Short Takes: ‘Addicted’ (2014) ★★

Not to be confused with Addickted (click at your own risk), because this adaptation of Zane’s 1998 book is for the ladies and therefore above such crudeness. The dick is merely implied.

And lead character, Zoe Reynard (Sharon Leal) is all about the dick, though, as she explains to her therapist Dr. Marcella (Tasha Smith, acting like an Oprah-bot), she has a very fulfilling life, with a loving (and very hot!) husband, two beautiful children, and she owns her own successful business merchandising artworks of up-and-coming artists. Plus, all her employees love her! Her assistant Shane complements Zoe’s fashion sense the moment she walks in the door, and her best friend/…um, I’m going to say vice president, Brina (Emayatzy Corinealdi), is so devoted to her job that she dismisses the very idea of Zoe paying her more to do it. There’s no sex and I’m already getting a semi just thinking about this woman’s life.

But Addicted wastes little time getting to the sex, showing Zoe and that hunky husband of hers, Jason (Boris Kodjoe) enjoying some hot R-rated boning less than 10 minutes in. After they come, Zoe reaches beneath the sheet for Jason’s sticky dong, asking if he’s ready for round three(!), only to be disappointed when Jason drifts off to sleep. (Lady, give him a chance to recuperate from round two; you two aren’t 18 anymore.) Then, just like that, Zoe deems her sex life boring and goes to her home office to get off to Internet porn, which she evidently does frequently as she keeps a vibrator in a desk drawer. Lord help her if her children or her mother—who lives with them to take care of the kids and give her daughter “hmm-hmm” looks—goes hunting for a pen.

That all changes when she meets famed (but, implausibly, never photographed) artist Quinton Canosa (William Levy) at Atlanta’s High Museum. Quinton understandably sets her girlie parts a-tingle, so it’s no surprise that she readily fucks him. Well, “readily” might be overstating it, as Zoe does try to push Quinton away, telling him that what they’re doing is not right, a protest he quickly silences by going down on her.

But Quinton is not enough. Zoe hits the clubs, hooking up with the dangerously sexy Corey (hey, it’s Tyson Beckford from Chocolate City) in a suspiciously vacant (and clean) restroom and sneaking out to join him at artfully lit sex parties. Zoe is so hooked on cock that she begins to neglect her family and her business. She knows she needs to quit both these guys, but she’s too busy getting rocks off to worry about hitting rock bottom.

Though it’s not the trash treasure I hoped for, I kind of enjoyed this one. The acting is fair, though Levy often comes off as smarmy rather than seductive. Director Bille Woodruff at least knows his audience, meaning Leal’s body is decoratively covered while her male co-stars’ are frequently exposed (no full frontal, but a fair amount of man-ass). As an Atlanta resident I had some fun spotting familiar locations on screen (I loved that the now-shuttered Radial Café, very much a casual dining spot in its day, is presented as a restaurant so exclusive it requires strict punctuality for reservations). What stops the movie from being satisfying trash is its uneven Lifetime-y script. Sometimes it’s the fun type of Lifetime movie, but too often it’s just bland, and its portrayal of sex addiction way too sanitized. There’s sex addiction, where otherwise respectable people pull trains with hobos on their lunch hour and sneak off after putting the kids to bed to go writhe naked in urinal troughs, and then there’s “sex addiction,” an affliction (primarily male) celebrities diagnose themselves with when they’ve been caught cheating (or worse). Zoe’s problem falls squarely in the second category, and no amount of last-minute daytime TV psychodrivel can convince the audience otherwise. 

Reading This Book Qualifies as a #MeToo Experience

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Psychopath and the Jailbait Masochist

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How old are you, by the way?”

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

“I’m—I’m twenty.”

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

“You’re a lying cunt. Now tell me.”

“Okay, okay, so I’m still nineteen.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It only gets worse from here.

Sorry About Raping You. Will You Marry Me Now?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Remember, Ladies: No Orgasm Goes Unpunished

I knew this day would come, the day I finally check out yet another godawful Fifty Shades of Grey knockoff that confuses abuse with romance. I’m talking, of course, about the 2017 British movie DARKER SHADES OF ELISE.

This movie was put in my Tubi queue shortly after reviewing that more notorious Fifty Shades knock-off, 365 Days, as it looked like it would provide ample opportunities for ridicule. Then I realized I’d have to watch it first, and the prospect of doing that was significantly less fun.

via GIPHY

It took the recent Netflix release of the second installment of the 365 Days saga—if a collection of montages, drone shots and sex scenes, varnished over with an overbearing pseudo-R&B soundtrack, even qualifies as a “saga”—to spur me to learn about Elise’s darker shades.

Elise is subjected to the judgmental gaze of
Janet, the cunty co-worker.

Elise (Becca Hirani), once an aspiring model and actress, is now a bored London housewife, married to workaholic Rick (Tommy Vilés). At the movie’s opening she shows up at his barren office with champagne bottle and glasses in hand, interrupting Rick having a flirty conversation about salads(?) with his colleague Janet (Louisa Warren). Janet, who should really be a lot humbler considering her shitty dye-job, takes her sweet time fucking off, making sure to give Rick’s wife a condescending once-over on her way out the door. Rick is just as annoyed by the interruption. It’s their anniversary, Elise reminds him. Surely, he could make time to celebrate. Though Rick apologizes, he’s not making any indication he plans on leaving the office anytime soon. When he gets a call about a work “emergency,” he seems positively relieved.

Elise begins to suspect Rick of having an affair. “Know what I would do?” Elise’s friend Bianca (Charlene Cooper) volunteers. “Go fuck every man in sight.” But Elise says she can’t do that—she’s married. Bianca, as the free-spirited/slutty best friend, doesn’t see that as a barrier. Then, just to rub salt into her friend’s wounded sex life, Bianca hurries Elise out the door so she can greet her latest internet hook-up. Elise instead lingers at the back window, getting so turned on watching a hot Black guy go down on Bianca that she can’t help but touch herself. 

There can be a fine line between sexy and sad,
and Elise quickly crosses it.

It’s while tailing Rick, hoping to catch him in the act of cheating, that Elise meets Felix (Arron Blake), an attractive, if somewhat hawk-faced, photographer. Felix immediately starts chatting up Elise, who blushes at his smarmy compliments but clearly enjoys the attention. When he asks if he can photograph her, she gives the request a millisecond of consideration—the same amount of time required to cut to Elise in her apartment, posing for Felix. Felix just as quickly jumps to suggesting Elise take her dress off. “What?” Elise gasps. “I don’t even know your name.” Wait, what? I’m sorry, even in my desperate bar trash days, when my affection was won by anyone who would talk to me for more than three minutes, I still knew the names of the men I was about to leave the bar with, at least until the next morning.

Once introductions are out of the way the pair kiss. Though Elise isn’t exactly resistant, this seduction feels more like an uncomfortable assignment in a James Franco-led acting class. Elise stops Felix before things go too far, but her marital commitment snaps a day or so later when Rick and his assistants, doing some pre-meeting prep work at the apartment, respond to her offer of refreshments like she just farted. Rick and company are barely out the door before Elise is inviting Felix over to initiate her into the joys of adultery.

Felix shows us the pale side of the moon.

Because movies can’t let female orgasms go unpunished, Felix quickly proves to be every bit of the creeper we suspect him of being. In the first of many red flags, he shows up in Elise’s bedroom while Rick is in the shower (this apartment building either has really shit security or Felix can scale walls like Spider-Man). Despite her protests, Felix fucks Elise (quickly), ducking out of the room—but not out of the apartment—the moment Rick asks his wife to hand him a towel. But, uh-oh, Rick decides now is time to tend to his husbandly duties and initiates sex with Elise, thinking her flushed face and WAP are the result of watching him shower (Vilés is cute, but “moisture-inducing” might be a wee bit of an overstatement).

Felix enjoys the show.

But watching Elise bone her husband gets Felix dripping, so after Rick leaves on yet another business trip the photographer proposes inviting random men over to fuck her while Felix watches. How would she like that? Elise responds as if just offered a cup of tea: “Yeah. I guess so.”

Felix wastes little time finding participants for his voyeuristic fantasies, though it’s clear what he really enjoys is Elise’s terror when these randos suddenly appear unannounced in her home, like the hunky Black man (not the same one who ate out Bianca), who walks into the bathroom while she’s bathing and begins undressing.

He quickly breaks the ice.

Later, Felix brings two twinks over to have their way with her. Elise is so blinded by all this nubile British boi-flesh that she fails to notice Felix has set up his camera to record the action. Or maybe she’s too horny to care. It’s not until brings home Mindy the Half-Price Dominatrix (Claire-Maria Fox) that Elise realizes this affair has to end.

The moment Elise re-evaluates her relationship with Felix.

Felix isn’t one to let go easily, however, and he quickly launches into a campaign of harassment that begins with threats and humiliations before quickly escalating to revenge porn and gang rape. Elise, feeling she has no other option, confesses the affair to Rick. That’s when things get all murder-y.

Though its title and marketing suggest Elise is a down-market Fifty Shades rip-off, it’s really just a kinkier (and significantly cheaper) Fatal Attraction, with a little bit of Animal Instincts thrown in. With a beefed-up script, higher production values and an effort to make the sex scenes sexy, Elise could’ve been an OK direct-to-streaming erotic thriller. As it is, Shannon Holiday’s script is populated with one-note characters spouting bland and/or dumb dialog (including a police detective making the most ridiculous/offensive request of a victim ever) and Jamie West’s direction does nothing to elevate the material. Whereas Fifty Shades and 365 Days are as much lifestyle porn as they are just porn, Darker Shades of Elise is aggressively drab, as if West shot the entire movie through a dirty window.

Director Jamie West captures the romance of the London setting.

The cast is largely comprised of actors who have worked together on similar Z-grade titles, and while none of them are especially good, a few are better than the material they are given. Had Elise’s character been given a few more shades, I have no doubt that Hirani could’ve made her seem more like a fully realized human being instead of a doormat in need of a good lay. Similarly, I’d like to think Blake might have displayed some charm in the early scenes had the script supplied Felix with any, which would make Elise’s attraction to him more believable and his psychopathic behavior a bit more shocking. Instead, he comes across as a predator from the start, though, for what it’s worth, Blake is quite effective the nastier he gets. Weirdly, the only character given any sort of nuance is Rick, who is first shown to be an insensitive dick, only to soften up over the course of the movie. I found myself wondering if the movie might’ve been better served if Vilés and Blake switched roles, though both actors would’ve been better served taking different jobs.

I know I’m trespassing on Nick DiRamio’s territory, but girl,
who did your make up?

So, Darker Shades of Elise wasn’t as unwatchable as I feared, but that’s about the most that can be said for it. It isn’t sexy, it isn’t good, and it’s not worth your time.

On the other hand….

Let There Be No More Tomorrows After This Day

Binge and purge.

While Darker Shades of Elise is bad, 365 DAYS: THIS DAY, as most readers already know, is fucking dreadful, and just as offensive as the first movie. The “story,” using the loosest definition of the word, picks up several weeks/months (time doesn’t matter in this universe) after the first movie, on the wedding day of Massimo (Michele Marrone, who again contributes to the movie’s soundtrack, as grating as it is relentless) and “Low-ra” (Anna-Marie Sieklucka). The final scene of the previous film, in which Laura and her friend Olga (Magdalena Lamparska) are seen being driven into a tunnel but never coming out the other side, is explained away in a few lines of dialog: there was an accident and Laura miscarried (but don’t tell Massimo she was ever pregnant!). Now let us never speak of it again.

Massimo has his own secrets, like the fact that he has a twin brother, Adriano. The brothers may be identical, but they are quite different: Massimo looks like drug trafficker while Adriano looks like a drug trafficker who uses the product. Henceforth, they will be known as Scowly and Twitchy. Anyway, Laura is pissed that Scowly—who, you’ll remember, kidnapped her and held her prisoner until she finally submitted to fell in love with him—withheld this information from her. She’s also starting to get a teensy bit annoyed that Massimo treats her like his property (who would’ve guessed?). But while Laura is relatively accepting of her abusive relationship, cheating on her is just a bridge too far. So, when she catches Scowly in flagrante delicto with his ex, Anna (Natasza Urbanska), she storms off, not realizing it was Twitchy the whole time.

Scowly and Twitchy

Nacho undulates into Laura’s life.

Enter Nacho (yes, Nacho), Scowly and Laura’s new gardener, who conveniently shows up to give the cuckqueaned gangster’s wife a lift, ultimately taking her to his place. It turns out Nacho, who is never once shown gardening, lives in a beautiful seaside villa. It’s his father’s place, he explains. Laura doesn’t ask any more questions, since Nacho, played by reality show contestant Simone Susinna, has a smile that can melt away panties and cloud minds. Yet, while Nacho is significantly more pleasant than Scowly, viewers—those who have made it this far, at least—will suspect that he, too, is a piece of shit, and they’d be right. He’s just significantly less shitty than Massimo.

The only reason to watch the film adaptations of Blanka Lipińska’s porno trilogy is the explicit sex, and even there This Day disappoints. The sex scenes may be early and often (the first one happens a mere two minutes in), but there is significantly less flesh bared this time out. It’s not like Sieklucka and Marrone decided to beef up the nudity clauses in their contracts. They still get naked, just not as frequently, though you can still rest assured that Sieklucka will be baring more than either of her male co-stars. And it’s not like the sex is all that daring or interesting, the movie failing to realize that in the internet age it will take more than whipped cream and toys to get audiences’ collective blood pumping. However, there is a scene on a golf course that will get them laughing.

Olga and Domenico are interrupted—again.

As with the first one, I’m providing the time codes for the “good parts” of This Day. I’m not counting that first sex scene, in which Laura and Scowly have pre-wedding sex (sample romantic dialog: “I don’t have panties”) as both actors remain fully clothed. The same goes for Olga and Domenico’s frequently interrupted couplings (people are always walking in on each other fucking in this movie), which aren’t very explicit and meant solely as comic relief. So, for those who want to see the hot people have simulated sex without having to sit through the movie’s remaining 95 minutes of watching them drive Lambos, eat spaghetti, shop, jet ski, drive Corvettes, walk on the beach, lounge on patios, lounge by the pool, and model comically large sunglasses, here are the parts to fast-forward to:

I eat your face!

10:40 – Massimo and Laura’s wedding night. “You have one hour. Then I’ll do whatever I wan’ w’ju,” Scowly tells his bride. “No,” she replies, “I’ll do whatever I want with you.” She ties him (fully clothed) to a chair, then gets naked and pleasures herself with a vibrator until Scowly gets so horny he breaks free of his flimsy restraints and pounces on her. This scene segues into the movie’s honeymoon montage, which includes hot tub sex (non-explicit), Laura walking topless along the beach and, during a game of golf, Laura squatting over one of the holes as her husband/kidnapper putts a ball toward her cooch. 

 

Laura proves that nothing will make golf sexy.

21:10 – Massimo and Laura, who had sex on a patio table during the movie’s first two minutes, have sex on a dining room table after she slinks into the room wearing skimpy lingerie (almost everyone in this movie walks as if they are about to make a stripper pole their bitch). Scowly finally shows his ass (Marrone isn’t much of an actor, to put it kindly, but his body—woof!). He also goes down on Laura, which may not be entirely simulated.

Michele Marrone displays his greatest strength as an actor.

38:42 – Massimo gets his Christmas gift: a night of BDSM Lite with a box set of sex toys. So, just like any other night. Laura is gift wrapped in a garter belt and leather cuffs with gold lettering spelling out “Fuck Me” (Eat your heart out, Nicholas Sparks.) Scowly once again gets naked, though the illusion that he’s really giving it to his victim/wife is shattered with a brief full-frontal flash.

No wonder he had to use the toys on Laura.

51:00 – Laura walks in on “Massimo” and Anna. Not terribly explicit but you a brief glimpse of Urbanska’s naked butt (Marrone’s is kept covered by his shirttail).

1:09:17 – Laura and Nacho get it on (though it might be a dream; the movie isn’t clear, and you won’t care). Lots of close-ups of Laura looking pre-orgasmic and Nacho looking sleepy. Nacho kisses his way down her naked torso before dining downtown.

Hel-lo!

1:25:25 – Laura may/may not be dreaming of Nacho eating her pussy for breakfast. “Are you having a nightmare or just an erotic dream?” asks Nacho when she wakes up. Then they have spaghetti for breakfast, because they are in Italy.

1:30:18 – No sex, but Nacho finally shows his ass. 

Not bad, but Sussina looks better from the front.

You’ve got 20 more minutes to go after Sussina shows his two handfuls—20 loooong minutes. Not only is This Day unerotic, offensive and stupid, it’s also punishingly dull. At this rate, watching the third installment will likely feel as if time is standing still. It’s time that would probably be better spent watching real porn (see the internet for details.) But who am I kidding? I know I’m going to watch it when it drops on Netflix.