Short Takes: ‘Murder by Phone’ (1982) ★★ ½

The days before caller I.D. were
indeed terrifying.

While there have been plenty of thrillers and horror movies built around scary phone calls (Sorry, Wrong Number; When a Stranger Calls; Scream) and a few where the phone is a conduit to an evil force (976-Evil and The Ring-with-a-wireless-plan One Missed Call), to my knowledge the Canadian-made Murder by Phone (a.k.a. Bells) is the only movie to feature, well, murders by phone. And there may be a reason why there have been no other killer phone movies afterwards: Phones just aren’t all that scary, especially when potential victims can simply hang up.

Despite a silly concept, director and co-writer Michael Anderson (Around the World in 80 Days, Logan’s Run, Orca) managed to turn out an engaging-in-spite-of-itself thriller. Helping sell the story is the late Richard Chamberlain at peak fuckability (it’s bearded Richard Chamberlain, which is the best Richard Chamberlain), who stars as a college science teacher/environmental activist Nat Bridger. While attending a conference in Toronto Bridger investigates the death of one of his former students at the request of her father. The former student’s death was ruled a heart attack, but Bridger and the girl’s father aren’t buying it since she was only 19. We know from the movie’s opening scene that what killed her was her answering a ringing pay phone [link for younger readers] that then emitted a high-pitched whine that, apparently, immobilized her while she bled from her nose and eyes before a blast of electricity shot directly into her ear, sending her flying across a subway platform and onto a nearby escalator.

Several more people die this way, with some of the kills being unintentionally hilarious, such as a very Mac and Me scene in which an executive is sent flying through an upper floor window of an office high rise, still seated in his desk chair. Bridger pieces together that the calls are being perpetrated by a person who has somehow devised a way to send high-voltage blasts through the telephone lines (just go with it), but phone company execs stonewall him when he goes to them with his concerns, turning Murder by Phone into an awkward conspiracy thriller. Bridger’s trip to the phone company isn’t for naught, however. While there he meets R.T. (Sarah Botsford), an artist creating a mural in the lobby of the phone company’s headquarters, who assists him in his investigation as well as becoming his love interest.

I first learned about this movie when the Glorious Trash blog reviewed Phone Call, Jon Messmann’s novelization of this movie’s script published a full year before the movie was filmed in 1980, and three years before its release in the U.S. Glorious Trash described the book as “sluggish” and “more deadening than thrilling,” before launching into a tirade about Bridger being written as a hardcore environmentalist <sigh>. Even dismissing the right-wing complaints, the book sounds like a chore to read. The movie, though, is well-paced and entertaining. Chamberlain and Botsford, besides being easy on the eyes, keep things grounded by playing it straight, while supporting actors John Houseman, as Bridger’s pompous mentor, and Gary Reineke, as a skeptical police lieutenant, give more outsized performances befitting a B-movie. Anderson’s stylish direction also helps, even wringing (or is that ringing?) some genuine tension from the goofy premise.

Though I’d be among the first to buy this movie if Vinegar Syndrome ever got ahold of it for a Blu-ray release (hint, hint), I’d also be the first to admit that it doesn’t fully work. The movie’s story would’ve been easier to buy had there been a supernatural/paranormal cause behind killer phones. No matter how much science-y sounding dialog the movie throws at us, it just can’t convince us someone could kill via landline. Even more far-fetched: Bridger, who has a Ph.D., allowing people to address him Mister Bridger without once correcting them. I call bullshit.

Short Takes: ‘In the Eye of the Hurricane’ (1971) ★★★

Ruth (Analía Gadé), a wealthy, well-put-together blonde with a fondness for beige fashions and Kent cigarettes, leaves her husband Michel (Tony Kendall) for Paul (Jean Sorel). It appears to be an amicable separation. Michel tries to persuade Ruth to stay—or at least stay long enough for a farewell fuck—but then politely steps aside when Paul arrives to take Ruth away to “the villa.” The lovers’ first few days at the seaside mansion are blissful, though Ruth (and the audience) doesn’t know what to make of the sudden appearance of Paul’s gigolo friend Roland (Maurizio Bonuglia), but she quickly warms up to him always hanging around the movie’s periphery. Less so Danielle (Rosanna Yanni), the sexually ambiguous redhead who’s rented the house next door.

But there are more unwelcome developments threatening Ruth’s happiness than a layabout stud with a pencil ’stache or a shapely switch-hitter, such as narrowly avoiding a deadly crash when her brakes give out while speeding along a narrow highway, and almost asphyxiating when her scuba tank runs out of air during a diving expedition. Both incidents are dismissed as coincidental malfunctions, but Ruth is sure that someone is trying to kill...Paul. It’s only later that she realizes she’s the one who’s In the Eye of the Hurricane (a.k.a. El ojo del huracán).

Even the poster art for In the Eye of the Hurricane
and Paranoia complement each other.

This Spanish-Italian co-production had been on my watchlist for a while, and so it was a pleasant surprise when it popped up on Tubi, under the title The Fox with the Velvet Tail. It’s more a Eurotrash thriller than giallo, which is fine by me. If you liked Umberto Lenzi’s 1969 thriller Paranoia (a.k.a. Orgasmo)—and I count it among my favorites—then you should enjoy In the Eye of the Hurricane. In fact, Paranoia and Hurricane would make a great double feature, as both movies share a lot of similarities: beautiful rich women living in secluded villas, lovers with suspect motives, semi-explicit sex scenes, and bratty bisexual babes.

But as much as Paranoia and Hurricane complement each other, they are not equal. Paranoia is better, but Hurricane is classier. Not only does Hurricane director José María Forqué present his leading lady in a more glamorous light, he also injects his movie with a lot of visual style, such as a dizzying make-out scene between Sorel, hanging upside down from a tree branch, and a topless Gadé (too bad about the shitty day-for-night scenes). The version of Hurricane streaming on Tubi is English dubbed, which makes it difficult to accurately judge the acting, though fortunately none of the actors on screen have their performances sabotaged by awful voice actors. Forqué’s script, co-written with Rafael Azcona and Mario di Nardo, is deceptively simple—too simple, I initially thought, until the final denouement that surprised me with its cleverness. The point of Roland’s presence is never really explained, though the final seconds before the end credits spark plenty of speculation. At the risk of a minor spoiler, I’ll just say Ruth should have fun with him (Roland is cute, in a smarmy sort of way) but maybe keep a gun handy. Roland’s up to something.

Michel’s (Tony Kendall) inability to properly tie a tie may not be what
drove Ruth (Analia Gadé) to leave him, but I’m sure it was a factor.

Short Takes: ‘The Love Machine’ (1971) ★★

There’s a reason The Love Machine
doesn’t share the same cult status as
Valley of the Dolls.

Twentieth Century Fox’s adaptation of Jacqueline Susann’s Valley of the Dolls was lambasted by critics upon its 1967 release, but that didn’t stop audiences from recognizing its awesomeness and turning it into a huge hit. So, it was inevitable Susann’s follow-up bestselling novel, The Love Machine, would also be adapted for the big screen, by Columbia Pictures this time out.

This time, instead of dolls it’s dick that drives characters to ruin, specifically the one attached to its main character Robin Stone (John Phillip Law). Stone is a New York City newscaster/manwhore who moistens the panties of Judith Austin (Dyan Cannon), the much younger wife of IBC network head Gregory Austin (Robert Ryan). Judith, pussy aquiver, urges her oblivious hubby to make Robin IBC’s new anchorman. It’s not long before Robin is named head of the network’s news division, and Judith shows up expecting to be thanked hard and often. Robin is happy to oblige, especially now that his model girlfriend/doormat Amanda (Jodi Wexler) is out of the way, having killed herself after Robin dumped her. Judith, however, won’t disappear so easily.

The Judith and Robin business is mostly confined to the movie’s second half. The first half focuses more on Robin treating Amanda like shit, even hitting her when she tries to leave his apartment early in the morning because she must get ready for a photo shoot, and butting heads with IBC’s programming head, Danton Miller (Jackie Cooper). There’s also an underdeveloped subplot about a hack comic, Christie Lane (Shecky Greene), who hosts a schlocky-but-successful variety show on IBC, getting involved with Amanda briefly before entering a transactional relationship with IBC’s publicist/“celebrity fucker” Ethel Evans (Maureen Arthur). Flitting about the movie’s periphery is openly gay fashion photographer and Robin’s best friend Jerry Nelson (David Hemmings), who holds out hope he can get his hands on the love machine one day.

The Love Machine is no Valley of the Dolls, though it offers some campy fun here and there. Dyan Cannon is miscast (an older actress like Lola Albright or Eleanor Parker would’ve been a better fit even if they had less marquee value), her portrayal of Judith rendering her less a calculating ballbreaker than a bratty high schooler, but at least Cannon understood the assignment. Same goes for Hemmings, whose performance is one of the more entertaining ones in the movie, stereotypical though it may be. Unfortunately, John Phillip Law mistook his character’s name as a character trait, acting like a stone and robbing the movie of much of its entertainment value. He’s attractive, yes, but totally unbelievable as a “love machine.” (BTW, “the love machine” of the title is primarily referring to television itself, though that point gets lost when the movie focuses more on Robin’s compulsive need to fuck as many women as possible.)

Director Jack Haley, Jr., does the movie no favors by simultaneously mimicking Valley (cheesy fashion advertisements, an author cameo, plus two Dionne Warwick songs) while also including some self-aware camp, such as having the Hallelujah Chorus play as Danton Miller exits Gregory Austin’s office, relieved he was not summoned there to be fired. And don’t expect its R-rating to up the ante. Though you get some fleeting glimpses of bare tits and ass (including Law’s) and a couple of F-bombs (but way more F-slurs, especially in the movie’s homophobic last act), they do little to amp up the sleaze. In the end, the movie adaptation of The Love Machine never establishes itself as anything more than a cheap imitation. All that said, it’s still more enjoyable than the turgid 1975 adaptation of Susann’s third novel, Once is Not Enough.

Short Takes: ‘Swallowed’ (2022) ★★★

Not to be confused with Swallow [NSFW].

A body horror movie written and directed by the same man who gave us Jamie Marks is Dead and The Passenger, with full frontal male nudity and featuring the star of Nightmare on Elm Street 2: Freddy’s Revenge as a vicious queen? You don’t have to ask me twice.

Making Carter Smith’s Swallowed even more intriguing—for me, at least—is Smith makes his story decidedly queer. When we first meet one of its protagonists, Benjamin (Cooper Koch, recently in Netflix’s Monsters: The Lyle and Erik Menedez Story), he’s celebrating his impending escape from his dead-end hometown in rural Canada, his joining an L.A. gay porn studio’s stable being his all-expense-paid ticket to a more exciting life. His best friend Dom (Jose Colon) thinks Ben is naïve (“Those guys are going to want all that money back, man”), but celebrates with him, nevertheless. Dom is supposedly straight, yet it’s obvious he’s not that straight. Just as obvious is Ben very much hoping tonight’s the night they take their friendship up a notch, or at the very least, Dom consents to a farewell BJ. Alas, despite pointing our minds in that direction, the movie’s title is not an oral sex reference.

On the drive home Dom takes a detour to check on his cousin, DiDi. He and Didi had worked out a deal to smuggle some drugs into the U.S, the money from which Dom was going to give to Ben as a going away present (dude, you could’ve just agreed to let Ben blow you). Except, Didi is now too stoned to act as the go-between, so Dom now must deal with her girlfriend Alice (Jena Malone), who is neither congenial nor compromising, pulling a gun when Dom balks at having to swallow condoms stuffed with product. That gun also comes in handy when Ben needs to be convinced to swallow some condoms as well.

Crossing the border into Maine is the easy part, it turns out. Complications arise when Dom attempts shitting out the contraband and discovers it’s not a drug—but its bite can induce a high. By the time Alice arrives to retrieve the product, she finds Dom catatonic and pants-less and Ben freaking the fuck out. Her boss Rich (Mark Patton) isn’t going to like this.

Though Swallowed is labeled a body horror, don’t go in expecting Cronenberg (David or Brandon) wrapped in a rainbow flag. It feels more like a homoerotic crime thriller, with the tension derived from the unpredictable situation Ben and Dom find themselves in, without any grotesque physical transformations (you can expect some blood and shit, however, as well as one prosthetic dick* that’s almost convincing). Smith has shown in his other films that he can get a lot from a limited budget, and he gets more than his money’s worth with Koch, Colon, Malone and Patton, all great in their roles. Unfortunately, Smith tacked on a silly epilogue that’s tonally at odds with everything that came before it and dismisses all Ben has gone through. It doesn’t ruin the movie, but it did leave a sour taste in my mouth.

*Not counted as the movie’s full-frontal male nudity.

Short Takes: ‘A Fever in the Blood’ (1961) ★★ ½

What’s the Fever in the Blood? Not
what this poster is selling.

Though the title (and poster for) A Fever in the Blood suggests a lurid melodrama about philandering husbands and horny housewives, it is actually a discount All the King’s Men, about three men—Judge Hoffman (Efrem Zimbalist, Jr.), District Attorney Dan Callahan (Jack Kelly, quickly taking it up to 11), and Sen. Alex Simon (a smarmy Don Ameche)—vying for the governor’s seat of an unnamed state (but probably California). Also, Angie Dickinson is in this movie.

Hoffman and Callahan are friends at the beginning of the movie, with Hoffman asking the D.A. to join him on campaign trail as the lieutenant governor candidate. Callahan is flattered, saying he’d never really considered the office. That is, until Walter Thornwall (Rhodes Reason), the nephew of the former governor, is charged—wrongly—with murdering his adulterous wife. Prosecuting the high-profile case ignites Callahan’s political ambitions, only he is not content to be Hoffman’s running mate, he wants the governor’s office for himself. When Sen. Simon approaches him about supporting his campaign for governor—Simon wanting the seat so he can have more control over state delegates for a planned run for President—Callahan’s confidence in his electability is further bolstered and just like that he’s an asshole.

Thornwall’s trial ends up in Hoffman’s court (awk-ward). The avuncular judge does his best to keep politics out of the trial but it’s clear no one else got the memo. Callahan grandstands for the jury (and press), and Sen. Simon attempts to sway Hoffman with a quid pro quo offer if he declares a mistrial. Hoffman refuses the senator’s bribe but agrees to remain silent on the incident at the request of Simon’s trophy wife Cathy (Dickinson), who not-so-secretly loves the judge. Hoffman’s moral backbone develops scoliosis, however, and he decides to fight as dirty as his opponents.

A Fever in the Blood, based on William Pearson’s 1959 novel, has the makings of A Serious Movie with Important Themes—like The Young Philadelphians, helmed by the same director, Vincent Sherman. But Fever has more in common with the TV movies Sherman would direct later in his career, playing more like a two-hour pilot for a TV series than a big screen drama. The TV comparison is further exacerbated by the cast of TV regulars: Zimbalist (77 Sunset Strip), Kelly (Maverick), Dickinson (a movie star, but also future star of TV’s Police Woman), Robert Colbert (The Time Tunnel) and Carroll O’Connor (All in the Family).

Though it’s not as grand—or as sexy—as Warner Bros. wanted audiences to believe, A Fever in the Blood is still pretty damn entertaining (it’s not like a bad TV movie). The story about politics corrupting even the best of men is evergreen (no one will buy the ending though, especially today), and the script by Roy Huggins (also a TV veteran) and Harry Kleiner provides plenty of twists and turns, with a healthy amount of camp. Only Dickinson disappoints, cast as little more than set decoration, in one scene literally reduced to just sitting there and looking pretty while the men talk.

Short Takes: ‘The Holiday Exchange’ (2024) ★ ½

Does anyone really care if rich people find love? Like, has anyone kept up at night worrying—about bills, about work, about the next four years—ever spared a thought about Peter Thiel’s love life? I know I haven’t. Though, now that I’m thinking about it, is Peter Thiel even capable of love?* 

Anyway, because Christmas—or rather, because there is a dearth of LGBTQ+ holiday TV movies this year—I decided to check out The Holiday Exchange, which re-teams two of the stars of Shoulder Dance as two rich, attractive gay men who exchange houses when faced with the prospect of spending the holidays single, which, in the world of TV Christmas movies, is tantamount to a pancreatic cancer diagnosis.

In Los Angeles, we have Wilde, played by Taylor Frey, who has recently broken up with his actor/screenwriter boyfriend Sean. Across the pond, Oliver, played by Rick Cosnett, a well-mannered and well-off divorce attorney, has just found out that the man he hoped to spend the holidays with has other plans that pointedly don’t include him. Fortunately, there’s an app to the rescue: Grindr mister B&B. Wilde treats himself to a holiday vacation, and rents Oliver’s cozy manor house in the fictional Brilfax. After a quick FaceTime call, Oliver decides to rent Wilde’s garish Los Angeles mansion. Wilde’s U.K. vacation is interrupted by Oliver’s movie actor cousin Henry (Daniel Garcia), who shows up needing a place to stay after the pipes at his house freeze. Oliver, on the other hand, ingratiates himself with self-help author Julius (Samer Salem) at a book signing. Low-key conflicts arise (Julius is butt-hurt when he learns Oliver is a divorce attorney; Wilde jumps to conclusions when he sees Henry at a pub with another man), but love, Christmas, etcetera.

I promised myself going in that I would give The Holiday Exchange a chance, even though it is directed by Jake Helgren. There’s a scene early on, when Wilde’s ex Sean (Kyle Dean Massey) shows up to discuss their breakup, that has the expected energy of holiday rom-com, as does a later scene featuring Ashley Fink as a spunky bookstore manager. But these moments are mere teaspoons of rum in a what is otherwise a full glass of egg slog. Most attempts at humor fall flat, such as Wilde being locked out of Oliver’s house after a snowstorm, wearing just a scarf and plaid boxer shorts, his motivation for going outside in the first place not readily apparent. Some actors, such as Kyle Richards, as Wilde’s overly supportive mom Lola, and Camila Banus, as Julius’s publicist/friend Naomi, deliver sit-com style performances, talking really fast and loudly, with nothing funny to say. Richards’ performance in particular leaves the impression that Lola is the type of mom who tried to bond with her son by sharing her cocaine.

The Holiday Exchange is more concerned with the rom than the com, anyway, but even there it falters. Cosnett’s Oliver is blandly charming and there is some chemistry between him and Salem, but Frey’s Wilde is spoiled and smug to the point that I was more invested in him getting punched in the face than kissed. However, this holiday lump of coal isn’t entirely Helgren’s fault. He didn’t write this fucker, his leading man Frey did. However, characters doing an ad read for mister B&B? That has Jake Helgren all over it.

*Thiel has a husband, BTW, though being married isn’t the same as being capable of love, so that question remains unanswered.

Off-the-Rails Takes: ‘The Merry Gentlemen’ (2024)

Netflix decided to spice things up for Christmas 2024 and drop a couple “sexy” holiday movies on its platform. One of them is The Merry Gentleman, in which Ashley (Britt Robertson), after being fired from her gig as a lead dancer in a Rockettes-at-half-price revue, the Jingle Belles, returns to the small town of Sycamore Creek where she grew up, discovering that the bar owned by her parents Lily and Stan (Beth Broderick and Michael fuckin’ Gross of Family Ties and Tremors fame) is in serious trouble, like $30,000-in-debt kind of trouble. Were it not for Luke (Chad Michael Murray, his hair almost as hard as his abs), the hot contractor making repairs at the bar out of the kindness of his heart, and Danny (Maxwell Caulfield, having a very different career than his Grease 2 co-star), a retiree spending all his money and free time at the bar, the business would’ve closed its doors months ago. But they can’t hold off property manager/landlord Denise (Maria Canals-Barrera) forever. When she tells Ashley that she’s got a juice bar lined up to move into the space Jan. 1, Ashley says not so fast, her parents will cover the debt with all the money raised from the all-male revue she’s producing, the Merry Gentlemen!

Denise wishes Ashley good luck with that and is off to wait for Ashley’s scheme to fail. “I’ll show that bitch,” Ashley snarls through clenched teeth. “I’ve faced off against tougher rats than her in my Hell’s Kitchen apartment.” She quickly enlists Luke, her brother-in-law Rodger (Marc Anthony Samuel), the bartender Troy (Colt Prattes), and cab driver Ricky (Hector David, Jr.) to help her with her scheme.

“But I can’t dance,” Luke protests.

Ashley laughs derisively. “You think people will want to see you dance? Silly bunny, you won’t be up on that stage to show off your footwork.” Her eyes travel down the length of his body.

Troy pipes up. “Actually, I can dance.”

“Me too,” adds Ricky.

“I’m sure you boys can,” Ashley says with just a trace of condescension. She takes a seat in front of the stage and lights a cigarette. “But”—she raises her voice in a line delivery almost worthy of Christopher Walken—“this is not DANCING WITH THE FUCKING STARS! Now I want you boys up on that stage, mouths shut and cocks out! I need to see what I’m working with.”

Rodger protests, reminding Ashley that he is her brother-in-law, but Ashley is unmoved. So, Rodger heads for the door. “You leave, and I’ll tell Marie (Marla Sokoloff) that you fingered me in the bathroom during your wedding reception,” Ashley says, coldly and calmly. Her words stop Rodger in his tracks. “You know that’s not true!” he gasps.

“Marie doesn’t. And who knows, play your cards right and we might make it true,” Ashley teases. It’s at this moment that Rodger realizes he never really knew his sister-in-law and it’s that not knowing that makes him fearful. He acquiesces to her demands.

The men disrobe and Ashley walks around each one, giving her assessment (“Got a bit a dad bod there, Rog, but some people like that, and the booty is still lookin’ good. Ricky and Troy, no notes. And Luke, talk about poles. Looks like it’s already starting to point north.”)

The rehearsals and scheming then begin. Luke may have two left feet, but he proves to be a useful co-conspirator, telling Ashley that before he moved to the sedate town of Sycamore Creek he lived in Chicago. Or, more specifically. MCC Chicago. “I did five years for drug trafficking. I learned a lot during that time. I learned how not to get caught.”

“And now you’ve caught me,” Ashley swoons, and the two kiss, then make sweet, sweet love atop the bar’s faulty freezer that Luke hasn’t gotten around to fixing.

The opening night arrives. Ashley had encountered some resistance when promoting the show as an all-male revue, but the moment she tells customers the Merry Gentlemen are a troupe of male strippers, everyone’s lining up—some townspeople getting outed in the process. (“Danny, I never knew!” exclaims Marie when she sees the DILF in line at the bar’s front door. “Honey, you think I was coming here for that piss your parents call beer?” Danny scoffs. “I was hoping Troy might find his inner bisexual. I think tonight’s the night!”)

The lights go down and a remix of Cher’s “DJ Play a Christmas Song” begins to play. The men appear on stage, dressed in Santa costumes. At the song’s chorus, the men strip off their red coats. The ladies (and Danny) go wild. A few dollars are thrown onto the stage, but it isn’t until the DJ—Ashley’s dad Stan—tells the crowd that “the more you throw, the more the guys show,” does the audience truly make it rain.

During the performance, Ashley circulates around the bar, offering interested audience members a little snow to go with the poles, a side-hustle proposed by Luke (he’s a keeper!). It’s while she’s selling blow to giddy housewives that Ashley realizes the most enthusiastic member of the audience—more so than Danny, even—is Denise, who frequently rushes the stage to stuff Luke’s shiny red thong with ones and fives, copping feels in the process.

Denise’s fervor gives Ashley an idea, and at intermission she confers with the Merry Gentlemen to solidify her plan. Her plan in place, she finds Denise, a little tipsy from her third mojito, and asks if she’d be interested in meeting the guys backstage. “You can get to know them in a more…intimate setting,” Ashley says, her voice brimming with innuendo. “Will I be alone with them?” Denise asks. “Of course,” Ashley says, fighting back maniacal laughter. This is just too easy!

After the final act, a disco-fied Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer number that concludes with the men stripping down to light-up jockstraps, it’s time for Denise’s private meat n’ greet with the Merry Gentlemen. There’s a brief kerfuffle when Danny tries to crash, but Ashley quickly averts that by offering up Troy. “But I’m not gay!” Troy whines when she pushes him into Danny’s waiting arms. “But you like getting your dick sucked, don’t you?” Ashley snaps. “Just close your eyes and enjoy it.” With Danny appeased, Denise can enjoy her private time with the three remaining Merry Gentlemen.

Sadly, most of the action happens behind a closed door, with only the occasional filthy whisper or loud moan indicating the action on the other side. The audience isn’t kept outside for long, however, and neither are Ashley and her family, who throw open the door to catch Denise in a very compromising position. Most of the action is out of frame for the sake of the children, but we see enough to figure out who’s sticking what where. (Spit roasted and DP’d. Impressive!). “We have our Christmas card photo!”  Lily singsongs as she walks in recording the action on her smart phone. Denise screams, disentangling herself from the remaining Merry (and Horny) Gentlemen. Marie rushes to her husband Rodger, who’s immediately defensive (“I only let her blow me!”), but Marie puts his fears to rest. “You did it to save my parents’ business, and that’s the best Christmas gift of all.” Meanwhile, Denise, rushing to get dressed, is alternately cursing Ashley and her family and begging for them to destroy the photos. Stan considers Denise’s pleas. “We could do that, for a price. Say, $30,000, with the next six months free?” Denise tearfully agrees.

After Denise leaves weeping into the night, Stan and Lily each put an arm around Ashley. “This is what Christmas is all about: family,” Lily says wistfully. “Now, is there any of that ‘snow’ left?”

OK, I made up most of that shit, but you knew that already. (As if Netflix would spring for the rights to a Cher recording for this thing.) When so little imagination went into The Merry Gentlemen, I just felt compelled to imagine my own movie. Robertson, Samuel, Sokoloff and Caulfield (not playing gay, BTW, because this movie would never dare be that interesting) project the right spirit, but it’s Murray, with his resting my-career-has-come-to-this face, who better embodies the experience of watching The Merry Gentlemen. Despite its “sexy” theme, it’s a by-the-numbers TV holiday movie that’s just going through the motions. ★½

The Merry Gentlemen is strictly TV-14, but Chad Michael
Murray teases us with some NC-17 bulge.

Short Takes: ‘Arabella: Black Angel’ (1989) ★★

One thing that can be said for the late entry giallo Arabella: Black Angel is that it doesn’t waste time. In the movie’s opening scenes, a sexy redhead with silly gold glitter streaks bracketing her eyes, goes to a sex club, The Infernal Regions (also simply called Hell), slinking past various sexy tableaux, including two women, tits out, lighting their cigarettes from another woman’s candle strap-on and two men in black banana hammocks wrestling, before ultimately submitting to two hunks wearing high-waisted black vinyl pants. This encounter is promptly interrupted by a police raid and the red-headed woman is apprehended by gruff vice Det. Alfonse de Rosa (Carlo Mucari). “I’m not a whore,” she cries. The detective decides to let her go free—after he rapes her. This all happens within the movie’s first 12 minutes.

The main character is Deborah (a striking, and frequently naked, Tiní Cansino). She is not a whore, or a redhead, but the raven-haired wife of Frank (Francesco Casale), a best-selling author who’s been confined to a wheelchair after a wedding day car accident (Deborah really should’ve waited until they got to their hotel to blow him). Frank is also kind of an asshole, prone to throwing tantrums whenever Deborah or his mother Marta (Evelyn Stewart, a.k.a. Ida Galli) ask how the new book is coming along.

Deborah, however, has bigger problems than being married to a temperamental paraplegic, like the fact that she has not one but two guys trying to blackmail her, one for sex, the other for money. If only they realized that Deborah and Frank have an understanding: at night she dons her red wig and goes looking for some strange as Arabella, then tells Frank about her extramarital adventures the next morning, which he then incorporates into his novel. Had the blackmailers known this, they might still be alive, because another one of Deborah’s problems is people who fuck/fuck with her tend to get their genitals mutilated by a scissors-wielding maniac. Can Inspector Gina (Valentina Visconti), a straight man’s lesbian fantasy, find the scissor killer before Deborah mounts her next cock? More importantly, will Gina, who wears the same black plaid blazer for most of the movie, ever find her way to a TJ Maxx? (Or a Castel Romano Outlet, as she’s in Italy. The point is, bitch needs to add to her wardrobe.)

Arabella: Black Angel isn’t much of a giallo. It’s certainly one of director Stelvio (Emergency Squad, Convoy Busters) Massi’s lesser films, something he was obviously aware of given he’s hiding behind the generic—but appropriately porny—pseudonym Max Steel. However, if you’re looking for sleaze, Arabella’s got plenty, with copious nudity (mostly of the female variety), simulated humping and gruesome murders, including the graphic emasculation of one of Arabella’s hookups and two scenes where a killer uses scissors like a vaginal speculum. It’s no New York Ripper, but it’s far superior to Delitto carnale. At least Arabella doesn’t forget it’s a giallo, though you’ll likely spend more time puzzling over the movie’s lost-in-translation dialog (“This evening I’m going to nab you with your hands in the chili, young lady”) than you will its central mystery.

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—go 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. 

(Not-So-)Short Takes: ‘Mea Culpa’ (2024) ★ ½

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Short Takes: ‘Alpha Delta Zatan’ (2017) ½ ★

Gay porn without the gay or the porn.

Alpha Delta Zatan features a cast of hot men delivering performances that can charitably be described as amateurish (absolute shit if just being honest), so naturally I checked their filmographies to see if any of them had done porn. None had—at least according to IMDb—but many of them should. I didn’t have to bother checking the filmographies of director Art Arutyunyan or writer Armand Petri for porn credits. Alpha Delta Zatan makes it clear that they wouldn’t know how eroticism works if it slapped them in the face with its dick.

But Alpha Delta Zatan is supposed to be a horror film, and Arutyunyan and Petri don’t have much of a grasp of how that works, either. Or basic storytelling, for that matter. This is Alpha Delta Zatan in a nutshell: A hunky member of the ADZ house strips down to his skivvies, unaware of a knife-wielding guy wearing a black Zentai body suit and harlequin mask (not “Harley Quinn,” as one actor insists on calling it) doing poses in the hall. Hunky guy then steps out of his underwear and into the shower, whereupon he’s attacked by the harlequin-masked killer. Rinse, repeat. 

That’s it. That’s Alpha Delta Zatan’s story, man-ass and murder, played on a loop, with only the color of the lighting (Artyunyan fucking loves his gels) to differentiate them from each other. There’s some business about Frat Dad Brad (Jared Fleming) mandating these killings for possible “Zatanic” reasons, and a lot of the frat brothers are shown drinking blood, but none of it is fully developed, let alone explained.

As one would expect, Alpha Delta Zatan is about as scary as David DeCoteau film. Yet, DeCoteau—early 2000s DeCoteau, specifically—would at least play up the homoeroticism, even if the guys in his casts seldom take off their boxer briefs. The guys of Alpha Delta Zatan, however, are decidedly asexual, or possibly just autosexual. They are always admiring their own bodies yet show zero interest in sex with any gender. Admittedly, several of the ADZ’s cast’s bodies are quite admirable, and certainly more to my taste than the twinks DeCoteau favors, but I started getting bored by the third shower scene; by the fourth I was hoping at least one of the guys would go full frontal, just to break the monotony (spoiler: no penises are ever shown). You’ll derive more enjoyment from watching 30-minutes’ worth of “fitness inspiration” videos on YouTube than watching Alpha Delta Zatan. Or you could just watch the hard stuff [NSFW, but you knew that].

Short Takes: ‘A Closer Walk with Thee’ (2017) ★

David Gordon Green’s The Exorcist: Believer was released earlier this month to reviews ranging from meh to just don’t. I just didn’t and instead watched the 2017 gay-themed possession story, A Closer Walk with Thee, a movie The Exorcist: Believer is most definitely better than.

A group of missionaries belonging to a Christian denomination with very strict edicts against set decoration have set up shop in an East Los Angeles house with the hopes of bringing area residents to the Lord. They have their work cut out for them. Their first convert, Ascencion (Deborah Venegas), comes staggering back possessed by a demon within minutes of being baptized. (This is a horror film, after all, though it’s easy to forget that given the film is as moodily lit as the interior of a CVS.) Fortunately for Ascencion, Brother Eli (Gregory Shelby) is a crack exorcist and casts that demon out of her in time for her to be home for lunch.

But there’s a more insidious possession taking hold in one of the mission’s own members, sweet-faced organist Jordan (Aj Knight), who is not only cursed with Shane Dawson’s hairstyle but is also overcome with impure thoughts of Brother Eli (and, in one scene, the body of Christ). Jordan does his best to keep these feelings under control, but he’s powerless to resist his urges when he spies on Eli in the shower—urges that are so strong (because Brother Eli’s ass is that fine!) that he never once considers consequences of jacking off outside the bathroom door. He’s just asking to be caught by Lindsey (Kelsey Boze), the most judgmental of his fellow missionaries. But it’s going to take more than Brother Eli shouting, “Reveal yourself, you fag demon!” to turn Jordan straight.

It’s the treatment of Jordan’s possession where A Closer Walk with Thee goes from bad to patently offensive, and when my rating dropped from a star and a half to a single star. Had the writing-directing team of John C. Clark and Brie Williams chose to fully commit to satirizing the hysteria of religious fanaticism, as they do periodically in the movie’s first half, or base the horror in that same fanaticism, which, as we’ve seen again and again, is pretty damned terrifying, I might have been able to simply blame the movie’s shortcomings on a low budget and limited filmmaking experience. Unfortunately, Clark and Williams chose to literally equate being gay with demon possession, with Jordan becoming a rape-y, homicidal homo, making A Closer Walk with Thee more closely aligned with the shit peddled in an evangelical Christian “hell house” (albeit better acted) than a movie purportedly aimed at LGBTQ audiences.

And yet it’s distributed by Altered Innocence, a company “dedicated to releasing LGBTQ and Coming-of-Age [sic] films with an artistic edge.” I’d argue that A Closer Walk with Thee belongs with a different company, but faith-based outlets generally shun content with f-bombs and butt stuff. A shame, because A Closer Walk with Thee has the potential to be the best thing in PureFlix’s catalog instead of one of the worst in Altered Innocence’s. #PureFlixAfterDark.

Short Takes: ‘The Shadowed Mind’ (1988) ★★

Peter Greenaway at half price? An early work of an especially horny—and bi-curious— Richard Stanley? South African director Cedric (American Ninja 3 & 4) Sundstrom, comes really close to earning either distinction with his artsy horror/thriller The Shadowed Mind. If only he had succeeded.

Set in a private mental health hospital operating out of what appears to be an abandoned factory, Dr. Hildesheimer (Towje Kleiner), with the help of his worshipful assistant Helen (Trish Downing), treats patients with all manner of ailments, mostly of the sexual variety. Patients include childlike Matthew (Simon Poland), wrestling with body dysphoria and sexual identity; Julia (Hayley Dorskey), a victim of child sexual abuse who shows signs of multiple personality disorder; and General (Simon Sabela), who marches around in full military dress, randomly barking orders. Tellingly, General is the hospital’s most “normal” resident.

The newest arrival is Stephanie (Adrienne Pearce), a compulsive exhibitionist. She, of course, attracts the attention of others at the hospital, especially Paul (Rufus Swart, who also co-wrote the script), a patient who heretofore has been struggling to ignite a long-dormant libido, and orderly Kurt (Evan J. Klisser, showing some serious camel toe whenever he’s clothed), who, conversely, is always hunting for partners to satisfy a libido in overdrive. Though Stephanie is quick to flash her tits, she doesn’t give in to either man’s advances as readily. Kurt, knowing he has willing partners in nurse Alice (Jennifer Steyn) and fellow orderly Nick (Nicholas Ashley Nortier), takes Stephanie’s rejection in stride. Paul, not so much.

Then people start getting murdered, and the timing couldn’t be more inconvenient, as the clinic is about to receive a $1 million grant.

Though The Shadowed Mind falls short of being good, many of its flaws are also what make it such a curious viewing experience. The script is often silly and nonsensical, but it’s also enjoyably weird. Sundstrom, helped by Ruth Strimling’s art direction and George Bartels’ cinematography, makes the most of the film’s location, yet you can’t quite suspend disbelief that a private hospital would operate in a warehouse with crumbling walls and busted out windows, no matter how artful the lighting. The performances are uneven, with several actors—Pearce and Dorskey especially—speaking as if they learned their lines phonetically, and yet these off-kilter line readings kind of work with the film’s overall vibe. The Shadowed Mind also pushes the envelope a little further than most American movies, at least as far as the sex and nudity goes, to say nothing of the queer content (the violence is tame compared to your average U.S.-made slasher), yet somehow remains in limbo between arthouse and grindhouse sensibilities.

I didn’t regret watching The Shadowed Mind, but wishing it lived up to all it could’ve been prevented me from enjoying it as much as I hoped I would.

Short Takes: ‘Gold’ (2022) ★★ ½

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

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

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

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

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

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

Short Takes: ‘From Zero to I Love You’ (2019) ★★

Jack (Scott Bailey), one of the main characters of writer-director Doug Spearman’s From Zero to I Love You, has a nice life: a loving wife, two young daughters and a successful career sitting in front of a computer screen (he’s a book editor, it turns out). It’s the life he’s chosen for himself, but it’s not authentic. Jack is gay, a fact the movie would have you believe he’s suppressed for a decade, until he gives in to cruisy cater-waiter at a friend’s birthday party, hooking up with him while his wife Karla (Keili Lefkowitz) is in the next room. And yet Jack bristles at his therapist’s suggestion that he’s gay or bisexual. Jack is adamant he doesn’t want to be either, so he goes on pretending he’s not.

Until he meets Pete (Darryl Stephens of Noah’s Ark: Jumping the Broom), a sexy magazine copywriter who we’ll just assume inherited the chic Philadelphia townhouse he calls home. It’s meant to be a one-night stand, until Jack comes back for a second night, and then a third. Pete’s been down this road before, Jack being the fourth “straight” married man he’s gotten involved with. “Stop fuckin’ around with these down-low motherfuckers!” bellows his bullying/supportive father (Richard Lawson). But no matter how loudly his father yells, Pete can’t say no to Jack, allowing the relationship to become a full-fledged affair, one the audience knows is doomed unless the two men deal with some shit.

This one has gotten a lot of favorable reviews, and I really wanted to love it, or at least like it a lot. Yet while the movie does have some worthwhile things to say—about being true to yourself, about how the best choice isn’t always an easy one, and, all-too-fleetingly, about race—I just never quite fell for it (hey, we can’t always choose what we love). Spearman doesn’t spend much time developing the central romance, instead focusing on the complications that arise from it. That’s fine, but I still wanted something established between zero and the first “I love you.” Instead, Jack and Pete are in love simply because the screenplay says they are. The movie isn’t helped by a script that liberally uses tropes from rom-coms and soap operas yet refuses to fully commit to them, resulting in numerous scenes ending without any comedic or dramatic payoff.

From Zero to I Love You is well made on a technical level, with Spearman getting the most out of a small budget. The movie also benefits from some good performances, especially from Stephens and Lefkowitz. The weakest link is Bailey, who goes through the entire movie looking surprised he’s in it. When Pete dumps Jack in the second act (this movie at least subverts the third act breakup trope) for a trust funded, tattooed muscle bear (Adam Klesh, who, sadly, hasn’t done porn but has modeled for some artistic nudes), I became more invested in the movie simply because there was so much more chemistry between Stephens and the charismatic Klesh. Alas, the movie isn’t titled From Zero to ’Bye, Bitch, so this more compelling relationship isn’t the one that lasts.

Short Takes: ‘Jobriath A.D.’ (2012) ★★★ ½

I first learned about Jobriath in the 1980s, when I checked out the book Kitsch from my local library. One of the chapters featured the cover to Jobriath’s failed self-titled debut album, which depicted the singer in profile, face down on the ground, nude, with his legs crumbling away like he was a classic sculpture being chipped away by the ravages of time. The book presented the album cover as an example of bad taste, but I thought it was cool. From what I recall, author Gillo Dorfles’ accompanying text about Jobriath was kind of dismissive: he was an openly gay David Bowie wannabe who never lived up to his hype.

However, Jobriath was more than a glam rock no hit wonder, as director Kieran Turner’s 2012 documentary Jobriath A.D. proves, with interviews from people who knew him as Bruce Wayne Campbell, a child prodigy growing up in Pennsylvania; as Jobriath Salisbury, the wildly talented (and just plain wild) cast member of the Los Angeles production of Hair; and, of course, as his most famous incarnation, Jobriath Boone—or simply Jobriath—“the true fairy of rock and roll.”

One thing that becomes clear as Jobriath A.D. goes along is that as badly as the musician wanted to be famous, he did not want to be known, making an intimate portrait a bit of a challenge. Most of the people interviewed are people who worked with him, or who are fans, like Ann Magnuson, who released a Jobriath tribute EP the same year as this doc, and Scissor Sisters’ lead singer Jake Shears. The recollections shared by Jobriath’s younger brother, Willie Fogle, give us a sense of what life with their emotionally distant mother was like, but he hardly knew his brother any better than anyone else. 

Much of the documentary is dedicated to exploring how this musician who, per Rolling Stone, had “talent to burn,” failed to make a spark on the 1970s music scene. Homophobia is brought up, but fingers are also pointed at the gay community, which at the time, according to Jayne County, “was very, very negative against the whole androgynous, gender-glitter movement of the ’70s.” Most of the blame for fucking up Jobriath’s career is directed toward his manager, promoter and club owner Jerry Brandt, who once upon a time also managed Carly Simon. Brandt has a lot to say on the subject of Jobriath in the documentary, which isn't surprising. One of the criticisms lobbed at Brandt is that he often commandeered interviews with Jobriath, with the singer barely given a chance to answer a question, and Turner provides the receipts. (Brandt argues that Jobriath wasn't comfortable giving answers, and some of the clips showing a somewhat stiff Jobriath responding to an interviewer’s questions suggest there’s some truth to that, as well.) What comes out is that Brandt seemed more enthusiastic about promoting the persona Jobriath had created than building an audience for his music, so by the time his debut album dropped people were more familiar with its cover than the music contained therein. It was like Jobriath was a vanity project, only it was Brandt’s vanity being served.

For all the finger pointing, I think timing might have been Jobriath’s biggest enemy. I don’t think he’d have fared much better if he had beat Bowie to the punch, but maybe, with some tweaking of his sound, he could’ve made a bigger splash in the New Wave era. Instead, Jobriath found success in the Manhattan cabaret scene, performing as Cole Berlin or Bryce Campbell, though he did sex work on the side when money was tight. But his second act was short-lived: Jobriath died from AIDS complications August 3, 1983. Singer Will Sheff summarizes Jobriath's career—and the arc of this documentary—thusly: “He got to be the mega star, then he got to be the joke, and then he got to be forgotten. And now he gets to be the beacon for so many great artists out there who didn’t get their due.” 

Short Takes: ‘The Leather Boys’ (1964) ★★★ 1/2

A gay-themed movie entitled The Leather Boys suggests it’s a porno about twinks being initiated into the world of BDSM. Except, remarkably, there isn’t a gay adult feature by that name, at least not one I could find (the closest I got was a video series of suspect quality called Little Tattoo Leather Boy, Parts 1-3). No, The Leather Boys is a 1964 British drama about a young married couple and the man who tries to come between them.

Dot (Rita Tushingham, who most recently appeared in 2021’s Last Night in Soho) is a teenager in love with Reggie (Colin Campbell), a cute biker who wants to make her his bride. Their parents’ reaction to their engagement speaks volumes about their home lives: Reggie’s parents, who at best share a grudging tolerance for each other, savor a bit of schadenfreude at the thought of the teens’ doomed marriage, while Dot’s mother looks forward to her 16-year-old daughter getting hitched so she can rent out Dot’s room. The teen couple may be too young to get married, but who can blame them for wanting to get out from under their respective parents’ roofs ASAP?

We see the first sign of trouble during the couple’s honeymoon at Butlin’s Camp. Dot wants to experience all the resort has to offer; Reggie just wants to stay in their room and bone (“If you must know, I’ve had enough,” Dot says). Things only go downhill from there. Dot wants Reggie to take care of her, funding her shopping sprees and trips to the hair salon, but Reggie wants Dot to take care of him, keeping their one-room flat clean and having dinner—preferably something other than canned beans—waiting when he gets home from work. And forget sex. They argue more than fuck.

Reggie starts spending more time down at the Ace Cafe, the diner where all his biker buddies hang out. (I call them bikers, but they have more in common with middle-aged motorcycle enthusiasts than Hell's Angels.) This is where he meets Pete (Dudley Sutton), a slightly older guy who leads a seemingly carefree, itinerant life of a merchant marine. Reggie and Pete become fast friends, spending more and more time together—practically living together when Pete rents a room from Reggie’s grandmother. Dot is coached by her mother to lie about being pregnant to force Reggie’s return to their marriage. The ploy fails, with Reggie preferring Pete’s company. It’s only when Dot snarls that he and Pete “look like a couple of queers,” that Reggie begins to worry about the optics of their friendship. He’s quickly talked out of those fears—by Pete, who clearly wants to be more than just friends. Still, Reggie starts to rekindle his relationship with Dot, but don’t expect a happy ending for any of the three main characters.

I knew nothing of this “classic [of] ’60s British cinema” before putting it in my Tubi queue, so I went into The Leather Boys expecting a campy good time. But instead of something kitschy like The Set, you get a kitchen sink drama akin to Tushingham’s film debut, A Taste of Honey. 

Though Dot’s blond helmet rivals some of
the ’dos in John Waters’ Hairspray.

Screenwriter Gillian Freeman adapted The Leather Boys from her novel of the same title, and though she was credited under her own name for the movie, her book was published under the pseudonym Eliot George. According to Wikipedia (I haven’t read the book, though I might now that I’ve found an affordable reprint), the relationship between Reggie and Pete is more explicitly gay than in the movie, though still quite restrained (i.e., don’t expect graphic descriptions of cock sucking and butt fucking, though do expect Dick, as that’s Pete’s name in the book). Fortunately, not much is lost in the story’s sanitation for the screen, thanks largely to the quality of the production. Tushingham, Campbell and Sutton are all excellent. Even though the story is kind of straight-washed, the character of Pete is sensitively handled. He’s not a villain, he’s just fallen for a guy who doesn't like him in “that way.” Director Sidney J. Furie treats the material with respect, delivering a film that’s far more thoughtful and stylish than what I’d expected. (There are a lot of acclaimed titles in Furie’s filmography, but he also directed Superman IV: The Quest for Peace, so The Leather Boys really could’ve gone either way.) While I’m disappointed that I can’t make fun of this one, I can’t complain when my exploration of cinematic trash unearths a genuine treasure.