About Racism, or Just Racist?

The first time I encountered the 1975 film MANDINGO was when it was displayed on video store shelves in the 1980s. Judging from the box cover, I assumed it was a Gone with the Wind-style historical romance, synonymous with boring in my teen-aged mind. I didn’t even bother to pick up the box to read the synopsis on the back, let alone rent it. Yet I did rent Rollover, a 1981 “thriller” that has all the pulse-pounding excitement of a federal reserve chairman’s public address, so clearly I wasn’t making the best choices in my teens.

I realized my error much later, in the mid-2000s, when I read about Mandingo in Bill Landis’ and Michelle Clifford’s book The Sleazoid Express: A Mind-Twisting Tour Through the Grindhouse Cinema of Times Square. What they detailed sounded so tasteless I knew I just had to see it. Luckily, though video rentals were on death’s door, there was a place in my area that had a copy. I watched, mouth agape, horrified/amazed at what I transpired on screen. Mandingo is, quite simply, a trash classic. But this was a guilty pleasure that was guiltier than most. It’s easy for me to defend my liking a problematic movie like Cruising because I’m a member of the minority it unfairly portrays. But a white guy saying he, um, liked (was morbidly fascinated by?) Mandingo? That’s harder to sell.

But like Cruising, Mandingo seems to have been retroactively upgraded from insensitive garbage to culturally significant touchstone (though the former’s upgrade may have only happened in James Franco’s mind). In the 2013-2014 season of American Horror Story: Coven, there’s an episode where the character Queenie (Gabourey Sibide), in an attempt to reprogram a resurrected head of infamous slave serial killer Madame Delphine LaLaurie (Kathy Bates), subjects her to an onslaught of TV shows and movies about the Black struggle: Roots, Roots: The Next Generation, The Color Purple and…Mandingo? (BAPS is also included as an ironic choice, making it clear that Mandingo isn’t.)

Wait, Mandingo, the movie Roger Ebert deemed “racist trash,” is being presented as an Important Work? Somehow this was harder to accept than LaLaurie as a bodyless head on a table. At the time I saw that episode, I thought using Mandingo to show horrors of slavery the was akin to using Ilsa, She Wolf of the SS to illustrate the atrocities of the Third Reich.

Sex, Violence and the N-Word

Mandingo isn’t quite as low-brow as Ilsa, but this story about the Falconhurst plantation, owned by father and son slave breeders, Warren and Hammond Maxwell (James Mason and Perry King, respectively), is far from a prestige picture. Warren Maxwell wants three things in life: a cure for his “rheumatiz,” a Mandingo male slave—a “buck,” in the movie’s parlance—and a wife for Hammond. Two of the patriarch’s wishes come true, rather efficiently, in a single road trip Hammond takes with his asshole cousin Charles (Ben Masters), first to a slave auction, to purchase a Mandingo slave, Mede (boxer Ken Norton), then to his cousin Charles’ house for the hasty courtship of Charles’ sister Blanche (Susan George, perhaps the only woman in the antebellum South to have false eyelashes). Handsome though he is, Hammond is shy around some women (“I wouldn’t know what to do, not with no white lady,” he whines to his father), attributed to his self-consciousness about walking with a limp, the result of childhood horse riding accident. Luckily for him he won’t have to work that hard to win Blanche’s hand. She all but greets Hammond at the door in a wedding dress, she’s so eager to get hitched and away from her cash-strapped family and her brother’s boundary issues.

Their marriage is doomed, of course. Hammond blows up when he discovers Blanche isn’t a virgin (“You think I don’t know a virgin when I sleeps with one?”), and he only makes matters worse when, on the return trip to Falconhurst with his new bride and Mede, he picks up another new acquisition, Ellen (Brenda Sykes), as his “bed wench.” Blanche’s disappointment deepens when she discovers that, despite the Maxwell’s wealth, Falconhurst is a shithole. It’s not long before Blanche becomes a bitter, pathetic drunk.

Hammond (Perry King) is self-conscious about his bad leg,
not realizing the women in Mandingo are too focused on
another appendage to notice.

Meanwhile, Hammond, under his father’s tutelage, prepares Mede for a fight in New Orleans, a regimen that includes submersing the slave in near-boiling brine to “toughen his hide,” a scene that also foreshadows for the movie’s grim conclusion. Mede wins his fight, killing his opponent, earning greater respect (but not freedom) from his masters, and resentment from the house slave, Agamemnon (Richard Ward). “Congratulations, Mede,” Agamemnon says upon Mede’s return from New Orleans. “Not every Black man gets the chance to kill another Black man.”

Warren, eager for an heir, then locks Hammond in his wife’s bedroom, ordering the couple to fuck or else (well, words to that effect). For a brief moment, Blanche believes there is hope for their marriage, and chatters at dinner about transforming Falconhurst into the place of elegant parties and elevating the Maxwells’ place in antebellum society. But that hope is fleeting when it’s made clear Hammond has more affection for Ellen than his wife. So, while Hammond is away at a slave auction, Blanche summons for Mede, treating viewers to one more softcore sex scene before the movie’s deadly finale.

Blanche (Susan George) and Mede (Ken Norton) seal their
fates in Mandingo’s final softcore sex scene.

Mandingo’s sequel, Drum, may
have been released by United
Artists, but its production values
are more akin to a Roger
Corman drive-in movie.

The movie is based on Kyle Onstott’s 1957 novel and Jack Kirkland’s 1961 stage adaptation, making Norman Wexler’s screenplay an adaptation of an adaptation, I guess. According to his bio on Wikipedia, Onstott was more interested in writing a bestseller than exposing the horrors of slavery. I’ve read the novel and a few of the Lance Horner-penned sequels—including Drum, which was adapted as Mandingo’s cheaper, tackier sequel in 1976—and they’re pretty much all about abusing slaves and interracial scrompin’ (it’s not called plantation porn for nothing), with dialog that drops the N-word almost as much as it drops consonants. For what it’s worth, the movie is a fairly faithful adaptation of the book, cutting out a lot of the fat from the novel, which was padded with tediously detailed accounts of Hammond shepherding Mede to various fights across the Deep South and Blanche getting drunk with her father-in-law.

But Mandingo’s director, Richard Fleischer, was serious about the movie he was making. “The whole slave story has been lied about, covered up and romanticized so much that I thought it really had to stop,” Fleischer is quoted in a 1976 interview. “The only way to stop was to be as brutal as I could possibly be, to show how these people suffered.”

In all fairness, Mandingo does give an unflinching look at the treatment of slaves like animals (at the movie’s opening a slave trader, played by Paul Benedict, is shown inspecting a selection of potential merchandise for hemorrhoids and then making one fetch a stick like a dog to see how fast he moves), punished for minor infractions (Agamemnon is strung up naked and whipped for learning to read) and, should they escape, murdered upon capture.

Cicero’s (Ji-Tu Cumbuka) final words: “After you hang me,
you can kiss my ass!”

But the movie also has a scene in which Charles, right before beating and raping a female slave, says: “Cousin Hammond, you take the virgin. I don’t care for hard work.” Or how about the advice Warren gets from a doctor for curing his rheumatism: sleep with a slave boy curled around his feet and press his feet hard against the boy to “kindly force the rheumatiz right out the soles.” Considering the shit people believe today you could probably post this advice on Facebook and be guaranteed that a small percentage of people would be pressing their feet against their grandchildren as a rheumatism treatment. But, hey, at least they wouldn’t be using slaves, so, progress.

Because doTERRA wasn’t yet a thing: The patriarch of Falconhurst
plantation, Warren Maxwell (James Mason) tries an unconventional
treatment for his rheumatism

Other pearls of wisdom include Warren’s advice to Hammond about his husbandly duties: “When [your wife] do submit, though, you keep on your shirt and drawers. It plagues a white lady ’most to death to see a man nekkid.” This advice, ironically, is delivered after King’s full-frontal nude scene.

Fortunately, Perry King wasn’t concerned with plaguing the
audience with his nakedness, and neither was Brenda Sykes.

And then there’s Blanche. In a different type of movie, the audience would appreciate how she is also a victim, trapped in a loveless marriage with no means of escape. Her husband can get all the strange he can get it up for with impunity, but the consequences are severe should she have any extramarital affairs. Her only value is being white and pumping out an heir.

But thanks to Wexler’s drive-in caliber screenplay and Susan George’s hysterical performance (she just barely edges out James Mason in the over-Southerning department), Blanche is the source of many of Mandingo’s unintentional laughs.

Occasionally, George dials back her Daisy Mae-zilla performance to allow the audience to see Blanche’s pain. Unfortunately, while George is an attractive woman, she is cursed with a resting (and active) Who Farted? face that’s so aggressive that any expression other than a wide smile suggests she smelt it and dealt it, resulting in more unintentional—and inappropriate—laughs.

 

Culturally Relevant, But Still Trash

One of the arguments given to absolve the plantation porn genre—and its readers—of racism is that white characters are never the winners in the end. That’s usually true, but while the white characters are ultimately punished (there are exceptions), it’s still their story. The slaves’ perspective is secondary. But most people don’t read these books because they condone slavery or racism; they read them because they’re titillating. They appeal to the same part of our lizard brains that attracts us to porn, Tiger King and the Bravo network.

Some versions of Mandingo have
alternate clothed scenes or remove
nudity altogether, because that was
what made the movie offensive.

Yet, Mandingo’s lack of restraint also accounts for its authenticity, an argument Quentin Tarantino made during a 2013 interview on Fresh Air while promoting Django Unchained, a movie that merged slaveploitation and spaghetti western tropes into one bloody revenge fantasy. Because they are striving to remain tasteful, TV movies about the history of slavery, Tarantino said, “keep you at arm’s length dramatically[.] Frankly, oftentimes, they just feel like dusty textbooks barely dramatized.” On the other hand, he added, movies like Mandingo get much closer to the truth. “Having said that, the sensationalistic aspect, and almost [exploitative] aspect of the films can’t be ignored.” (You can hear the whole interview, including the part where Tarantino gets butt hurt after Terry Gross asks him about the excessive violence in his movies in the wake of the Sandy Hook massacre, here.)

In an essay comparing Mandingo to 12 Years a Slave, author James Hannaham, who is Black, comes down, surprisingly, on team Mandingo. “One might well ask whether it isn’t somehow fitting that the exploitation represented by chattel slavery should be represented by an exploitation film,” he writes. 12 Years’ avoidance of its characters’ sexuality, as well as the sexual mores of the time, actually renders its narrative sterile, making it less impactful. As Hanahan concludes in his essay:

“12 Years presents its hero as an entirely honorable victim in an expertly crafted and elegant film, while Mandingo throws us into the ugly mess that slavery and sex create when they collide, among a complicated, unruly, and rude group of tragic characters controlled by the brutality of the social milieu in which they live, their base cravings, and their denial. Its sexual frankness plays on our own attractions to various actors/characters in order to show us how our baser drives can control us in similar ways. It’s hard to deny that the fictional, less carefully handled, more confounding depiction of this time period seems more alive — even if it isn’t as good.”

I recently re-watched Mandingo, and while I still consider it exploitative and uncomfortably campy, I found parts of the movie resonating on a new level. It’s not a big jump to relate the murder of captured slaves to the murder of Black citizens by police, or Blanche exerting her power over Mede to coerce him into having sex, to Amy Cooper using her white privilege when calling police on a Black man in Central Park. I realized my embarrassment over Mandingo was misplaced. It’s not how crudely this 1975 film presented America’s racist past I should be ashamed of, but rather, our racist present.

Of Course He Prefers Dick to Karen

The original poster for Tom DeSimone’s
1979 classic The Idol.

As many a queer person can attest, the hardest person too come out to is often yourself. It can be obvious to everyone around you, but you’ll still perform some truly awesome feats of mental gymnastics to land on the conclusion that lots of 14-year-old boys have a passion for the works Barbra Streisand, and that it’s perfectly normal to be distracted by the size of Brian’s package, especially when he wears those 501s where you can practically see the outline of his dick. It doesn’t mean you’re gay.

Others are so deeply in denial that they don’t even realize they’re gay until they get a rim job from the coach. At least that’s how it happens for the protagonist of Tom DeSimone’s 1979 gay porn classic THE IDOL.

Gary (Kevin Redding) is the star of his college track team with a cute, if hairstyle-challenged, girlfriend. He’s such a big deal that his glamor shot practically takes of the entire top half of the Los Angeles Chronicle. But don’t go thinking Gary has a charmed existence. He’s got some big problems, his biggest being he’s dead. That glamor shot accompanies the news story about Gary being killed in a car accident. (Front page, above the fold coverage seems a bit much for the death of a college athlete, but maybe it was a slow news day.)  What we learn of Gary’s life—specifically his sex life—we learn posthumously.

Mark Bitler puts his whole face into the role of Terry.

Terry (Mark Bitler, who, if we’re being kind,  sort of resembles a young Roger Daltry) was one of Gary’s biggest fans. One might even say he Idolized him (and then immediately hate oneself for saying it). But as much as Terry pined for the hunky track star, he always remained on the sidelines. Even at Gary’s funeral the mopey loner keeps his distance. As Terry watches the outdoor funeral from behind a tree the audience is treated to flashbacks involving specific attendees—and often Terry as well.

Gary’s ex-girlfriend Karen (that’s unfortunate) remembers when she met Gary in a secluded wooded area to make out. Gary, of course, wants to do more than smooch and hold hands. “Everybody doesn’t do it, and it’s only natural when two people are married,” says Karen (Darla-Lee Barnett), shooting down Gary’s two arguments for fucking. After Gary tells her his previous girlfriends gave it up, Karen asks why, then, does he take her out. Gary’s reply is fit for a drag queen’s Valentine’s card: “Because I love you, bitch.”

“I want a Dorothy Hamill haircut...no, wait, stop!
Make it Suzanne Somers instead.”

Karen leaves in a huff, as Karens are wont to do, almost running over Terry, out for a late-night bike ride, while driving her VW Bug out of the woods. (Karen demands to know what he’s doing out there, because of course she does. “Catching fireflies” is Terry’s lame-ass excuse.) Meanwhile, Gary takes things into his own hands, as it were. While Gary beats off to Barry White playing on the radio—music that I’m 99.9% sure wasn’t used with permission—Terry watches from the bushes. In a surprising subversion of porn tropes, Terry neither rubs one out as he watches nor joins Gary.

Not the “Paradise by the Dashboard Lights” that Meatloaf
— or Gary— had in mind, but it gets the job done.

‘Nobody’s Asking You to Switch’

Chuck (curly-haired Greg Dale) has some memories of Gary, too, like that time on the beach when he told his friend about an alternative sexual outlet. After Gary complains about his blue balls, and that Karen wouldn’t like it if he saw other girls (“We’re kind of engaged.”), Chuck suggests letting “one of the boys” get him off, adding a limp-wrist gesture to ensure we get his drift. Gary rejects the idea, saying he’s not into that scene. “What scene? Nobody’s asking you to switch,” Chuck says. “All you do is get your rocks off.” According to Chuck, the locker room showers are teeming with friendly homosexuals happily providing orifices for frustrated straight men like Gary. “Half the guys there aren’t even there to make the team. They’re there to make the team. Get it?”

Gary wonders why he’s just now encountering all
the hot man-on-man action in the gym showers.

Then it’s time to hit the showers! And, sure enough, waiting for the pals are two mustachioed hunks, Derrick Stanton and Jim Battaglia, who waste no time in offering their services. Chuck has no reservations about availing himself of Stanton’s blowjob, but Gary is wary of Battaglia’s nipple tweaking. The track star remains frozen in place when Battaglia moves lower down, though his resistance does not extend to his cock which is, well, extended. “Don’t worry about it,” Chuck tells him after everyone has delivered a money shot. “It’ll be a lot easier the next time.” And whatta you know, Gary’s No. 1 fan saw the whole thing from the locker room.

Terry is also around to witness Gary getting a massage from the coach (Nick Rodgers)—a massage that crosses boundaries quicker than the coach peels off Gary’s shorts. “When did you get laid last?” the coach asks, as college coaches do, his hands staying just above the waistband of Gary’s jock. Gary says he got some a couple weeks ago, but even the coach knows Karen’s waiting for a ring. “I know what kind of tense we got here,” the coach says confidently. He then utters a line that could’ve been ripped from some real-life depositions: “It’ll be easier if you just trust me.” Without further ado, the coach gives Gary a rim job. What would drive some to indirectly finance their therapist’s vacation home actually sets Gary on the path of self-discovery. By the time Gary cums, he is, if not gay, at least a confirmed bisexual. The coach is just that good (to be fair, it is one of the movie’s hottest scenes), though he should be careful to lock the door next time. The things Terry could share in open court!

“Let’s get these off.”

Nick Rodgers (left) is a good erotic fantasy stand-in for fans
of Baywatch actor Michael Newman.

Gary later tells his cousin Jerry (Jerry Foxe) about his experience with the coach during an afternoon of nude sunbathing and pot smoking. His cousin admits he’s messed around with the coach, too.

“Did you like it, Jerry?” Gary asks.

“I dunno,” Jerry says tentatively. “How ‘bout you?”

“Yeah,” Gary says, nodding emphatically.

“Me too. You wanna do it?”

After negotiating how to proceed (“First you do me, then I do you”), the cousins get it on to some unlicensed tunes playing on the radio, including John Paul Young’s “Love is in the Air,” which plays while the guys are in a sixty-nine. This is the only one of Gary’s sexual experiences not witnessed by Terry.

If you can’t explore your sexuality with your cousin, who can you
explore it with?

But Terry is more than the Zelig of Gary’s sex life. Just when it appears we’re going to flashback to a scene of Gary blowing the preacher officiating his funeral, it’s revealed that Gary and Terry were boyfriends after all. It’s a scene that successfully balances the romantic with the raunch, though the sappy ballad that’s played over their post-cumshot embrace is overkill. Neither Redding nor Bitler are actors, but they do generate a fair amount of heat. (According to the Bijou Blog, Redding wasn’t interested in Bitler sexually [see link at the end of this post], so maybe he’s more of an actor than I’m giving him credit for.) You could almost believe they’re lovers, which makes Terry’s watching Gary’s funeral from afar that much sadder. IRL, two male college students in 1979 would likely have kept their relationship on the down-low, meaning Terry probably figured it was better not to attend his boyfriend’s funeral service than risk outing him, or have to lie about how he knew Gary. No, that’s not right but that type of thinking is typical within the confines of the closet.

Goes Beyond the Head of One’s Cock

It’s the poignancy of The Idol’s story that sets it apart from its peers in the genre. In gay porn, one’s gay identity seldom extends beyond the head of one’s cock because who wants to think about the harsh realities of being gay when you’re jacking off? Consequently, the struggles of homosexuals are rarely addressed in gay porn, and the porn films that do address it don’t do it as deftly as writer-director Tom DeSimone does in The Idol. Though some of its messaging is archaic at best (if you don’t put out, girls, your man will turn gay!), problematic at worst (it’s not sexual assault if the student cums), the overall depiction of Gary’s struggle with his homosexual desires, as suddenly aroused as they may be, as well as Terry’s pining for him from afar, resonates.

The Idol is available on DVD from
Bijou World. Not sure what movie the
cover photo came from, though.

I can’t say The Idol is one of my favorite gay porn films from the ’70s (I’m still partial to Joe Gage’s “Working Man Trilogy”: Kansas City Trucking Co., El Paso Wrecking Corp., and L.A. Tool & Die), but I did like it and can see why it’s considered a classic in the genre. While there’s no mistaking it for anything other than a porn movie, The Idol looks and plays like a mainstream movie, albeit one released by an exploitation outfit like American International Pictures. It’s definitely better than the R-rated movie DeSimone made for AIP a few years earlier, 1977’s Chatterbox! (still recommended for fans of so-bad-it’s-good entertainment).

DeSimone, who had been directing gay porn movies since 1970, went on to direct quite a few R-rated exploitation films in the 1980s, including The Concrete Jungle, Hell Night (starring Linda Blair), Reform School Girls (a personal favorite), and Angel III: The Final Chapter (well, they can’t all be winners). He continued to make gay adult movies until the 1990s, when he worked exclusively in TV. His last directorial credit is an episode of She Spies in 2002.  

The Idol’s cast did not enjoy the same career longevity. Most only racked up a handful of movie credits before bowing out of the industry, either by choice (Jim Battaglia, Greg Dale) or for more depressing reasons (Nick Rodgers). Only Derrick Stanton worked in porn until 2000, though there are large gaps in his filmography after 1984.

As for the two stars, Kevin Redding and Mark Bitler, they were one and done. I couldn’t find anything online about Bitler beyond his appearance in The Idol, but the Bijou Blog’s post about the making of this movie reveals a bit more of Redding’s story, at least up to 1989. A few choice tidbits include Redding saying he felt like a prostitute after he finished filming The Idol and was embarrassed by it, though DeSimone says Redding was proud of his work and even invited his family to a showing of the movie (oh, hell no!); and that Redding was so turned on by his co-star Jerry Foxe he could barely wait for the cameras to start rolling. The post also mentions Redding had some problems in the decade following The Idol’s release (drugs, rehab, repeat), but he had, circa 1989, started a landscaping design business, so hopefully that worked out for him. You can read the full Bijou Blog post here. As for the movie, it’s definitely worth seeing. It’s a rare example of a porn that actually engages the viewers’ heart as much—well, almost as much—as their crotches. I still wouldn’t invite my family to watch it with me, though.

A Gothic Fit for a Queen

Gaywyck as it first appeared in 1980,
published by Avon.

Back in the mid-2000s, while attending the Saints & Sinners Literary Festival in New Orleans, I went to a reading of selections from an anthology of gay erotic short stories. One of the anthology’s authors, a woman, prefaced her reading by telling the audience that her story was originally a heterosexual one but that she re-tooled it to fit the anthology’s genre. Except she hadn’t, really, she just changed the gender of one of her characters, leaving intact the prose of a spicy hetero romance targeting female readers. The give-away was her describing one of her male protagonists as having nipples like primroses.

I thought a lot about that woman’s story while reading Vincent Virga’s GAYWYCK, touted as the first gay gothic romance, published in 1980. Almost all the male characters in this book are written as if they once wore Charvet dresses and had menstrual cycles. In fact, one of the novel’s surprises is there isn’t a revelation that one of our protagonists is a woman in drag, à la Yentl. Were anyone’s nipples described at all, I’m sure they would resemble primroses.

Perhaps no character in Gaywyck could have his gender so easily reassigned as the book’s narrator, Robert Whyte. Really, all it would take is adding an “a” to the end of his first name, changing some pronouns and dressing him in bodices and skirts instead of cardigan vests and double-breasted suits. Robert is a fragile young man, so much so he’s home schooled.  He’s shy, but as he explains to the reader: “‘Shy’ is an evasion of the truth. ‘Easily frightened,’ yes. ‘Morbidly sensitive,’ yes. ‘Timid and cautious,’ yes. But also, much more than that.”

His fragility is indulged by his mother during Robert’s early years living in upstate New York, much to the chagrin of his school principal father. Mrs. Whyte’s mental health begins to decline by the time Robert’s reached his teens, however, and she’s soon institutionalized after being diagnosed with “profound melancholia.” With his mother gone, Robert’s father issues an ultimatum: the 17-year-old can go to Harvard, or he can just go. He is no longer welcome in his father’s home. Robert reaches out to a local priest, who helps secure a new home for Robert at the Long Island estate of the wealthy (and obviously named) Gaylord family. “[O]n 28 September 1899, I left for Gaywyck. My fate galloped to meet me.”

Before arriving at Gaywyck, Robert is first taken to Gramercy Park to meet his benefactor, Donough Gaylord, the sole surviving heir to the Gaylord fortune. He’s hot, of course (think Henry Cavill circa The Tudors or Immortals), as well as mysterious and kind of sad, having lost his mother at an early age, and later losing his twin brother, Cormack, and their father in a fire. He’s initially sympathetic to Robert’s plight—his late mother Mary Rose also had mental health issues—but takes a genuine liking of the teen upon discovering Robert’s knowledge of and enthusiasm for the works of Paul Cézanne. Robert is also easy on the eyes (if you limit your choices to the blonds, you can find a NSFW visual representation here).

At Gaywyck Robert meets Brian, the household’s young, ginger-haired houseboy/apprentice chef, initially described as a mute but he’s later revealed to just have a speech impediment. He quickly becomes Robert’s confidante. Robert also meets Julian Denvers, a former Jesuit who had served as the live-in tutor of Donough and Cormack, and Everard Keyes, the twins’ music teacher, who now has only a tenuous grasp of reality (“Sometimes he is Beethoven and sometimes not”). The two men—especially Keyes—aren’t exactly warm and friendly, but as far as the bookish, “morbidly sensitive” Robert is concerned, Gaywyck is heaven on earth. Not only does he have entrée into a world of extravagant wealth like he’s never known, he’s now part of Donough Gaylord’s world. It’s not long before he’s scrawling hearts with D.G. + R.W. written within them on the pages of his journal. (OK, what he really writes in his journal is “We are the same person, Donough Gaylord and I,” but the gist is the same.)

But Gaywyck houses more than beautiful art and old queens. It is also home to many secrets—secrets that involve incest, hidden rooms, child abuse, mutilated penises, faked deaths and murder. There’s even an out-of-nowhere twins-separated-at-infancy revelation. It’s often too much for young Robert to bear, the poor twink fainting from shock at the merest suggestion of a sordid past or ulterior motive. OK, I’m exaggerating. Robert doesn’t pass out that much, but he does spend an inordinate amount of time in bed recuperating from one thing or another during the course of the novel. I shouldn’t throw shade, though. Who among us hasn’t dreamed of being ordered to stay in bed all day at a fancy estate, waited on by a fawning staff? And yet despite all this time lolling about in bed, Robert is described as having a beautiful, athletic body. Gurl, bye!

Robert isn’t the only delicate flower. The strapping Donough is also frequently so overcome with emotion that he can’t finish stories about his past in a single chapter. Brian disappears when distraught, Keyes locks himself in his room, and Denvers becomes bitchy and brooding.

Gaywyck got a sexed-up cover
when Alyson Publications
reprinted it in 2000.

If the men of Gaywyck aren’t fainting, sulking or disappearing, they’re discussing—and quoting from—the works Walt Whitman, Alexandre Dumas, Joris-Karl Huysmans, and William Shakespeare. And that’s just the authors; art and opera are also discussed at length. When the men get tired of discussing arts and letters with each other, Donough invites his friends from the NYC, an interracial gay couple named Mortimer and Goodbody (they must’ve turned heads in the late 1800s), to spend Thanksgiving at Gaywyck. And what does the group get up to? Reciting passages from The Winter’s Tale.

To be fair, the book is set at the turn of the twentieth century, with characters who inhabit the rarefied air of the One Percent, so it’s entirely appropriate that the majority of the men in the story have a keen interest in music, art and literature. It’s not like they’d be talking about James J. Corbett’s chances in the ring against Jim “The Boilermaker” Jeffries. That said, there is only so much swooning over Paul Cézanne or Richard Wagner’s Tristan and Isolde a reader can take. Virga is a very learned man with an impressive resumé (feel free to download a copy) and he makes sure to share his knowledge on every fucking one of Gaywyck’s pages. By the book’s midpoint I felt I was entitled to college credits in art and music appreciation.

Vincent Virga’s 2001 Gaywyck
sequel, Vadriel Vail.

You can also throw in a half credit for classic literature. As much, if not more, attention is given to Gaywyck’s prose as its story. Almost every paragraph in Gaywyck’s 376 pages is dipped in gold and presented on a red velvet pillow for the reader to admire. I found Virga’s word craft simultaneously effective—it really does transport the reader back to the dawn of the twentieth century—and enervating. By the time I got to the juicy parts I was so exhausted that it was all I could do to raise an eyebrow in surprise.

I know it sounds like I’m shitting all over this novel, but it is not bad. (Armistead Maupin supposedly dug it.) It’s just not to my taste. I bought my copy of Gaywyck a few years ago, excited to discover there was such a thing as a gay Gothic. I tend to prefer a more straight-forward prose, however, and my gay characters a bit more…carnal. Gaywyck’s prose—very purple, bordering on turgid—just isn’t my thing. I enjoyed parts of it more than the whole. One of the parts I especially enjoyed was when we’re introduced to a character named Jonesy, the teen-aged son of a recently deceased employee of Donough’s who comes to stay at Gaywyck. Jonesy is ill-mannered, poorly educated, and willing to use his body to get what he wants (think a young Daniel Craig with poor dental hygiene, or maybe Tiger King’s John Finlay, pre-dentures and minus the tattoos). Jonesy is a horrible character, but he livened up the story considerably. Finally, I thought, after 200 pages this story is springing to life. Alas, Jonesy is only a supporting character, and we’re soon back to the florid observations of Robert Whyte.

Virga published a sequel to Gaywyck, Vadriel Vail, in 2001. A third book in the Gaywyck saga, Children of Paradise, was written in 2010 but it never found a publisher, though there is a copy of the manuscript available to students and faculty of the College of William and Mary. Virga writes on his website about his frustration of trying to get his work re-released:

[A] young twinkie gay editor at Plume recently told my agent he couldn’t understand why anyone would care about old gay romances... He found Gaywyck unreadable! (I admit it bears no resemblance to the dreary stuff being churned out by graduates of the Iowa School of Writing, thank god, which is probably his and most NYC fiction editors’ idea of “real” writing!)

I think that “young twinkie gay editor” was being short sighted, not to mention unfair. There is a market for old gay romances, and that market is straight women. Virga might be asked to punch up the sex scenes, however. (When it comes to sex, Virga is so coy that it’s not always obvious anything naughty has occurred.) I could also see this adapted into a pretty enjoyable movie. A visual medium could bring the story to life in a whole new way, streamlining the narrative by showing in a single shot what the novel takes pages to describe—or show what the novel doesn’t dare describe. Virga would hate it, I imagine, but I’m sure he’d enjoy cashing the check.
 

I’d watch it!

Bonus Vocabulary Section

Not only does Gaywyck bombard one with an avalanche of references to classic literature, art and music, it also expands the reader's vocabulary. Or maybe that’s just me? At any rate, here is a list of some of my newly acquired vocabulary words I can attribute to Gaywyck. I doubt I’ll ever use them in conversation, and I see very few of them finding their way into my writing, but it’s still nice knowing there’s a fancy word for horny.

Eventide — end of the day; evening.

Orangery — greenhouse where trees are grown.

Cupidity — greed for money or possessions. (Eileen Bassing gets credit for exposing me to this one first. Who knew I’d encounter the word again so soon?)

Purling — (of a stream or river) flow with a swirling motion and babbling sound.

Gamboge — a strong yellow

Tintinnabulation — a ringing or tinkling sound.

Dado — the lower part of the wall of a room, below about waist height, if it is a different color or has a different covering than the upper part.

Concupiscence — strong sexual desire; lust.

Like Frankenstein’s Monster, Only Fuckable

The folly of men playing God has been a favorite trope in sci-fi and horror films, as far back as James Whale’s 1931 adaptation of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. We probably have more to fear from God’s self-appointed enforcers (Google it; one link won’t do the subject justice), but our suspicions are more easily riled by those geeks in their labs, believing in evolution and telling us to wear masks, possibly because we all harbor memories of them ruining the grading curve in advanced biology back in high school. What other sinister things are the nerds up to, beside wrecking our GPAs and telling us to vaccinate our kids?

Hollywood knows: the scientists are building killer sex monsters!

Of course, that’s never the stated goal. In director Frank Nelson’s 1976 movie EMBRYO (a.k.a. Created to Kill), Dr. Paul Holliston (Rock Hudson) is just trying to save babies. He gets to put his research to the test after he hits a pregnant Doberman pinscher while racing home one rainy night. The mother isn’t likely to survive, but Holliston thinks he can save her puppies, transferring them to his handy artificial womb and injecting them with “Placentolactogen,” the growth hormone he and his late wife were developing before she was killed in a car accident.

Fetal Puppy Syndrome

Only one of the pups survives, but it’s enough to convince the doctor he’s made a major breakthrough. What’s more, the puppy grows at an accelerated rate. In mere days, Holliston has a full-grown Doberman—named Number One—that can get its own food out of the refrigerator and put the bowl in the sink when he’s done. Number One can also let himself out of a parked car and kill a stuffed dog barking terrier, but the doctor, inside a hospital convincing a colleague to surrender any spare fetuses he might have lying around, isn’t around to witness his experiment’s sudden violent aggression.

Rock Hudson is astonished that his career has come to this.

Holliston’s pal at the hospital comes through, donating the fetus of a pregnant woman who committed suicide (hey, she’ll never miss it). The doctor quickly gets to work, pumping the baby so full of Placentolactogen that, in less than five weeks, he has a full-grown Barbara Carrera, who presents herself wearing nothing but her hair, Lady Godiva-style. The softcore Muzak on the soundtrack hammers home the message that she’s now down to fuck. The doctor names her Victoria, because her survival is a victory for both of them.

Like Number One, Victoria is a super-fast learner, going from basic math to reading the entire Bible (“An interesting story, but not very logical”). The doctor takes Victoria’s distinct Latin accent in stride. Were the movie to address this I’m sure it would explain away Victoria’s accent with a reference to her deceased mother being of Latin descent, as if accents are genetic. Instead, we’ll just assume that all humans injected with Placentolactogen sound like they come from Nicaragua.

The doctor, by the way, does not live alone. His sister-in-law Martha (Diane Ladd) stays with him as a housekeeper, and it’s implied she might aspire to take her late sister’s place as Holliston’s second wife. Yet the movie wants us to believe that not once during the weeks that Holliston was experimenting on a fetus, and then a human child, did Martha wonder what he was up to. Did Martha ever hear a baby cry or wonder about the dirty diapers in the laundry? Nope, not one fucking time. There’s one close call, when Martha enters the lab with the adult Victoria hiding behind the door, knife in hand, but otherwise, she is oblivious to her new housemate.

Martha finally meets Victoria weeks later at a party thrown by Holliston’s son Gordon and his pregnant wife Helen (John Elerick and Anne Schedeen, doing her best Brenda Vacarro impression), Holliston introducing her as his new live-in lab assistant. Martha is less than pleased, all but muttering “bitch” under her breath when Victoria walks away. Roddy McDowall, as a snooty chess player (“Chess is one of the last bastions of male chauvinism,” he huffs) whom Victoria almost bests in a game, isn’t a huge fan of Holliston’s “assistant” either. It’s to the movie’s detriment that there is no scene of Roddy and Martha huddling in the kitchen talking shit about Victoria. Everyone else—including Dr. Joyce Brothers in a WTF? cameo—finds Holliston’s hot new assistant absolutely charming.

A party in serious need of cocaine.

Barbara Carrera is ready to learn.

After the party, Victoria surprises Holliston in his bedroom, letting him know she wants her experiences with intercourse to extend beyond the social kind. “I want to learn,” she says breathily, her nipples showing plainly through a sheer gown (Embryo may be rated PG, but it’s a ’70s PG). The popping of Victoria’s cherry is the beginning of the end, however, as one orgasm is all it takes for her to start experiencing some painful side effects. Now she’ll stop at nothing to get the 70ml of “pituitary gland extract” from an unborn fetus she needs to stay young and hot, even if it means endangering the lives of a pregnant hooker and Helen. Basically, she turns into [insert name of celebrity addicted to plastic surgery here] on the eve of his/her 40th birthday.

Embryo is basically a 1970s take on a 1950s mad scientist movie. (MoriaReviews.com sources an even earlier—and uncredited—inspiration, the 1928 German film Alraune.) Though he’s phoning it in, Hudson makes the movie watchable, but even his star power can’t keep Embryo from looking like a made-for-TV movie (only Carrerra’s bare breasts assure us it isn’t). Ladd has been in worse movies, but she’s wasted here, asked to do little more than look annoyed and serve coffee. Carrera does OK despite being is miscast, though her nude scenes will make more of an impression than her performance.

Penis Slugs and an Exciting Fetish

Nearly 33 years later Embryo’s plot was revived in 2009’s SPLICE. (Or, 81 years later Alraune’s basic plot was again recycled, but I’m henceforth sticking to my Embryo/Splice comparison. Let’s just accept there’s nothing new under the sun.) Though it is a rehash of an old story, director Vincenzo Natali was allowed to do what so many studios are now afraid to do: avail himself of an R-rating, making a movie reminiscent of the earlier work of fellow Canadian David Cronenberg. Guess it helps to have Guillermo del Toro as an executive producer.

Our protagonists are Clive and Elsa (Adrian Brody and Sarah Polley, respectively), genetic engineers at Nucleic Exchange Research & Development, or NERD (groan-inducing wordplay like that just re-enforces the Cronenberg comparisons). In the opening scene we see the couple, who are also romantic partners, birth something that looks like a cross between a slug and a malformed penis. It’s introduced to a previously birthed, much smaller-but-who’s-judging penis slug, the female. The two penis slugs—named Fred and Ginger—immediately extend long, petal-tipped tongues from their urethra-like mouths, swirling them around each other in such a way that they form a pink flower between them. It’s almost pretty. “They’re imprinting,” says an awestruck Elsa.

When penis slugs meet.

Fred and Ginger are the result of splicing DNA from multiple species, and they can be used to produce medicinal proteins. Clive and Elsa are eager to move on to the next phase of their research, incorporating human DNA, but the corporation funding their work—represented by a somewhat sinister Simona Maicanescu—wants to get Fred and Ginger on the market as soon as possible. The lab’s ass-kissing boss, William Barlow (David Hewlett of Stargate: Atlantis, as well as Natali’s earlier film, Cube), readily concurs.

Clive and Elsa aren’t so accepting of the decision and immediately head to the lab for an experimentation montage. The end result is something that resembles a sentient testicle, but that’s only the placenta. What bursts out kind of resembles a shaved, earless cat with two digitigrade legs. It’s kind of cute, actually. Like Holliston’s experiment in Embryo, Clive and Elsa’s “baby” develops rapidly, taking on more humanoid characteristics but still distinctly alien. She looks nothing like Barbara Carrera. They name her Dren, nerd spelled backwards (Natali and his co-screenwriters Antoinette Terry Bryant and Doug Taylor might have reconsidered that name had they watched Farscape).

Sarah Polley lures her creation with her tasty, tasty fingers.

Dren’s existence begins to put a strain on the scientists’ relationship. Earlier they discuss having a baby. Clive wants to start a family; Elsa, who had a miserable childhood, does not. Yet it’s Elsa who is eager to bond with Dren, though she seems to treat her more like a pet than a child (some of her teaching techniques are reminiscent of Dr. Joan Crawford’s in Trog). Clive, feeling the strain of having to keep Dren secret, wants her out of their lives. He discovers Dren has amphibious lungs when he holds her head under water. “How did you know?” Elsa asks. “You did know, right?” Clive says yes, but his eyes say something else.

Separated at birth: Delphine Chanéac as Dren; Björk in the video for “Hunter.”

Because their co-workers at NERD are more curious than Diane Ladd, and because they can’t exactly stick a wig on Dren and introduce her as a new lab assistant (she does sort of look like Björk; Icelanders have tails, right?), the renegade scientists need to get Dren away from the lab. Fortunately, Elsa just happens to own a plot convenience: a farm that she inherited from her mother. It’s at this farm that we begin to see Elsa exhibit behavior that invites more Joan Crawford comparisons. Elsa is a perfectly loving parent when Dren is docile and compliant, but she loses her shit when Dren acts out. Then again, what are we to expect when it’s revealed Elsa’s childhood bedroom was more like a cell in a Turkish prison. Elsa’s was not a happy childhood, and yet she held on to this farm, a place that was a living hell for her, paying the taxes and utility bills instead of putting it up for sale before her mother’s body was cold? This strains credulity more than the creation of Dren...

...or the idea that anyone would choose to drive a Gremlin in the 2000s.

Clive isn’t exactly Father of the Year. Like Holliston, he crosses some boundaries, but Clive also brings an exciting fetish into the mainstream [link very NSFW]. There’s also a key tonal difference in how the two movies handle the sex between scientist and, um, subject that makes Splice a bit more disturbing. Because Embryo treats the adult Victoria as a sex object from the get-go, the movie and the audience can bypass any pesky questions about the morality of this relationship (not that anyone watching Embryo is going to think about it that hard). In Splice, however, Dren, besides being a unique species, is presented as being like Clive and Elsa’s daughter, adding an extra layer of “eww!” (or “ahh!,” if that’s your fantasy). Regardless of whether or not you think Clive has committed incest, he’s definitely cheated on Elsa. 

Adrian Brody’s O (I-fucked-up) face.

Things soon take a more tragic—and rapey—turn in the final act, as the movie abandons psychological nuance in favor of straight-up horror, winding down to a sequel-bait ending—or so it would seem. According to Natali, he just liked the idea of leaving things open-ended; he never intended for there to be a sequel. (That Splice under-performed at the box office probably ensured the studio didn’t try to persuade him to change his plans.) With Hollywood being more interested in creating franchises than telling stories, even way back in 2009, I simply forgot that ending movies on a question mark was still a thing.

I had wanted to see Splice when it first came out, but the film was released in the U.S. in June 2010, when I, along with much of the rest of the world, was struggling to stay afloat during a global recession. Dropping $10 on a matinee ticket just seemed irresponsible. Thankfully Splice is currently on Netflix in the U.S.*, during another economic downturn, no less (this movie just might be cursed). Despite its link to financial catastrofucks, Splice is still worth checking out, especially if you like your sci-fi horror to  have a few extra I.Q. points, are nostalgic for Cronenberg’s 1980s horror movies, or just enjoy watching sex scenes featuring human/animal hybrids. Those who enjoy ’70s schlock can find Embryo streaming on various sites, with the version on Tubi being the least shitty looking of the bunch.

*This is a prime sponsorship opportunity, NordVPN. Just sayin’.

Even Ten Minutes is Too Long

Our sexual fantasies and our public selves don’t always match up. Incest doesn’t become any less icky with the “between consenting adults” or “the incestuous couple is hot” qualifiers, yet it was the fastest growing trend in pornography in 2018. I have, delicately put, responded to porn videos that I otherwise find disgusting (I have a complicated relationship with the work of Aarin Asker). It’s the taboo that’s exciting. So, the idea that women, even those identifying themselves as feminists, would have rape fantasies or fantasies in which they’re dominated by men, isn’t that far-fetched. It’s when these taboo sex fantasies are inflated into romances that #MeToo becomes #WTF?

One of the earliest mainstream movies to give life to this uneasy coupling of rough muffin buttering fantasy and gauzy romance was the 1986 film adaptation of Elizabeth McNeill’s novel, 9 ½ WEEKS.

From one angle, it reads like the outline for a by-the-numbers Playgirl short story: An attractive woman, successful in her professional life but unfulfilled sexually, meets a handsome, wealthy man who treats her to sumptuous dinners, shopping sprees with no spending limits, and thrusts her into sexual realms no other man had ever dared to, consequently giving her some of the best—perhaps the only—orgasms she’s ever experienced.

Sounds hot! But this is also the outline for a typical Lifetime thriller: A successful career woman meets a handsome, wealthy man who showers her with compliments, woos her with fancy dinners and expensive gifts, and pleasures her with mind-blowing sex. But her prince soon reveals himself to be less charming, treating her like a child, isolating her from her friends and family, demanding she wear what he wants her to wear, punishing her if she disobeys his instructions. The sex games become less playful and more uncomfortable. He is her master and she, his willing slave. Will she come to her senses before it’s too late?

A still from 9 1/2 Weeks, or
a 1980s perfume ad?

The two outlines don’t exactly mesh, do they? I haven’t read McNeill’s novel (there are only so many hours in the day), but based on what I’ve read about it, the Lifetime thriller outline better describes it. The novel was significantly darker, playing out more like a psychosexual horror story than kinky erotica. But “psychosexual horror story” just wasn’t the sort of shit studios were willing to risk financing in the 1980s, so a twisted romance is what we got.

Kim Basinger is Elizabeth, the aforementioned attractive woman. Elizabeth owns a successful gallery, but she’s been adrift in her personal life since her divorce. It’s established right away that Liz is sexually unadventurous, something conveyed by costuming (Elizabeth has a penchant for baggy sweaters) and more directly in dialog, such as when she accuses her roommate and business partner Molly (Margaret Whitton) of being “gross” and “perverted” for suggesting Liz owns a vibrator. That all changes when Liz meets John (Mickey Rourke), a handsome Wall Street broker who arouses her dirty tickle*.

Younger readers might be wondering what “Mickey Rourke” and “handsome” are doing in the same sentence. Hard to believe now, but before he fucked up his face with boxing and plastic surgery, and well before time took its toll, Rourke was actually kind of hot. He didn’t exactly do it for me, but, yeah, I could see why he was cast as the male lead of an erotic romance. Of course, 9 ½ Weeks could just as well starred present-day Mickey Rourke given that it is just one of many, many examples of movies that purport to appeal to the desires of female audiences yet only showcases the bodies women (you ladies just want to see tits, right?).

This is as naked Mickey gets for the entirety of 9 1/2 Weeks.

Looks aside, it’s not entirely clear why Liz puts up with John beyond a couple of dates. As played by Rourke—whose performance falls somewhere between Ben Affleck at the height of his early 2000s douchey-ness and a late-caree,r not-giving-a-shit Bruce Willis—John radiates more smarm than charm. Even if Elizabeth can see past John’s personality, and even if he’s found her G-spot, I still wondered why she didn’t break things off after he pays a carnival worker to leave her parked atop a Ferris wheel while the worker takes a coffee break. She at least responds appropriately when John tells her to face the wall and raise her skirt for a spanking: “Who the fuck do you think you are!?” Alas, she stays, persuaded by John’s phenomenal cunnilingual skills. It’s not until he subjects her to the roving hands of a Latina hooker that Liz loses her shit and runs away, hiding out at a Times Square sex show (no, really).

 Yentl for Protestants: Gentl.

I remember 9 ½ Weeks being hyped prior to its release as pushing the boundaries of what could be shown in an R-rated film. Indeed, the movie had to be cut to avoid an X (and appease fucking test audiences). Now, no one was expecting to see Kim’s split Basinger or Rourke’s erect Mickey, but when the film was finally released it was hard not to find its sex scenes… underwhelming. To director Adrian Lyne’s credit, the sex scenes are quite stylish, but of course they are. Style over substance is Lyne’s thing. (Lyne’s on set emotional manipulation of Basinger is less praiseworthy, even though it worked to the film’s benefit.) The scene where John teases a blindfolded Elizabeth with an ice cube is effective, and Elizabeth masturbating while reviewing art slides as Eurythmics’ “This City Never Sleeps” plays on the soundtrack is another standout scene. Other scenes, like the “sploshing” scene in which John feeds a blindfolded Elizabeth, or when Elizabeth cross dresses, are just silly. But more often than not, 9 ½ Weeks pulls its punches. It’s a movie that shows John and Liz purchasing a riding crop but never shows the couple using it.

No Means No—Unless He’s Hot, Hung and Rich

9 ½ Weeks doesn’t quite succeed as erotica, but it’s not a terrible film, just a tedious one. Screenwriters Patricia Knop, Sarah Kernochan and the late Zalman King (yes, he of The Red Shoe Diaries) don’t sidestep the toxicity of the Elizabeth and John’s relationship, even if they don’t quite sell their attraction beyond she’s pretty and he buys her things and makes her come. Elizabeth has agency, gradually surrendering her free will for love until she realizes that this relationship is costing her soul.

Poland’s answer to E.L. James.

Such character arcs are beyond the grasp of 365 DAYS, a Polish-made Fifty Shades of Grey knockoff currently streaming on Netflix. (I know Fifty Shades would be the more obvious companion to 9 ½ Weeks, complete with a Kim Basinger connection were I to review the whole series, but to do so would require renting the Fifty Shades movies, something I refuse to do. Besides, other people have done a more thorough exploration of both the books and the movies. You can experience one man’s pain for your pleasure here.)

In fact, I’d go so far as to say that most of the basics of storytelling, such as character development and plot, are beyond the grasp of 365 Days, a 114-minute rape fantasy that asks its viewers to accept a woman’s abduction and subsequent captivity by hot-tempered gangster as the springboard for a steamy romance.

“Imagine a strong alpha male who always knows what he wants. He is your caretaker and your defender. When you are with him you feel like a little girl. He makes all your sexual fantasies come true. What’s more, he’s one meter, 90 centimeters tall, has absolutely no body fat, and has been molded by God himself,” our heroine, Laura (Anna Maria Sieklucka), tells her girlfriend.

“Did God mold his dick, too?” the girlfriend asks.

“The devil did,” replies Laura.

Laura fails to bring up that the “strong alpha male” in question, Massimo (Michele Morrone, who can also be blamed for some songs on the soundtrack), also kidnapped her while she was vacationing in Sicily, held her prisoner, tied her up and molested her on a plane (“Sometimes fighting is futile.”), and repeatedly threatened her with physical violence. Also, he’s a Mafia boss who traffics drugs and kills people (but it’s OK, the man he kills is a sex trafficker). Then again, he got her away from her worthless boyfriend and he’s got that devilish dick. All is forgiven!

What makes 365 Days and its inspiration, Fifty Shades, especially repugnant is they conflate abuse with BDSM, rape with rapture.

You would be forgiven for thinking 365 Days was written by a 45-year-old incel while he was under house arrest for violating a restraining order, but no, it was written by a woman. Polish cosmetologist-cum-author Blanka Lipińska, perhaps realizing she could never be the next Olga Tokarczuk, decided to became Poland’s answer to E.L. James instead, writing her own trilogy of dirty books with regressive/offensive sexual politics. I haven’t read any of Lipińska’s novels as they have yet to be translated into English (also, I don’t want to), so I can’t speak to their quality or how close the movie adaptation follows the book. However, Lipińska is credited as a “screenwriting associate” and even has a small cameo in the movie, so I’m going to assume the author is at least OK with how the movie turned out. I’m also going to assume that, based on 365 Days, that Lipińska is the sort of woman who would respond to a friend asking for help out of an abusive relationship by asking what the friend did to provoke the beatings.

Queer Eye for the Stockholm Gal.

There is a small kernel in the existing story that could have, had the screenwriters seized upon it, made 365 Days a lot less problematic. One of Massimo’s henchmen, Domenico (Otar Saralidze), befriends Laura, kind of (this is a movie where shopping montages set to annoying Europop are used in place of character and story development). Had Laura and Domenico formed a romantic bond, with the plot hinging on Domenico helping Laura escape, then 365 Days could have been a palatable romantic thriller. It would definitely be a more exciting one. Instead, the Domenico character is little more than Laura’s occasional chaperone. Guess he didn’t have that satanic cock that Laura craves.

What makes 365 Days and its inspiration, Fifty Shades, especially repugnant is they conflate abuse with BDSM, rape with rapture. If imagining a swarthy, God-built Italian stud ripping your designer panties off against your protests and pile-driving you into multiple transcendent orgasms is what it takes to paddle your pink canoe down river, more power to you. But don’t try to convince us his threatening violence, confiscating your phone and holding you prisoner is romantic. A good rule of thumb: if your story requires a trigger warning for survivors of sexual abuse, your story is not a romance.

There is a sequel for 365 Days planned — Lipińska crapped out a trilogy, after all — so maybe the narrative redeems itself as it goes along, but I doubt it (reportedly, the other books in the series are just more of the same). The one positive thing about this movie compared to its American counterparts is it doesn’t hold back on the explicitness of its sex scenes (no backlit, fully clothed humping here). There’s nothing hardcore, as some reviewers have implied, but it’s definitely in NC-17 territory, unlike some other movies I could mention. And, while their characters display no discernibly human traits, Sieklucka and Morrone are easy on the eyes. So, out of a desire to cater to readers’ prurient interests while also sparing them the chore of watching this piece of shit, here are the time codes for movie’s “good parts”:

10:45 – Laura pleasures herself with a pink vibrator intercut with a scene of Massimo getting blown by a flight attendant. (Warning: even out of context, it’s impossible to pretend the B.J. is consensual.)

43:30 – Laura takes a shower, and Massimo joins her. No sex, just nudity, including some full-frontal flashes from both actors.

51:40 – Laura sexually teases Massimo, then tries to leave the room before closing the deal. Massimo responds by shackling her to the bed and then summoning another woman. The other woman, dressed in generic dominatrix gear, slinks into the room and proceeds to suck off Massimo while a bound Laura watches.

An ass molded by God himself.

1:06:53 – Laura wakes up and smells the Stockholm Syndrome, finally “consenting” to sex with Massimo, the pair going at it for six-plus minutes, a sequence that’s as sleazy as hardcore porn without actually being hardcore.

1:17:30 – A quickie in the bathroom.

1:32:10 – Rear entry while overlooking Warsaw.

You’re welcome.

But, seriously, you’re better off just watching a hardcore porn flick than this glorification of date rape.

Here’s a link to go to in case you or someone you know is a victim of domestic violence: thehotline.org

*I owe Georgina Spelvin a dollar for the phrase “dirty tickle.”