The Bombs of Barbra

Among the many problems critics cited with the 1976 remake of A Star is Born—and they cited a bunch of them at the time—was the preposterousness of Barbra Streisand’s Lite FM pop winning over hard rock audience (mitigating factor: the rocker in question was played by country singer Kris Kristofferson, R.I.P.). To Barbra’s fans, however, this makes perfect sense. How could anyone not be won over by one of the most talented women of our time? Her fans were sold—I certainly was—and so A Star is Born became another one of Barbra’s many hit films and another fuck you to her critics.

But Barbra’s fans didn’t line up for everything she did. Though most of Barbra’s films were successful—her track record is pretty impressive—she did have a few bombs. So, while Barbra’s successes are being celebrated in the wake of her recently published door stopper of a memoir My Name is Barbra (also a hit), I thought I’d revisit her few failures, which is far easier—and faster—than reviewing that autobiography. (Nine-hundred and ninety-two pages? Oh, fuck no.) 

I’m going to bypass Hello, Dolly!, which, similar to Cleopatra, was both a box office hit (No. 5 on the list of top grossing movies for 1969) and a financial disappointment (i.e., it cost too goddamn much to make), though 20th Century Fox, as it did with Cleopatra, eventually recouped its investment. Instead, I’m jumping to Barbra’s first real flop, UP THE SANDBOX.

Margaret joins the other moms in Central Park.

Up the Sandbox just might be the closest Barbra ever got to making a small arthouse film. In this 1972 adaptation of Anne Roiphe’s 1970 novel, Barbra plays Margaret, a young New York housewife, married to a college professor (David Selby) who regularly escapes her stifling existence through vivid fantasies. Sometimes the fantasies are dark (joining a group of activists to blow up the Statue of Liberty), but most are played for laughs (Margaret pushing her nagging mother’s face into a birthday cake; increasing her breast size at will during a college faculty party).

Margaret's mother (Jane Hoffman) fights back.

Fidel Castro (Jocobo Morales) has a secret.

It's not a perfect film. The feminist messaging is a little too on-the-nose, some of the humor hasn’t aged well (“Oh my god, you’re a fag.”), and its conclusion isn’t entirely satisfying, but I still count Up the Sandbox among my favorite Barbra Streisand films. It’s certainly one of Barbra’s best performances. One of Barbra’s stumbling blocks as an actress, especially in more dramatic roles, is she can’t let us forget she’s Barbra Streisand, so her performances are always bigger than the character she’s playing. She also tends to be too self-conscious, unable to pick up a glass of water without making sure she’s showing off her manicure (as any Barbra fan knows, Babs just loves showing off her nails to the camera). It’s like director Irvin Kershner (the same one who directed this little sci-fi gem) told her to do what she usually does, just 10-15% less of it—and for once she trusted the director. As a result, she gives one of her most relaxed, natural performances.

Margaret prepares to blow up the Statue of Liberty, a scene
Barbra says likely would not be included were the film made today.

Margaret journeys to Africa with musicologist Dr. Beineke 
(Paul Benedict), but the natives are less than welcoming.

Too bad not a whole lot of people saw it. Reportedly audiences at the time were put off by how the fantasies were introduced. Instead of doing the standard harps and swirling dissolves to announce fantasy sequences, Kershner lets them happen organically, as if they are part of Margaret’s reality. It’s usually pretty easy to tell when a scene has segued into fantasy, but apparently this confused 1972 audiences, which hurt word of mouth. (Christopher Nolan would have had a very different career trajectory if he started making films in the early 1970s.)

Paul (David Selby) and Margaret get real.

The movie’s box office was further hurt by the fact that it is difficult to categorize. In the movie’s DVD commentary, Barbra describes the movie as “a drama with some laughs”—so, a dramedy. But the movie was marketed as a straight-up comedy, with a painting of Barbra, pregnant and looking startled, tied to a giant baby bottle. I like the poster, but it’s selling a wacky comedy like What’s Up, Doc?, released earlier the same year, not “a drama with some laughs.” The trailer didn’t help matters. As we’ll soon see, this won’t be the last time mis-marketing helped tank one of Barbra’s movies.

Did it deserve to bomb? No. It’s definitely worth seeking out if you’re a Streisand fan. Even if you’re not, you might still want to check it out as it’s not a typical Streisand film. It’s available for streaming. Those who prefer physical media will have to be content with a DVD, but if you go that route avoid Barbra’s commentary track, which adds little beyond proving she’s as self-absorbed as her detractors say she is.

‘A Little, European Kind of Film’

If there was any justice in the world, the next movie on this list would be 1979’s The Main Event, which I think is Barbra’s worst movie (for her co-star, the late Ryan O’Neal, worst was yet to come), but, no, The Main Event made money. Instead, Barbra’s second bomb detonated in 1981 with the release of the non-com ALL NIGHT LONG.

George Dupler (Gene Hackman) and Cheryl (you know who)
enjoy dinner at sunset.

All Night Long was originally meant to be a modest little comedy about George Dupler, a middle-aged exec for a drugstore chain who, after reacting violently to being passed over for a promotion, gets demoted to night manager of one of the company’s 24-hour stores. George then begins having an affair with Cheryl, the wife of his fourth cousin, who is also having an affair with George’s son Freddie (Cheryl, not George’s fourth cousin). Gene Hackman was cast as George, and Lisa Eichorn as Cheryl. It was the American debut of Belgian director Jean-Claude Tramont.

Gene Hackman wonders what the fuck happened
to his movie.

Unfortunately for the movie, Tramont was married to ’70s superagent Sue Mengers. Mengers represented Hackman, but her biggest client was Barbra Streisand. Mengers had wanted Barbra in the role of Cheryl from the beginning, but Barbra, then busily trying to get Yentl off the ground, passed. This didn’t stop Mengers, who began badmouthing Eichorn’s performance the moment she saw the early rushes (other people connected to the film said Eichorn was fine). Mengers’ behind the scenes fuckery is detailed fully in Brian Kellow’s biography of Mengers, Can I Go Now? (or you could just read an excerpt here), but the TL;DR version is that Mengers got Barbra to reconsider with a very persuasive $4 million payday, got Eichorn fired, and transformed her husband’s low-stakes project into A Barbra Streisand Film.

Loni Anderson says she was considered for the role Cheryl but was
beat out by Barbra. However, the one source I found that even mentions
Anderson in connection with this movie reports she was considered after 
Barbra initially turned the part down, meaning she lost the role to Lisa Eichorn.
Either way, she dodged a bullet (only to catch a much bigger bullet).

The 2004 DVD cover is closer
to the tone of the movie, but still
misses the mark. Also, did they
give Barbra a Photoshop nose job?

Except, All Night Long wasn’t A Barbra Streisand Film; Barbra was a co-star in a Gene Hackman film (All Night Long was the first time she got second billing). That didn’t stop Universal’s publicity department from making Barbra the focus of its marketing. “She’s got a way with men, and she’s getting away with it… All Night Long,” reads the poster’s tagline. Muddying the waters further is the accompanying art featuring Barbra sliding down a fireman’s pole with her skirt flying up à la Marilyn Monroe in The Seven Year Itch, with Hackman, Dennis Quaid (as Freddie) and Kevin Dobson (as Cheryl’s hot-headed fireman husband Bobby) waiting below to catch her. A rollicking sex farce starring Barbra Streisand? This movie looks fun!

All Night Long is not a rollicking sex farce. It’s not that fun, or that funny. “It was really a little, European kind of film,” is how Barbra described it in Can I Go Now? She said she “felt totally betrayed” by the movie’s misleading ad campaign. Audiences also felt betrayed, and the movie quickly sank at the box office, making just under $4.5 million against its $15 million budget.

Dennis Quaid might actually be stoned in this scene.

All Night Long isn’t that funny, but it isn’t unwatchable, either. I’d describe it as a neutered Middle-Age Crazy or a second-rate Starting Over. It’s a direct-to-video movie before those were a thing. Barbra, wearing a Rona Barrett wig and push-up bras, manages to pull off the role of ditzy suburban cougar Cheryl, and it’s fun to see her play against type. Unfortunately, Cheryl isn’t a character so much as she is a collection of quirky behaviors: she rides a scooter; she has a love of the color lavender so obsessive that even her cigarettes are that color; she meticulously picks the raisins out of a cinnamon raisin Danish because she read somewhere you shouldn’t eat fruit and carbs together. In fact, most of the laughs Cheryl gets hinge on the fact that she’s played by Barbra Streisand, such as a scene in which Cheryl, composing a country song on an electric organ, proves to be a lousy singer, which got the movie’s biggest laugh when I saw it in the theater (I’m old, y’all!) Would this scene have worked if Lisa Eichorn was in the role of Cheryl? Probably, but the laughs likely wouldn’t have been as loud.

These alternate poster designs I whipped up aren’t masterpieces of 
graphic design, but they better convey the tone of All Night Long than
what Universal came up with. I made Gene Hackman's character the
focus, while Barbra is featured but not emphasized. The lazier design
on the right also makes it clear that Barbra is not the main character,
though I’m sure anyone presenting such a design in 1981 would be fired
on the spot. Sue Mengers and Barbra might even have the designer killed.

But most of the characters in All Night Long are underwritten, reduced to types rather than fully realized people, with only Hackman’s George getting fleshed out to any degree. In fact, the whole movie plays out like they were working from screenwriter W.D. Richter’s first draft. In addition to underdeveloped characters, there’s a satirical undercurrent about suburban malaise and the so-called American Dream that's never fully realized, either because Richter’s script never quite articulated it or Tramont never quite grasped it. In the end, All Night Long didn’t need Barbra to save it, it just needed rewrites.

Did it deserve to bomb? Yes, if only as an expensive middle finger to Mengers, who should’ve minded her own fucking business. (Mengers got an even bigger middle finger when Barbra dropped her as her agent shortly after. As for Tramont, he died in 1996 with only one other American directing credit, the TV movie As Summers Die.) I don’t dislike the movie—it’s way more watchable than The Main Event—but it’s hardly essential viewing. 

Cheryl enjoys one of her lavender-tinted cigs while Diane Ladd, as
George’s tight-assed wife Helen, seethes beneath her horrible granny helmet.

The Stars of Funny Girl and Pineapple Express,
Together at Last

Though Sue Mengers was the villain of the All Night Long debacle, she was reportedly one of the few people in Barbra’s life who could get away with calling the superstar out on her bullshit. And so, decades later, when the two women were again on speaking terms, it was Mengers who told Barbra to stop waffling and just accept the offer to star in THE GUILT TRIP, directed by Anne Fletcher.

“What do you mean you’re not holding?”

Seth Rogen is just as surprised as
you are that he is in a PG-13 movie.

The Guilt Trip was Barbra’s first starring role since 1996’s The Mirror Has Two Faces, which she also directed (can’t forget that detail!), and, to date, her last movie. Yet upon The Guilt Trip’s December 2012 release Barbra's return to the big screen was met only with mixed reviews and polite applause. That said, I’m stretching the premise by counting it as one of Barbra’s bombs. The Guilt Trip wasn’t a hit, but it did eventually make back its $40 million budget plus some. It “underperformed” rather than flopped (though there’s still that marketing budget to recoup...).

Barbra plays Joyce, a widow who dotes on her adult son, Andy (Seth Rogen), a chemist and struggling entrepreneur. Though Andy finds Joyce’s attention stifling, he does worry about her being alone and invites her to join him on a cross-country drive from New Jersey to California, with him making stops at various retail chains along the way to pitch his environmentally friendly cleaning product, ScieoClean. Andy also has an ulterior motive: learning that Joyce's first love now lives in San Francisco, he plans a surprise reunion.

Andy begins to regret inviting his mother along for the ride.

The opening fifteen minutes of The Guilt Trip suggest it’s going to be little more than a 90-minute Jewish mother joke, but the movie has a bit more to it than that. Joyce is annoying but well meaning; Andy finds her overbearing and wishes she’d just shut the fuck up and give him some space—except when he needs her. Naturally, their relationship is tested, but by the time they reach the west coast their bond is stronger than ever. 

Joyce picks up a hitchhiker.

Barbra was perfectly cast as Joyce (she got a Worst Actress Razzie nomination for this movie, but like a lot of Razzie nominations, I suspect it was more than a little disingenuous, being more about taking Babs down a peg than it was about her actual performance). The wild card was Rogen, who in the early 2010s was known more for raucous/raunchy R-rated comedies like Knocked Up and Pineapple Express. Would people buy him in a role where he never once takes a bong hit or makes a crude sex joke? (This PG-13 movie’s one allotted f-bomb goes to Barbra.) Rogen’s persona at the time had me thinking that Bette Midler would be a more believable movie parent for him, but I was pleasantly surprised by how well he and Barbra play off each other. They’re actually believable as mother and son. If only they were funnier.

Andy and Joyce celebrate her competitive gluttony victory. On the far
right is Brett Cullum as Ben, a cowboy who is apparently into older
women who like to eat.

It's not that The Guilt Trip is devoid of laughs, it’s just that Dan Fogelman’s script is more sentimental than funny (the story is based on a real-life road trip he had taken with his mother). Most of the humor stems from Andy’s sarcastic asides to Joyce’s babbling. Where this trip veers off course is when Fogelman shoves in goofy contrivances, like when Joyce and Andy are stranded in the parking lot of a Tennessee titty bar and Joyce excitedly runs for the club’s front door because she misreads “topless” as “tapas.” Then there’s the scene in which Joyce participates in a Texas steakhouse’s eating challenge, which seems to be banking on audiences finding the sight of Barbra woofing down over three pounds of beef side-splitting. Hmmm, maybe it would’ve been better if Joyce lost a karaoke contest instead? There are also some lines that just haven’t aged well since the movie’s release, as when Joyce calls Andy her “little Donald Trump.” Oy!

All in all, The Guilt Trip is the kind of movie that can be described as cute. I remember thinking it was merely OK when I first saw it, ranking it as better than All Night Long but not as funny as For Pete’s Sake, or even Meet the Fockers. I had a higher opinion of the movie after a recent rewatch. The overall sweetness of the story resonated more the second time around, possibly because I’d lost my mother a few years ago and was more receptive to the sentimentality. I also laughed more than I remember doing on my first viewing. I still consider it one of Barbra’s lesser films, but it’s a little better than I initially gave it credit for.

Fashion forward: a track-suited Joyce adjusts Andy’s rumpled jacket.

Did it deserve to bomb underperform?: No, but it’s not surprising that it did. This thing was never going to make Marvel money (though, as I write this, Madame Web is making Guilt Trip money), however Paramount could’ve picked a better release date (Mother’s Day weekend, anyone?) The days when people flocked to see a Barbra Streisand movie had long since passed (even I, who saw All Night Long on its opening weekend, waited until The Guilt Trip was streaming), and younger audiences likely only knew Barbra as Roz Focker or a South Park punchline. Rogen’s fans at the time probably just wondered what the fuck he was doing in a PG-13 movie. But ultimately, the movie simply wasn’t funny enough to make people pay $8 U.S. to see it, especially in 2012’s economy.

Barbra has said she likely won’t make another movie, which isn’t surprising. She’s in her eighties, after all, though I wouldn't be surprised if she took one final, low effort/big payday film role before she dies (Book Club IV: The Wizening). So, for a career spanning more than six decades, the fact that she’s only had three box office misfires is a remarkable record. However, she’s also not been the most prolific actor, having made only 19 films, eight of those between 1981 and 2012. She hasn’t taken a lot of chances, either, sticking to musicals, comedies (romantic or otherwise) and romantic dramas. That may be great for a studio’s bottom line and Barbra's asking price, but I feel like she would have had a more interesting career if she had accepted some of the roles she turned down. In many cases, I’m glad she said no (King Kong, Poltergeist, The Exorcist 😮), but there are other film roles I wish she had taken. Would The Eyes of Laura Mars, Bagdad Cafe, or Misery (holy shit, really?) possibly have ended up on this list if she had accepted the offers to star in them? Highly likely, but, goddamn, how fun would those movies have been if they had been Barbra Streisand movies? No disrespect to Kathy Bates—she totally owned the part of Annie Wilkes and deserved her Oscar® for it—but I would very much want to see an alternate version of Misery with Barbra in that role. I can hear the trailer narration now: “The stars of Funny Lady reunite in a film that will surprise you...”

‘A Good Gay Item’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘PG-13 Porn’ vs. ‘a Fag Magazine’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

AIDS, Selling Out and the Puffy Shirt

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Transitioning Into 1970: 'Christine' vs. 'Myra'

Though the U.S. QAnon party would have its base believe that trans people are a recent phenomenon, dating back to when the Obama administration, colluding with Hollywood elites and woke millennials, performed gender reassignment surgeries on unsuspecting preschoolers as part of a sinister plot to send them into our nation’s schools as trans adults to read books to kids and compete on varsity swim teams, it turns out that they have been around significantly longer than the 2010s. 

In fact, way back in 1970—a good 53 years after the first gender affirming surgery was performed in the U.S.—Hollywood released two very different films centering on trans women (but played by cis-gendered actors): the turgid biopic THE CHRISTINE JORGENSEN STORY, and the botched adaptation of Gore Vidal’s 1968 satirical novel, MYRA BRECKINRIDGE.

Christine Jorgensen in the 1950s.

It should go without saying that neither film would be considered politically correct today, though The Christine Jorgensen Story, about the United States’ first celebrity trans woman (Dora Richter was the actual first, completing her transition in 1931), comes closer than expected. I remember seeing the movie in the early ’90s, when it aired on AMC, back when the channel was TCM with ad breaks rather than the home of mad men, meth cooks and walking dead. At that time, my attitude towards the trans community could be summarized thusly: To each their own, but it’s kinda’ funny, though. Consequently, I viewed the movie like it was an episode of Mystery Science Theater 3000, minus Joel (or Mike) and the ’bots. When I decided to rewatch the film, I was prepared to judge it harshly now that I’m more enlightened—woke, if you will (but please don’t).

But despite the crass exploitation of the movie’s marketing (“Did the surgeon’s knife make me a woman or a freak?” reads the poster), the actual film shows far more sensitivity in its handling of Jorgensen’s story (Jorgensen herself is credited as the movie’s technical advisor). That story begins, predictably, with Jorgensen’s unhappy childhood as George, Jr. (Trent Lehman), a boy more inclined to play with his sister’s dolls and his mother’s makeup than play football. His concerned mother tries to steer George, Jr. toward more traditionally masculine pastimes, while George, Jr.’s father does his level best to convince himself his boy is just going through a phase. He’s encouraged—overjoyed, even—when George, Jr., having taken on some school bullies, comes home with a black eye. “You’re going to remember that black eye as one of the proudest moments of your life,” he tells his son, going so far as to take a photo of George, Jr.’s shiner.

Is this fucked up or what?

Loretta, the cunty model.

Adulthood isn’t any happier for George, Jr., now played by John Hansen. Though he finds some success as a photographer for an advertising agency, he’s still the target of bullying. “One thing I can’t stand is a damn fag photographer,” sneers Loretta (Elaine Joyce), a model so cunty that she causes George to flee the photo shoot in tears. His boss, Jess Warner (Rod McCrary), offers a shoulder to cry on, and his dick to suck. George, Jr., is horrified (“Good God, you don’t think I’m one of those?”) Jess thinks he just needs to lighten up, telling him lots of artists are queer (“You think Shakespeare wrote all those sonnets to a dame?”) Jess goes in for a kiss, but George ain’t having it and, for the second time that day, flees in tears. One of the issues I had with this movie when I first saw it, and still do, is it seems to be making the argument that Jorgensen’s reason for transitioning was born out of homophobia, and that the audience should appreciate that, if nothing else, at least she chose to live as a hetero woman rather than a gay man.

Are you trying to seduce me, Mr. Warner?

George, Jr., heads to the library, where he discovers the book Sex and the Glands by Dr. Stephen Estabrook. The book proves so enlightening that George enrolls in the doctor’s college course just to speak to him about his theories. After explaining to the endocrinologist that he’s always felt his instincts and impulses are female, Estabrook (Will Kuluva, who really could’ve benefitted from a Klipette) takes some blood for testing. The test results confirm that George has a chemical imbalance. “Your glands are secreting more female hormones than male—three times higher than expected in a normal man.”

A penectomy is exactly what you think it is.

Under the pretense of shooting photos for a travel book, George, Jr. goes to Copenhagen, where a sympathetic Dr. Dahlman (Oscar Beregi, Jr.) offers him a chance to be his true self. “You Americans, you’re advanced in so many ways, but when it comes to sex, you’re childish. Operate on the brain, perform a lobotomy? Fine. But take a pair of testicles and everybody explodes.” Before George signs the one-page application for gender reassignment surgery (yet I must fill out at least six pages before an annual physical), Dahlman explains what the surgery entails, then warns George there exists a chance for failure. None of this dissuades George, who quickly signs the application.

A couple montages later, Christine is born, her name selected in honor of the late daughter of her Aunt Thora, with whom she’s been staying (in actuality, the name was chosen in honor of endocrinologist Christian Hamburger). While Christine, now looking like a young Rosie O’Donnell in Doris Day drag, is pleased with the superficial aspects of her transition—there are lots of shots of her modeling the dresses her aunt’s made for her and patting her hair—she’s remains hesitant to fully live as a woman, which, as far as this movie goes, means she needs a man. 

From man to matron.

Christine Jorgensen's transition
is front page news.

But romance is the furthest thing from her mind when the media—and her family—learn of her transition. Her family gets counseled by a surprising voice of reason: their minister, who tells Christine’s anguished parents that if their new daughter is happy, they should be thankful. “Remember, she’s still the same person.” The media is less reasonable. “These days a fella never knows what he’s going to get on a blind date,” snorts a newscaster, who could be mistaken for a 2023 Fox News pundit were it not for his use of the word “fella.”

However, one reporter, Tom Crawford (Quinn K. Redeker, who would later have a hand in writing The Deer Hunter), approaches Christine as a person, not a freak. Christine works with Tom, allowing him daily interviews for an in-depth magazine story, only to back out before the article’s completion when she suspects Tom has feelings for her. This is for Tom’s protection; sooner or later, he’ll see her as an oddity. “Are you going to stop reading the newspapers? Or listening to the radio? Or watching television? Will they ever stop making jokes? They’ll never stop laughing.” Tom is undeterred, and urges “Chris” to stop being afraid. The pair kiss, then slowly sink onto the sofa in a love scene that could be right out of a 1950s Douglas Sirk film.

In fact, except for its subject matter and featuring some nudity, The Christine Jorgensen Story could easily be a product of the 1950s. This is likely attributable to director Irving Rapper, who helmed several Bette Davis movies, including Now, Voyager and Another Man’s Poison. In Rapper’s hands, The Christine Jorgensen Story is just an old-fashioned melodrama with a twist. Rapper’s approach keeps the movie from becoming exploitative, but it also heightens its campiness.

When Christine dreamed of doll murder.

That campiness is heightened further by the acting. Trent Lehman—yet another child actor who came to a sad end—portrays George, Jr., not as a child wrestling with gender dysphoria but as a future school shooter (when George, Jr.’s mother takes a doll away from him, we suspect she’s more concerned that he might dismember it than she is about her son conforming to gender roles). John Hansen’s performance, while earnest, often becomes parodic, the actor’s pearl-clutching rendering Jorgensen an object of pity rather than someone driven to live her life on her terms. 

Ultimately, it’s this portrayal of Jorgensen as a hypersensitive soul in need of a hand to hold as she faces the big, bad world that is the movie’s downfall. The real Jorgensen was an outspoken trans activist, described on her Wikipedia page as having been known for her “directness and polished wit,” qualities you can see in her TV interviews (you can also see some of the shit she had to put up with in this clip). Where you won’t see those qualities is in The Christine Jorgensen Story.

‘The Most Extraordinary Woman in the World’

There is no political correctness to be found in Myra Breckinridge, which not only treats the very concept of sexual reassignment surgery as a joke, but is also peppered with casual homophobia and racism, and features a scene of female-on-male rape played for laughs. Even more horrifying, it not only includes Rex Reed (yes, the very same) in its cast, it features a scene of him masturbating. I’ll take the rape scene, thank you.

Gore Vidal's novel is great.
Its film adaptation less so.

Before it became an infamous bomb, Myra Breckinridge was a bestselling novel by Gore Vidal. The book, about a trans woman who comes to Hollywood to challenge sexual and gender norms, isn’t politically correct, either, but then political correctness would rob the book of its bite. Also, it was published in the 1960s, when people didn’t worry about such things. What the book is, is riotously funny, and well worth reading (seriously, get yourself a copy). And there was potential for the movie adaptation to be just as hilarious. 

And then 20th Century Fox gave the job of writing and directing to Michael Sarne.

In Sarne’s hands, Myra Breckinridge went from being a biting satire on sexual mores to a mashup of the “hip” movies of the late ’60s with the comic sensibilities of the stupid softcore sex comedies found later in the ’70s (think I Love You, Alice B. Toklas crossed with Dagmar’s Hot Pants, Inc.) and edited by monkeys on Adderall. In short, it’s a hot mess (with an even messier production). Yet, despite Sarne’s best efforts to rob the film of any entertainment value whatsoever, there is still some fun to be had here.

At the film’s opening, film fanatic Myron Breckinridge (Reed) is about to undergo gender reassignment surgery, performed by a chain-smoking John Carradine in an operating theater that resembles a partially struck set from Barbarella. There’s also a seated audience and a young woman who spends the entire scene cracking a big, fat whip because…1960s wackiness? “You know, once we cut it off, it won’t grow back,” the doctor warns Myron. “How about circumcision? It’s cheaper.”

Nevertheless, Myron is transformed into Myra (Raquel Welch). Before you let out a sigh of relief that Rex Reed has been transformed into someone else, be warned that he pops up throughout the movie as Myra’s ghostly alter ego with whom she discusses her plans. 

And sometimes Rex Reed is just there to masturbate while dreaming of a young Farrah Fawcett presenting a table full of food, a scene that will make no more sense when viewed in context.

Her primary agenda, Myra explains, is “the destruction of the American male in all of its particulars.” As grand as that goal is, her battlefront is the much more modest acting school owned and operated by her uncle, ex-movie cowboy Buck Loner (John Huston, in what would ordinarily be a Slim Pickens role). Myra shows up at the school claiming to be Myron’s widow, and as such, she wishes to claim Myron’s half of the school, or $500,000. Buck balks, but reluctantly gives her a teaching job at the academy while he investigates Myra’s claims.

Roger Herren as Rusty. No wonder Myra
was smitten.

Uncle Buck isn’t the only man Myra hopes to destroy. “I was particularly struck by one of the students, a boy with a Polish name. From a certain unevenly rounded thickness in the crotch of his blue jeans it is safe to assume he’s marvelously hung,” Myra observes in a breathy V.O. The well-hung student in question is country bumpkin Rusty Godowski (Roger Herren, inadvertently killing his career), and he is quite intriguing indeed, though it should be noted that while Myra makes the observations about the bulge in his jeans Rusty is wearing slacks that do little to emphasize said bulge. 

Myra’s goal of bringing down the American male also includes women, apparently. Viewing Rusty’s girlfriend Mary Ann (Fawcett) as an embodiment of traditional gender norms, Myra also seeks to seduce—and therefore “destroy”—her as well. However, Mary Ann is not as easily conquered as Myra first suspects. “I’m sorry, I just can’t. If only there was some man like you.”

Sorry, guys. No Raquel-on-Farrah action ever happens.

Then there is Hollywood agent Leticia Van Allen. In the book, Leticia is a brassy, horny older woman who joins forces with Myra. The producers of the movie were on the right track when they sought out a veteran of Golden Age Hollywood for the role, except Golden Age stars weren’t too eager to star in what was believed to be a dirty movie (Bette Davis was approached about the role and adamantly refused, and yet she agreed to star in Bunny O’Hare). Not Mae West, who was a spry 77 years old at the time. West hadn’t appeared in a film since 1943’s The Heat’s On, and it’s clear from her first appearance in Myra Breckinridge that she hadn’t updated her schtick in the intervening decades. “I don’t care about your credits as long as you’re oversexed,” she tells one young actor, played by a pre-fame Tom Selleck (“That’s one of my credits!” he gleefully replies). Another young hopeful tells Leticia that he’s 6'7". “Never mind about the six feet. Let’s talk about the seven inches.” It goes without saying that West wrote her own dialog.

So, is this a stand-in?

Though West’s performance makes for fascinating viewing, her casting reduces Leticia to a sideshow distraction rather than a character in the movie’s story. Case in point: West insisted on singing a few songs in the film, for no reason other than she is Mae West. So, apropos of nothing, we get a nightclub scene in which West, who even in her prime couldn’t really sing, warbles her way through a couple songs, including this one that was covered far more successfully in 1990 by the Black Crowes. West complicated things further by refusing to share any scenes with Welch (according to Welch, the few scenes in which she and West appear to be interacting were shot separately and then spliced together*), which only serves to make character of Leticia more superfluous. Sarne could’ve just as well spliced in random scenes from She Done Him Wrong and My Little Chickadee as involve West herself.

Mae West and Raquel Welch, hiding their mutual
hostility, though it appears only Mae is succeeding.

Speaking of scenes from old movies, they are used throughout Myra Breckinridge either as commentary, a gag, or to punctuate a scene in the movie proper, and often to the chagrin of their stars (Loretta Young sued; Shirley Temple, having served as a U.S. ambassador, got the White House involved). Sometimes the clips are used cleverly, but mostly they are overused. Like Mae West, they only serve to distract from an already fractured narrative. (For someone who reportedly once wasted several days filming a table of food for this movie [see above], Sarne can’t seem to stay with one scene long enough for anyone to figure out what the fuck is going on.)

Myra takes Rusty's temperature.

There’s no mistaking what’s going on when Myra, under the pretense of getting some medical data, dons a strap-on and rapes Rusty (though the movie initially received an X rating, the dildo is never once shown on camera). And this is in the name of comedy, no less, though most of the laughs come from the bizarre sight of Raquel Welch, one of the premier sex symbols of the 1960s, pegging a stunned stud. This rape scene is in the book as well, and there the humor is a bit meaner, and highlights how the character of Myra Breckinridge isn’t really a trans woman so much as she is a gay man who has gone to extremes to put cis-het men (and their girlfriends) in their place. (In the book, Myra is impressed by Rusty’s rectal hygiene, noting most straight men don’t clean their asses properly.) Back when I first read the book as a closeted teen-ager, I felt Myron had been surgically transformed into a beautiful woman for the same reason Charles Bronson got a gun in Death Wish: retribution. Though it would seem Rusty is hardly worthy a target for said vengeance, he represents, to borrow a line from the movie, “the last stronghold of masculinity in this Disneyland of perversion.” Consequently, Myra wants to destroy him as much as she wants to fuck him, so consider this scene as killing two birds with one dildo. Still, it might have worked better if Rusty were more of a toxic masc asshole instead of just kind of dumb.

Myra Breckinridge prepares to destroy Rusty (and dat ass).

Incidentally, critics at the time of the film’s release seemed more concerned with issues of taste than consent. They were also more than a little homophobic. Here’s a quote from Time magazine’s review, which is more upset about the tarnishing of the images of Laurel and Hardy and Marilyn Monroe than the actual rape: “Michael Sarne… deserves special discredit for the repulsive dildo rape scene and the obscene device of interspersing the film with clips from movies of favorite old stars. Thus, in the context of Myra, Laurel and Hardy are made to look like fags. Even more outrageous is the use of Marilyn Monroe sequences during the rape.” Gene Siskel’s review didn’t age much better, the late Chicago Tribune critic repeatedly referring to Myra as “she-he.”

A perplexed Raquel Welch tries to
make sense of Myra Breckinridge.

Critics at the time also didn’t have kind things to say about the cast’s performances, especially Raquel Welch’s, yet I think her performance is one of the movie’s strengths. (Yes, a trans actress would make more sense for both Myra Breckinridge and The Christine Jorgensen Story, but that’s just expecting too much from 1970.)  Welch’s range may have been limited—she certainly didn’t have the chops to play Myron (yikes!)—but she’s effective as Myra, a role that is as much a self-parody as it is a gay male avatar. Though she doesn’t grasp all her character’s nuances, she perfectly embodies the spirit of Myra, a spirit that’s on full display when Uncle Buck confronts her with the fact that there is no proof that she and Myron were ever married or that Myron ever died. “Uncle Buck, your fag nephew became your niece two years ago in Copenhagen,” she informs him, standing atop her uncle’s desk and removing her panties, “and now is free as a bird and happy in being the most extraordinary woman in the world!” That final announcement is punctuated by Myra hiking up her skirt to show off(-screen) the surgeon’s handiwork. 

Presenting the most extraordinary woman in the world.

The Christine Jorgensen Story may be a better movie by comparison, but Myra Breckinridge, with its lead character written as a strong woman/fierce gay man rather than a self-loathing closet case/fragile wallflower, is more empowering (provided you don’t get too hung up on the rape scene, of course). It’s still a trainwreck, but that just makes it worth seeing all the more. You can do so here.

BONUS MATERIAL: People often have as much fun, if not more, discussing a notorious bomb than viewing it, especially when said bomb goes on to attain cult status. Consequently, there are an abundance of articles, reviews and think-pieces about Myra Breckinridge. Here are a few worth checking out:

Dreams Are What Le Cinema is For… has a very thorough review that includes all the gory details about Myra Breckinridge’s production, as well as much higher quality stills from the movie (that’s what I get for not investing in the DVD).

My Year of Flops Case File #19: Though I disagree with his assessment of Reed’s performance as an “unexpected highlight of the film” (it’s a not-terrible performance by an otherwise terrible person, and that’s the most praise I can allow), Nathan Rabin’s review of this film—indeed, the whole My Year/World of Flops series—is not only a fun read, but a reminder of how good the A.V. Club site used to be.

Myra Breckinridge and Trans Roles on Film: James Gent takes a more serious look at the film and its place regarding trans representation in film.

2012 Q&A with Raquel Welch: Though Welch initially tried to distance herself from this career disappointment, she eventually lightened up and laughed along with everyone else. In this Q&A with a starstruck Simon Doonan she talks about her experience in making the film, with a good portion spent dishing on Mae West. R.I.P., Raquel.

*Welch herself wasn’t exactly known for being a delight on set.