortage of worthwhile Halloween viewing: X, Pearl, Nope, Barbarian, Fresh, Hellraiser, the news. Terrifier 2 is so extreme it reportedly has audiences vomiting.

But none of those movies leave audiences fearing where the cucumbers in their salads have been. So, this Halloween, let’s check out director Curt McDowell and screenwriter/star George Kuchar’s 1975 underground epic, THUNDERCRACK!

Six travelers are making their way across Nebraska on a proverbial dark and stormy night. There’s Bing (Kuchar), a high-strung circus employee driving a truckful of exotic animals, grumbling to himself about how much he hates the children in the audience—but not his beloved gorilla Medusa (“Gorillas are different than children. They have more hair.”)

Elsewhere, bisexual hitchhiker Toydy (Rick Johnson) gets a ride from Sash (Melinda McDowell, the director’s sister) and her sharp-tongued, perpetually horny girlfriend—and Brooklyn Community College Grad—Roo (Moira Benson). Roo asks—demands—to see what Toydy is working with. “Oh, honey, I’d give you the formula to the atomic bomb if I knew it,” she says when the hitchhiker takes out his cock. Toydy responds: “Didn’t they teach you that stuff at Brooklyn Community College?” But then an argument erupts between Sash and Roo, and their tussling sends the car careening off the road, resulting in a fiery explosion.

Chandler feels up Bond.*

The fire is witnessed by two other travelers: another hitchhiker, Bond (Ken Scudder), and, at the wheel, Chandler (Mookie Blodgett, a.k.a. Phillip Heffernan), widower of the late Sarah Lou Phillips, the heiress to the House of Phillips Unlimited girdle empire. However, the two men have other things on their minds than the source of the fire. Chandler asks his passenger if his admiring glances at Bond’s “rather extravagant torso” have made him ill at ease. “Well, no,” Bond responds. “It’s just that all you’re doing is just looking.”

The guys are interrupted when they’re flagged down by another traveler, Willene Cassidy (Maggie Pyle), virgin wife of country rock star Simon Cassidy. She also saw the explosion in the distance, and she urges Chandler and Bond to go investigate its source. Chandler wants to keep going to Waco, where he plans to burn down the House of Phillips factory. “You scare me, Mister,” Willene says. “You’re talking like some kind of beatnik.”

“Supposing I am,” Chandler replies. “What have you got against beatniks?”

“Well, for one thing, their bongo drums.”

Bond ultimately convinces Chandler to go investigate the scene of the fire, suggesting he’ll let the bi-curious Chandler have full use of his body if he does. Willene then goes to a nearby farmhouse to call for help. 

Prairie Blossom: An artist's representation.

The lady of the house, Gert (Marion Eaton), may not be much help. When Willene pounds on the door and calls out, the inebriated Gert gasps: “My God, that was a human voice. A woman’s voice!” The shitfaced widow rushes to fix herself up before opening the door. Since she’s wearing only a slip and high heels, one would think she’d simply put a dress on, or maybe a robe, but instead Gert puts on a wig and draws on dark, asymmetrical eyebrows (a Kuchar trademark). Realizing she’s too drunk to receive visitors, Gert sticks her fingers down her throat, but, uh-oh, her wig falls in the toilet just as she’s blowing chunks. No worries. Gert just shakes the vomit off her wig, puts it back on her head and finally lets Willene into the house. 

 

Gert gets ready to receive visitors.

Willene helps Gert cum clean.

Willene politely listens to Gert stumble through the history of Prairie Blossom, the house she and her late husband Charlie Hammond built, before guiding the poor thing into the bathroom to bathe her. “Would you mind washin’ me a little lower, please?” Gert simperingly asks. The seemingly naïve wife of country rock star Simon Cassidy obliges, getting a grateful thank you from Gert when she gets the widow off with a vigorous scrubbing.

Bond and Chandler arrive with Roo, Toydy and Sash, who conveniently escaped their wrecked car before it exploded. Everyone is irritable, but Gert, revivified from her recent bath and orgasm (as well as being more than a little nuts) welcomes everyone with a bright smile and opens her closet to her cranky guests, urging them to help themselves to some dry clothes. They must change clothes in the bedroom at the far end of the hall and, she urges them, be patient as each person takes their turn.

Things Get Weirder. And Filthier.

Chandler prepares to fire up the penis pump...

From this point forward the movie gets delightfully dirty. The bedroom at the far end of the hall—once her son’s—is a veritable shrine to sex, with a large assortment of sex toys, tubes of KY and rubbers to choose from. Its walls are decorated with pages from skin mags; stills from hardcore porn movies, both gay and straight; and erotic art (including a cartoon by the director). One poster that stands out is a generic portrait of George Washington, yet because it’s so innocuous, no one bothers to inspect it too closely. If they did, they would discover Washington’s eyes are cut out, allowing Gert a clear view through two peepholes drilled into the kitchen wall.

... as Gert watches.

And Gert gets a lengthy show as her weary and horny travelers give in to erotic temptation. Chandler avails himself of a very loud penis pump (seriously, it sounds like a rotary rock tumbler), while Roo uses a vibrator with a dildo attachment. Toydy fucks an inflatable sex doll while jamming a dildo up his ass, with some difficulty (“Get up there, goddammit!”). Only Sash—who, remember, is played by the director’s sister—takes a partner while in Prairie Blossom’s X-rated bedroom, boning Bond, who wears a novelty rubber for the occasion. (In the documentary It Came from Kuchar, Melinda McDowell-Milk mentions that Curt always wanted to celebrate sex in his work yet frustratingly never mentions how she felt performing in Thundercrack!’s hardcore scenes while being filmed by her brother. She was instrumental in getting the film restored for a Blu-ray release, so she clearly wasn’t traumatized by the experience, but I still wanted to hear her account of filming.)

Willene enjoys a refreshing snack.

While she watches from the kitchen, Gert masturbates with a rather long peeled cucumber. She’s barely finished with the cuke when Willene enters the kitchen, looking for a snack. She plucks the well-lubricated cuke from the bowl of fruit where Gert tossed it (“This looks refreshing”) and takes a bite, because you just knew someone was going to eat it. According to this movie’s IMDb’s trivia page, actress Maggie Pyle was, unbeknownst to her, eating the actual cucumber that had been up Eaton’s cooch, as payback for being a pain in the ass (i.e., showing up for filming drunk or otherwise fucked up). Kind of makes you wonder how many suspicious salads these people have been served while on set.

There are quite few more sex scenes to get through (the movie is almost three hours long), including Toydy fucking Bond. There are also a lot more secrets, like who’s pickled head is that down in the basement? What’s behind that locked door in the living room? And what does Gert mean when she insists that her son is not dead, he simply “no longer exists”? 

Dinner is served!

But before any of those questions can be answered, the house is surrounded by circus animals. A frantic Bing is let inside, and he has some secrets of his own, mostly involving his complicated relationship with the gorilla, Medusa. “Don’t minimize the danger, Mac,” he tells Toydy. “Medusa didn’t get that name for nothin’. One look at those blazing, red eyes surrounded by that black, matted hair can freeze a man to a block of stone on the spot. She made me hard one night.”

Cue a flashback sequence featuring underground filmmaker George Kuchar getting a hand-job from a gorilla (or, rather, Curt MacDowell in a gorilla suit). At this point, though, we’d be surprised if someone didn’t have sex with a gorilla.

Hardcore, But Not Necessarily Porn

Thundercrack! was originally conceived as a porn cash-in by McDowell and composer Mark Ellinger (both credited with Thundercrack!’s story), but the script written by Kuchar, who had been making underground movies with his twin brother Mike since the late 1950s, took the project in a different and wonderful direction. “I knew it wouldn’t make any money, because anything I work on is a financial disaster,” says Kuchar in the It Came from Kuchar documentary.

And Thundercrack! wasn’t a cash cow, either, but that doesn’t make it any less of a masterpiece. Sure, it’s not the most polished movie, with iffy sound and scene compositions that are at times more stagey than cinematic. And, sure, it doesn’t need to be nearly 3 hours long, but it’s not a problem that it is. You won’t be bored, no matter how many times you watch it. I’ve watched it several times and I always discover something I missed from previous viewings. Kuchar’s script has so many great lines that to include them all in this post would mean transcribing the movie’s entire script.

Chandler enjoys the show.

Eaton’s tour de force performance as Gert is another reason to seek this one out. Eaton was already an accomplished stage actress when, in her 40s, she decided to enter the world of adult films. The first adult movie she made, Sip the Wine, was produced by Heffernan, who told her about the auditions for Thundercrack! McDowell reportedly interrupted her during her audition to tell her the part was hers. And it’s hard to imagine anyone else in the role (though Georgina Spelvin would’ve been a good second choice). Eaton’s performance is at once sincere and a drag parody. Gert is an outrageous character, but Eaton doesn’t let us forget her humanity.

Kuchar gives the movie’s other standout performance, though after watching the documentary about him I’m not entirely sure he was acting. Scudder, who appeared in numerous porn films from the mid-1970s to the mid ’80s, one-and-done Johnson, and Heffernan, are all better than average, and Pyle is effective as Willene (not sure if her being drunk/stoned helped, but it didn’t hurt). The weakest performances are from Benson and (sorry!) Melinda McDowell, who, bless her heart, struggles the hardest to get out the mouthfuls of dialog required of her.

Thundercrack! is hard to categorize. It’s a send-up of old, dark house and hag horror tropes, but it’s not exactly a horror comedy (though it is very funny), and it’s certainly not a porn parody. In fact, though it has a lot of hardcore sex scenes, I don’t really consider it a porno at all. In the context of Kuchar’s script, the intention of the sex scenes is to shock rather than titillate. Thundercrack! is its own glorious thing. You may not be turned on, and you definitely won’t be scared, but you won’t fucking forget it.

*Don’t judge the movie’s cinematography by the quality of the stills in this post, which were photographed from my computer screen while the Blu-ray was paused.