Queer and Loathing in the San Joaquin Valley

The original cover of Lost on Twilight
Road is as misleading as it is tacky.

I really intended this to be my second Pride Month post, but work, life and shit got in the way of me meeting my self-imposed deadline. But then, shouldn't Pride be celebrated all year long?

With that in mind, let’s get back in the closet! Let’s get LOST ON TWILIGHT ROAD.

I first learned of this 1964 novel, written by the late Joseph Hansen under the pseudonym James Colton, in the early 2000s when I read about it in Susan Stryker’s Queer Pulp: Perverted Passions from the Golden Age of the Paperback. While there were many titles discussed in Queer Pulp that piqued my interest, only Styker’s overview of Lost on Twilight Road, which she described as a “white trash epic,” sparked an obsession. I didn’t just want to read Lost on Twilight Road, I had to. 

Of course, Twilight Road was long out of print and difficult to find. I discovered a copy on Alibris shortly after reading about it in Queer Pulp but was put off by the nearly $60 price tag. Turned out, $60 was a bargain. The next time I found the book for sale online, the price was over $200, and it just went up from there. I gave up when I saw it listed for over $450 on Amazon. But then, in the mid-2010s, it popped up on eBay with a relatively modest opening bid. The price didn’t stay modest for long, but I managed to stay one step ahead of the escalating bids, until I finally got the news I’d hoped for: I had won Lost on Twilight Road! I won’t reveal how much I paid for it, but it was worth every penny.

The protagonist of Lost on Twilight Road is Lonny Harms, who, contrary to what the cover illustration would have readers believe, is a cute, blond 16-year-old boy, not a 38-year-old alcoholic man.

The cover painting appears to be modeled on B-movie
actor Sonny Tufts.

For Lonny, home is wherever his drunken slut of a mother parks their trailer. At the book’s opening, said trailer is parked in a dusty trailer camp in California’s San Joaquin Valley, baking in April sun, turning its interior into an oven. No wonder Lonny gets naked the moment he returns from school. If only his own nakedness didn’t awaken all these confusing urges.

It was crazy to get this way when you took your clothes off. Did it happen to everybody? … Did the rest of it happen, too — the part of you that was supposed to ride quiet and harmless in your pants — did that do this, stretch out, stand hard like this, for other guys? And was there no controlling what you did about it, what your hands did, how your body shouted to be released out of itself, and nothing you could do to stop it?

No sooner has Lonny shot his load than his mother comes home, drunk after having spent her day at “some cheap bar” rather than at work. The mortified teenager waits for the full force of her rage. Instead, she grins and says, “My God, little Lonny’s growing up.” 

A couple days later Lonny returns from school to discover Mildred, a friend of his mother’s, waiting for him inside the trailer. Mildred is described as dark (“maybe part Mexican or something”), younger than Lonny’s mother (“maybe somewhere around twenty-five”) and dressed in a halter top and flimsy gingham shorts. Mildred claims she’s just stopped by for a friendly visit, but it’s clear she’s not there to just to chat. After serving Lonny spiked lemonade, Mildred’s undoing the buttons of his Levi’s (“Don’t you know that’s what a woman’s for?”) Only when Mildred is in a post-orgasmic haze is Lonny able to get away “from her [... ] and from his mother, from the men with big cars, from the constant drunks, the early morning escapes, the old Chevy, the dirty trailer, all of it. Forever.” 

So begins Lonny’s journey down “Twilight Road.” He’s first taken in by Linus and Martha Brucker, helping the elderly couple on their small farm. The Bruckers are the family Lonny always wished he had, but his happiness is threatened by a visiting nephew, Hal. Though the boys are around the same age, Hal has little interest in being Lonny’s friend — except at night, when he and Lonny are alone in the guest room. But Hal is no queer, as he makes clear the next day. Lonny can suck Hal’s dick (or jerk him off or whatever — the sex isn’t graphically described), but during daylight hours he’d better keep his faggot ass away from him. This doesn’t sit too well with Lonny, though he doesn’t put his foot down until the last night of Hal’s visit. As revenge for being denied a farewell nut, Hal outs Lonny to Uncle Linus, and the old man sends Lonny packing.

He attempts to settle down in another town, taking a job as a dishwasher at a drive-in restaurant, but loses that gig when he refuses to be kept by Mr. Porter, the fat queen who owns the restaurant—and half the other businesses in town. Time for Lonny to hit the road again.

Things improve for Lonny considerably in Lordsburg, where he lands a job as an assistant at the town’s weekly paper, the Standard, owned and edited by handsome, 35-year-old Gene Styles. Lonny throws himself into his work, thankful to have Gene as a mentor and relieved to have such a demanding job to distract him from his homo desires.

An emergency at work returns Lonny’s thoughts to his sexuality. A local judge and the sheriff barge into the Standard office when Gene’s away, demanding an unflattering story about the pair being cruel to out-of-work migrants be pulled (this was over five decades before “being cruel to out-of-work migrants” would be a GOP flex). Lonny calls Gene as soon as the two men leave, surprised when another man answers. The man tells Lonny to come over to Gene’s house, instructing him to come around to the side patio instead of the front door. Lonny does as he’s told, and discovers what most readers will have already guessed:

French doors stood open, and beyond them, inside the room, Lonny saw a rumpled white bed, its blankets fallen to the floor. And on the bed sprawled two naked figures. The back of one was turned, but Lonny recognized Gene Styles. And tangled with his lean, brown arms and legs were paler ones. But not those of any woman, of any wife.

It was a man that was with Gene, another man. What went on? For a crazy instant, Lonny thought it was a fight he saw, a beating, an attempt to choke, to kill. He almost yelled. Then he realized what was happening. His knees went weak. He felt dizzy. He turned and ran.

What I love about the above passage is how Lonny, who, though bit confused about sex, is clearly sexually aware, thinks Gene and his lover are fighting, like he’s an 8-year-old walking in on his parents fucking. (Then again, over half the content on RFC looks like assault to me, so maybe Lonny’s confusion stems from Gene liking it rough.) Lonny’s innocence is further belied when, after getting caught by Gene and assuring the editor he’s not repulsed by his homosexuality and has no intention of quitting, he goes to a diner, cruises a sexy Mexican teen named Pablo and takes him back to his place. Seeing Gene in flagrante-delicto may have made Lonny’s knees go weak, but it also made his cock rock hard.

Anyway, Gene refuses to pull the story, putting him on the sheriff’s and judge’s respective shit lists. But unhappy local officials are nothing compared to his scheming bitch of a boyfriend, Max. Max had set Lonny up to discover the two men fucking in hopes of scaring away Gene’s cute assistant. When that plan backfires, Max just becomes more vicious and pettier. 

Though Lonny has assured Gene he’s accepting of the older man’s queerness, he is tight-lipped about his own sexuality — and his relationship with Pablo.When Lonny does finally come out to Gene, the older man’s response is fear that he’s unduly influenced his fair-haired employee (“This is not hero-worship, surely?”) Perhaps most telling of the time this book is written is Gene’s response to Lonny asking if it’s OK to be gay:

“I don’t know,” Styles sighed wearily. “It’s complicated, Lonny. But even if I believed it’s all right, I don’t think I’d tell you. A decent man has obligations, especially to younger men who trust him and look up to him.”

So, in the name of “decency” Lonny must deal with his sexuality in his own way, and secretly. That secret gets out amongst Pablo’s peers, however, and they jump him and stab him several times for being a joto. Pablo’s mother is also aware of her son’s relationship with Lonny and she makes no attempt to hide her contempt when Lonny appears in Pablo’s hospital room. But the sight of his boyfriend brings a smile to Pablo’s face, so of course Pablo’s family and his confessor, Padre Guzman, must do all they can to wipe it off. Pablo, powerless against the relentless Catholic guilt, agrees to move to Mexico, where he’ll finish his education and become a priest.   

A heartbroken Lonny later visits Gene Styles at his home. Max has left for the evening — taking all the fuses from the fuse box with him. Once Gene and Lonny restore the power, Gene discovers that Max has gouged deep scratches across all the albums in his collection, rendering them unplayable. Gene’s record collection may be ruined, but the evening isn’t. 

Yep, in a turn that’s as surprising as the revelation that Gene’s “family,” the 35-year-old newspaperman and his assistant, now 18, end up spiriting away to a coastal motel for a weekend-long fuck-a-thon. Some might argue that Gene — who has been schooling Lonny on art, literature, and music — has been grooming Lonny all along, but it doesn’t really read that way. Also, Lonny seems to be genuinely in love with Gene (so, fuck off Pablo). They’re more Chris & Don: A Love Story than a SayUncle.com video.

It’s easier to accept Gene and Lonny together if you imagine
them looking like a pre-car wreck Montgomery Clift
and a young Tab Hunter.

But blowing a teenager (presumably) isn’t the worst thing Gene does with his mouth. When Gene isn’t teaching Lonny the many ways to love a man, he’s sharing some more questionable thoughts on what it means to be gay in the early 1960s, such as this tidbit:

“Maybe we always come with the dying of a civilization. I don’t think anybody who took a hard look at the past would tell you differently. When civilizations start to decline, homosexuality not only booms, but gets tolerated.”

He then adds: 

“I only know what I like. And I also feel pretty sure you can’t make a crusade out of it, start clubs, wave banners, or lobby for legislation. When tolerance comes, it comes spontaneously. It’s coming now, by the way. Which now I don’t think bodes well for western civilization.” 

And finally:

“Being born queer is like being born with any other handicap. You have to make the best of it. But as you get around, you’ll notice a lot of boys and men who seem out to make a show, who wave it in everybody’s face, and then feel hurt when the normal world calls them dirty names. These guys are asking for it—camping it up, flouncing around in drag[.]”

Author Joseph Hansen, in addition to being a trailblazer in gay fiction with his series of mystery novels featuring gay private investigator Dave Brandstetter, helped found the Hollywood Gay Pride Parade, so I don’t think Gene represented Hansen’s views so much as the internalized homophobia of men in his generation. Then again, Hansen was married to a woman for 51 years, so what do I know about his real views?

Mad Max and the Search for El Fumador

Gene and Lonny’s weekend of hot sex is short-lived. When they return to Lordsburg, Gene buys Max off, paying the evil queen a total of $5,000 to get out of his life. Max, however, costs Gene significantly more, tipping off local law enforcement about Gene possessing illicit drugs and pornography, then planting plenty of evidence for the sheriff and his deputies to find when they execute a search warrant on Gene’s house. 

Gene is arrested, but, to Lonny’s dismay, doesn’t really try to defend himself during his preliminary hearing (presided over by the same judge featured in the news story Gene refused to pull). It’s better to be convicted on trumped-up drug and pornography charges than reveal the truth about him and Max, whom the prosecuting attorney has already declared “a proven and notorious degenerate. A homosexual.” Worse, the true nature of Gene’s relationship with Lonny could get exposed in open court.

Lonny makes it his mission to prove Gene’s innocence. Max is long gone, so while his daddy boyfriend awaits trial, Lonny goes searching for the only other man who could clear Gene’s name, the ridiculously named El Fumador, a notorious area drug dealer known for his small stature, wearing wide-striped suits, and driving a pink Cadillac. So during the two weeks before Gene goes to trial, Lonny takes the editor’s car and embarks on a search of the San Joaquin Valley for the pink Cadillac.

His search is a failure. At the end of the two weeks Lonny winds up back in the motel suite of Mr. Porter, the predatory queen who propositioned him a year earlier. Broke, defeated, and desperate, Lonny offers himself to Porter, and the hefty homo happily seizes the opportunity (Hansen describes their coupling as a “sad, flabby business”). Yet Porter already has a full-time fluffer, and he’s not about to share his sugar daddy, ordering Lonny to leave or he’ll “cut [his] precious cock off!”

Lost on Twilight Road’s
alternate cover design, which
is...better?

Just when it looks like Lonny’s story is about to end as it began, with him wandering aimlessly down “Twilight Road,” he spots El Fumador’s pink Cadillac in Lordsburg. He confronts the drug dealing runt, and though he gets El Fumador to admit he planted the pills and porn in Gene’s house, Lonny also gets the shit beaten out of him, then shot at, the bullet grazing his skull. El Fumador runs away as Lonny’s begins slipping toward the downer ending that was required of so many queer pulps.

But not Lost on Twilight Road! Lonny’s skirmish with El Fumador occurred right outside the rectory of the Santa Teresa church, and Padre Guzman, of all people, overhead the whole thing and called the sheriff. El Fumador is arrested, and Gene Styles is released into Lonny’s arms. “I want you whole and with me, now,” Gene says while visiting Lonny in the hospital. “I’ve got so very much to learn from you.”

When I first got this book, I expected it to be campy fun. I mean, you saw the cover. How could anyone expect to take this book seriously? Yet Hansen took it seriously when he wrote it under its original title, Valley Boy. (He didn’t care for the publisher’s re-titling, and he described the cover as the “world’s worst cover illustration.” I disagree with him about the publisher’s title, which I find wonderfully lurid, but he’s right about the cover, though I don’t think the boring cover painting of the second edition, which Hansen preferred, was much of an improvement).

Bad cover images seem to have plagued Mr. Hansen
throughout his writing career.

Though there are plenty of moments in the book that make it read like a novelization of a sweaty sexploitation movie, and the name “Lonny Harms” sounds like a character in a John Waters film, Lost on Twilight Road is more heartfelt than campy. Beneath the titillation of Lonny stumbling from one sexual misadventure to the next is a is an honest exposé of what gay men endure just to get along in the world. Lonny’s transformation from wide-eyed innocent to proud — but not quite out — homosexual may be far-fetched, but it’s also revolutionary for the pre-Stonewall ’60s. Gene Styles’ self-loathing is an unhealthy, hetero-normative way of thinking; Lonny’s self-acceptance is the ideal. Gene Styles is right: he does have so much to learn from his barely legal lover.

Goddamn, this was a long one. (Reader: You’re telling me!) But I really do adore this book, despite its problematic passages. Unfortunately, a more-detailed-than-necessary synopsis might be the closest most readers will get to actually experiencing it. Though Hansen went on to be a successful and acclaimed novelist, his early “James Colton” pulps never got reprinted. I hold out hope that one day these books will find their way into digital markets, like some of Hansen’s mystery novels, but until that day happens, my obsessive review will have to suffice. If that doesn’t get the Hansen estate’s ass in gear to re-release the author’s early pulps, I don’t know what will.

Hot Mustache-on-Mustache Action

Come for the gay sex, stay for the fucked-
up straight marriage.

To celebrate Pride Month this year, I decided to go back, via Netflix, to the late 19th century, when homosexuals remained in the closet if they knew what was good for them and when men could really rock handlebar mustaches.

The movie in question is the 2020 Mexico-Brazil co-production DANCE OF THE 41 (El baile de los 41), a biopic about Ignacio de la Torre y Mier, a wealthy Mexican businessman and politician in the late 1800s. When we first meet Ignacio (Alfonso Herrera), he’s late for his engagement party, which does not go unnoticed by his future father-in-law, Porfirio Díaz (Fernando Becerril), Mexico’s president. Ignacio’s tardiness doesn’t bother his fiancée, Amada (Mabel Cadena), who’s too in love to believe her rich, handsome future husband has any flaws, or to see that Ignacio is just using her to gain leverage in Mexico’s government. 

Amada’s father has already appointed Ignacio a position on Mexico’s Congress, the President Díaz reminding him that “what is given can be taken away.” But there should be no danger of Ignacio losing favor with his father-in-law as long as he makes Amada happy … and as long as he keeps his love of cock on the downlow. 

It won’t be easy, however. As Dance of the 41 makes clear, Ignacio really loves cock, like, a whole bunch. So much so that he struggles to go through the motions on his wedding night (that he guzzles champagne beforehand doesn’t help matters). 

Ignacio prepares to introduce Amada to the concept of
“champagne dick.”

Ignacio seems to think living in a fully staffed mansion is enough to distract Amada but is horrified to discover that his young bride would also like the occasional orgasm.

Amada barks up the wrong tree.

 

The more things change...: Eva cruises Ignacio.

But the wealthy politician can’t be bothered, not when he’s found himself a hot side piece, Evaristo “Eva” Rivas (Emiliano Zarito, who really had me re-examining my resistance to handlebar mustaches), a young government attorney. The two first cruise each other in the halls of the administrative building, then later are making out in Ignacio’s office. It’s not until Ignacio sponsors Eva’s membership into the 41, a secret society of elite homosexuals (including several members of government). Eva makes the 41 the 42, he and Ignacio begin a full-fledged affair.

Eva presents himself to the members of the 41, a ritual
that’s not too dissimilar to what today’s gay man must do
to gain acceptance at the Miami White Party

Also similar to the Miami White Party, minus the
GHB and molly.

As Ignacio’s and Eva’s affair intensifies, Ignacio’s marriage deteriorates, with Ignacio moving to a separate bedroom and angrily rejecting Amada’s sexual advances. I’ll admit my sympathies were torn. Ignacio, clearly, is in hell, chafing at having to keep up appearances and only able to feel alive when he’s in Eva’s company. At the same time, his privilege as a man allows him stifle Amada’s complaints with impunity. He may be leading a double life, but Amada, so depressed that she’s taken to treating a goat kid as if it were her own baby, isn’t even living one life.

Amada meets her competition.

But Amada isn’t a total doormat. During one of Ignacio’s many absences, she searches his office and finds a love note from Eva. So, like any aggrieved wife, she invites Eva over for a drink. Ignacio is understandably mortified — and incensed at Amada’s snooping. The movie not-so-subtly implies that Amada might be willing to let Ignacio have his fun with Eva, so long as he gives her children. Ignacio attempts to impregnate her, showing all the passion that the phrase “attempts to impregnate” implies.

Yet still more tender than most internet porn.

His seed fails to find purchase, however, and when it comes to getting his wife knocked-up, Ignacio’s attitude is clearly, if at first you don’t succeed… tough shit, ’cause I’m not going anywhere near that pussy again if I can help it.

But Ignacio can’t ignore his father-in-law so easily. Porfirio Díaz makes it clear that he wants grandchildren, then assigns bodyguards to protect (i.e., spy on) Ignacio. It will take more than the president’s espías to keep Ignacio from attending the 42’s drag ball, however. Rocking an emerald gown as he and Eva swing around the dance floor, it’s one of the happiest nights of Ignacio’s life — until the police show up.

Ignacio drags Eva onto the dance floor.

Dysfunctional Marriage Overshadows Gay Love

It doesn’t get better for Ignacio.

I read one review that described the first two-thirds of Dance of the 41 as slow, but I found it thoroughly engrossing. However, I thought Ignacio’s and Amada’s unhappy marriage was more compelling than Ignacio’s and Eva’s romance. Much of this was owed largely to the character Amada, and Mabel Cadena’s portrayal of her. Amada could easily have been relegated to weeping in the background while Ignacio has fun with the boys. Instead, she’s given a greater arc, and the audience is allowed to see her transform from a naïve girl to a steely manipulator (she’s casually brutal in her final scene), and it’s fascinating to behold.

Ignacio and Eva lock handlebars.

This isn’t to say the guys disappoint. Alfonso Herrera and Emiliano Zarito generate a lot of heat together as Ignacio and Eva. However, Monika Revilla’s script doesn’t fully develop them as men. Eva seems almost solely defined as Ignacio’s hot lover; we don’t really get to fully know him beyond his affection for Ignacio. Ignacio is shaded in a bit more, but only lightly. There are only a few superficial nods given to Ignacio’s political career, although that might have as much to do with him not being much of a force in Mexican politics as a storytelling choice. Still, a little more detail about his politics might have given a more complete picture of Ignacio beyond his (alleged) homosexuality. 

Sword fight!

By choosing a subject whose notoriety is based on rumors rather than verifiable fact (not to mention all involved are long dead) Revilla and director David (Las elegidas) Pablos have considerable leeway to embellish Ignacio’s story, yet they make the same mistakes of so many biopics: depicting a series of events in their subjects’ lives without ever really getting to the heart what made them tick. Dance of the 41 tackles the story of Ignacio de la Torre y Mier with a lot of finesse yet it still doesn’t provide much deeper insight beyond “it sure sucks to be gay in late 19th century Mexico” and “don’t assume your wife is stupid, especially if her father is the president of Mexico.” 

At least Pablos doesn’t shy away from imagining the more lurid aspects of the 41, including a fairly explicit orgy sequence. Yet Dance of the 41 never crosses the line into sleazy (not that I’d complain if it did). On the other hand, the movie is so stately that even at its most tragic Dance of the 41 never quite packs the emotional gut-punch expected from it. It’s more akin to a lustier Merchant-Ivory production than Brokeback Mountain.

Dance of the 41 is still very good, it’s just that, despite all the Big Mustache Energy of the two male leads, the movie’s doomed gay romance isn’t as interesting as Ignacio’s unhealthy beard marriage.

Ignacio’s and Eva’s story has its moments, though.

It’s the Pictures that Got Small: Sharon Stone

Sharon Stone’s autobiography The Beauty of Living Twice was published in March, so I thought in lieu of actually reading it I’d review some of her movies instead.

I, like a lot of people, became a fan of Sharon Stone after seeing Basic Instinct in 1992, for reasons that have nothing to do with the infamous interrogation scene (as established in previous posts, vaginas really aren’t of much interest to me). Basic Instinct was an over-the-top, trashy thriller and Stone’s performance as Catherine Trammel was spot-on. 

I don’t think showing her cooch on film is what
Sharon Stone should be embarrassed about.

Of course, this wasn’t the first time I’d seen Stone. She was in Total Recall the previous year, and in the 1980s I saw her in Action Jackson and the Steven Segal vehicle Above the Law (I never said I was proud), but Basic Instinct was the first time I noticed her. And having noticed her I was happy for her to be my new favorite movie star. Lord knows Stone was eager to be one. It’s a safe bet that even as far back as when she was doing guest spots on Remington Steele Stone spent her free time rehearsing her answers to reporters’ questions in the mirror, maybe even asking a girlfriend to hold a hairbrush up to her and pretend she’s Joan Rivers accosting Stone on the red carpet, just so she was ready when that fateful day finally came.

*In Stone’s defense, this was her co-star.

As fascinated as I was by Stone as an actress, however, some of what I read about her gave me pause, including her claiming she was “tricked” into flashing her bearded clam in Basic Instinct (um, sure); her assaulting a co-star*; and her acting like a diva on set—even before she became the face of the 1990s. I loved watching Sharon Stone the movie star, but I was finding it increasingly difficult to like Sharon Stone the person.

Ultimately what cooled my Sharon Stone fandom was her movies. I didn’t want to see her as an Old West gunslinger or as Richard Gere’s cold wife. I wanted to see her in more deadly vixen roles. Her performance in Casino revived my faith, and I was further encouraged when she starred in the campy remake of Diabolique the following year. But then she became more interested in being taken seriously as an actress, meaning we got Oscar® bait like Last Dance, the sci-fi snoozefest Sphere, and the heartwarming The Mighty. I was kind of tempted to check her out in the 1999 remake of Gloria—it sounds like a hoot—but I never got around to it [update: finally did and it’s not as terrible as I expected]. Then, well, I kind of forgot about her… until Basic Instinct 2 came out. As awful/awesome as that was, it didn’t so much rekindle my Sharon Stone fandom as make me wish she’d just accepted she was the Joan Collins of the 1990s instead of exerting so much energy trying to convince us she was, if not the next Meryl Streep, then at least next Jessica Lange.

So, About Those Movie Reviews…?

I thought I’d check out a few films Stone made after health problems, ageism, bad behavior and bad choices forced her off her A-list pedestal, films like WHEN A MAN FALLS (a.k.a. When a Man Falls in the Forest), a movie I didn’t know existed until it popped up on Tubi and Prime. The Prime synopsis describes this 2007 movie as “a psychological thriller sure to keep you mesmerized right up to the shocking end.” None of that is true, and neither is the thumbnail poster, which gives Stone star billing.

“Are you sure you don’t remember me? I won an Oscar®
for Ordinary People. What about Turk 182? No? Well, that’s fair.”

Writer-director Ryan Eslinger’s movie is actually a seriocomic indie drama about two men, Gary (Timothy Hutton) and Bill (Dylan Baker, looking like a live-action Matt Groening drawing), enduring bleak existences that they feel powerless to change. Gary is a genial alcoholic spinning his wheels in a dying marriage and an unfulfilling job; Bill, the night janitor at the building where Gary works, is so pathologically shy he flinches when people say hello to him. There’s a third, peripheral character, Gary’s friend Travis (Pruitt Taylor Vince), who’s life has been idling in grief mode since his wife was killed in a car wreck four years ago. Gary and Travis also went to high school with Bill, and it’s made clear that Bill was not their friend (“We picked on him all the time,” Travis recalls). 

The movie mostly flits back and forth between the Gary and Bill storylines. Gary is married to Karen (a de-glamorized Stone). “Karen… yeah, she’s Karen,” Gary sighs when Travis asks about his wife. He knows Karen’s depressed but neither Gary nor she seem interested in addressing their issues head on. Instead, she mopes and shoplifts; he shrugs and opens a fresh bottle of wine. 

Sharon Stone is sure her contract allows her to keep these gloves.

Meanwhile, in a seemingly different movie, Bill struggles with what to do about Sadie (Stacie Bono), the young mother living in the neighboring apartment whom he regularly hears being smacked around by her partner. He knows he should do something, but he can barely bring himself to greet her when he encounters her in the hall, let alone save her. When Bill’s not cringing at the sounds of violence coming from next door, he’s dreaming, sequences that are even more discordant with the movie’s overall tone. 

Dylan Baker dreams he’s in a more compelling film.

When a Man Falls is reminiscent of the little indie movies I rented from Blockbuster in the late 1980s – early ’90s that mixed understated drama and quirky comedy, brought to life by B-list talent. Except Eslinger not only fails to add all the necessary ingredients, he neglects to mix them properly. The drama never really goes anywhere, and the quirkiness sits on top like oil, never quite blending in with the rest of the movie. The Gary storyline is basically the equivalent of repeatedly asking your spouse what’s wrong and only getting a heavily sighed, “Nothing,” in response. Bill, on the other hand, seems to have wandered in from a different movie, albeit a more entertaining one. The only thing shocking about the ending, by the way, is how unfulfilling it is.

A face that says, “Fuck no, I’m not sorry.”

The acting makes When a Man Falls semi-watchable, with every actor getting at least one effective scene or moment. Stone gets two: In one, after she’s been busted for shoplifting, she faces her husband not with a look of shame but a defiant see-what-you-made-me-do smile. In another, when asked to sign a card being passed around the office to celebrate t co-worker’s engagement, she refuses (I can’t count the number of times I’ve wanted to do this in real life). These scenes made me wish that there was more to her role and much more to When a Man Falls.

Stone’s part in director Nigel Cole’s 2008 comedy $5 A DAY isn’t much bigger, but it’s a much better movie. Ritchie Flynn (Alessandro Nivola in a rare lead role), working as a health inspector until his boss learns of his prison past and fires him, is badgered by his estranged father Nat (Christopher Walken) to drive him from Atlantic City to Albuquerque, where Nat has signed up to participate in some experimental cancer treatment — or so Nat says. “You don’t have to dip into your pocket for a thing—zip, zilch, not even a crouton,” Nat assures his son.

Not that con artist Nat—who tips with gift cards for free phone minutes and helps himself to the free coffee offered to guests at a nearby casino—intends on dipping into his own pocket if he can help it. The car he’s secured for the trip is a PT Cruiser in a Sweet n’ Low wrap. (“Free wheels and gas for a year. All I have to do is drive a thousand miles a month!”), and he’s planned a route that includes an IHOP location every 300 miles, specifically so Nat can scam a free birthday meal using his many fake IDs. 

“Are you shitting me?” (Actual dialog)

So, yeah, it’s going to be a long drive for Ritchie, who resents his father after taking the fall for him so the old man, who already had priors, didn’t get slapped with a 10-year sentence. He also blames Nat’s bullshit for driving away his mother, who left Ritchie at a very young age. That Sweet n’ Low PT Cruiser isn’t helping matters, and neither is Nat’s insistence that they spend the night in a vacant house that’s up for sale. Nevertheless, when they’re surprised the next morning by a real estate agent showing the home to some potential buyers, Ritchie gamely plays along when Nat pretends they’re a couple. (“My partner and I are looking for something a little more feng shew-ish.”)

In Springfield, Missouri, Nat sweet talks his way into a banquet for a convention of pharmaceutical salesmen, then pretends to be a rep himself—a ruse that almost works until Nat gets a little too chummy with a salesman’s wife. Ritchie arrives just in time to talk a group of angry drug salesmen out of beating the shit out of his father by flashing his I.D. and claiming Nat was on an undercover assignment for the health department. It’s a funny scene, just don’t think too hard about enjoying a performance by Fox News BFF Dean Cain.

The fourth male lead of God’s Not Dead and the star of
The Deer Hunter, together at last!

While on the road Ritchie makes calls to his ex-girlfriend Maggie (Amanda Peet). She never picks up, but that doesn’t stop Ritchie from sharing stories about his life on her answering machine, since the main reason Maggie dumped him was he never shared anything about his past. Speaking of sharing, during a roadside piss stop, Nat tells his son he’s been impotent for several years, that not even Viagra can revive his wilted willie. Considering that if my father shared something similar I’d have to jab my car keys into my eardrums, Ritchie handles the news of his father’s E.D. with surprising nonchalance. Then again, he’s been to prison, so he probably has a higher threshold for what constitutes a breach of personal boundaries.

“You can’t get it up? Wish my cellmate had that problem.”

 

Ritchie caught in the path of a cougar.

Stone doesn’t appear until nearly an hour in, when the guys stop off in Amarillo, Texas, to visit Ritchie’s old babysitter, Dolores. An aging beauty with a spray-on tan and taste for sexy/tacky fashions (she greets them wearing a tiger print bikini and floral print kimono), Dolores is basically a parody of Stone’s Casino character, Ginger. Nat, knowing that Ritchie once had a crush on her, sees the visit as an opportunity for Ritchie’s fantasy to come true, and maybe help get his son’s mind off his breakup with Maggie. Dolores happily agrees to go out for drinks with Ritchie, but while she’s flirtatious it’s clear Nat is whom she pines for. She would’ve hooked up with Nat, she tells Ritchie, but “I’ve never met a man who’s so in love with his wife.” Nat didn’t drive Ritchie’s mother away, Dolores reveals; she left Nat for a car salesman she’d been having an affair with.

Dolores cures Nat’s impotence while
this scene causes ours.

Dolores’ word is called into question when it’s revealed she’s also a bit of scam artist, spilling a cup of coffee on herself and loudly claiming it was the waiter’s fault. The ploy should net her at least five grand, she later tells Ritchie. “I got my Mercedes with a trip in a supermarket last year.” Perhaps discovering Dolores is as duplicitous as his father is why Ritchie isn’t too broken up when his former babysitter bypasses inviting him into her bed and instead joins Nat in his (impotence cured!) And maybe Dolores is right, that Nat deserves a little love and affection, after all.

But Ritchie isn’t quite ready to forgive his father just yet, especially when he learns that Albuquerque is home to Kruger (Peter Coyote), the man Ritchie’s mother left Nat for. 

$5 a Day is the sort of movie that’s described as cute rather than funny. Yet, while its laughs are mild, it’s still an enjoyable film and worth checking out (it going straight-to-DVD likely had more to do with its marketability than its quality). Even when Walken is bad he’s fascinating to watch, but he’s very good here, clearly enjoying in his outsized role. Likewise, Stone appears to be having a blast spoofing her sexy image as Dolores. Playing the movie’s straight man, Nivola manages to hold his own, never being overshadowed by his larger-than-life co-stars (he’s also pretty easy on the eyes). 

Though this couldn't hold a candle to a 60+ Christopher
Walken, apparently.

It Gets Worse… and So Much Better

In 2012, Stone finally got to sink her teeth into a Bonafide starring role. She also got to bring audiences bigger laughs than $5 a Day delivered. Behold, the drama BORDER RUN (a.k.a. The Mule).

It’s bad, y’all. But it’s the fun kind of bad, and that’s owed largely to Sharon Stone.

Though I consider Stone more of a movie star than an actress, she can act. However, I think the quality of her performances are often contingent on the strength of her directors. Judging by Border Run, I’m not even sure director Gabriela Tagliavini was ever on set. Or maybe when Tagliavini saw Stone emerge from hair and makeup looking like she was just a black leather trench coat away from playing a vampire matriarch in the Underworld franchise, she was simply too stunned to question her lead actor’s—and executive producer’s — choices.

 

And, boy, does Stone make some choices in Border Run. She plays Sofie Talbert, a conservative journalist working for a Fox News-esque station in Arizona (“fair and balanced” is even worked into the banter between Sofie and her producer). In one of the movie’s early scenes, we see Sofie elbow her way through a crowd of other reporters to get to a Republican senator — who nevertheless looks like a Hillary Clinton/ Dianne Feinstein composite perfect for Newsmax anchors to hate ’bate to — and ask couple gotcha questions about her past votes revealing a softness on border security. Getting the senator’s stammering non-answer on tape, Sofie gives us a satisfied smirk then scurries back to the station. The only thing that would make this scene better is if the senator, or one of the other reporters Sofie elbowed out of the way, was heard muttering, “Fucking cunt.”

Stone nails the Megyn Kelly smirk.

Sofie’s career suddenly takes a backseat when she calls her brother, Aaron (Billy Zane), supposedly an SJW working in Mexico helping immigrants cross illegally into the U.S. And wouldn’t you know the moment he answers Sofie’s call he’s being shot at by Minute Men. The immigrants get away, but Aaron isn’t so lucky, getting captured by some mysterious figures who may or may not be Americans. All Sofie hears is gunfire before the line goes dead. Understandably, she’s concerned. Sofie immediately heads to Nogales, Mexico, to search for him.

Getting nowhere with the local police, Sofie heads to the border relief agency where Aaron works. After checking out the office’s bulletin board, which features several of Sofie’s news clippings, Sofie talks with Aaron’s co-worker, Roberto (Manolo Cardona). Over empty coffee mugs Roberto tries to dissuade Sofie from looking for Aaron, but when it’s clear that she’s going to anyway he agrees to take her to Aaron’s last known whereabouts, a small shack within shooting distance of the U.S. border. They find a cigar butt with a distinctive gold band and, hanging on the border fence, Aaron’s cap. Their investigation is interrupted by gunfire, however (the Minute Men don’t like Sharon’s hair, either) forcing the pair to retreat.

Sofie calls a number she plucked from the relief agency’s bulletin board, reaching Javier (Miguel Rodarte), a coyote. Javier won’t answer any of Sofie’s questions over the phone and tells her to meet him in Altar. Roberto warns Sofie against going there because Altar is super dangerous. (Like they’re safe where they’re at? Hello! You all were just dodging bullets.) After Sofie says she’s going to Altar, with or without him, Roberto agrees to take her there. 

It stands to reason that if you need to drink to watch Border
Run, you need to get fucking hammered to star in it.

Border Run teases a gratuitous sex scene that 
never happens.

But first, dinner and drinks! So far, Stone has portrayed Sofie as a no-nonsense, headstrong woman solely focused on her objectives, be they humiliating RINOs on tape or finding her missing brother. The moment she and Roberto stop at a cantina and she gets a few drinks in her, Sofie becomes a silly, head-rolling drunk. And possibly an easy lay. When she and Roberto take a few turns on the dance floor, they begin to make out, hot n’ heavy. Fuck Aaron, Sofie’s gonna get some!

Alas, Roberto gets cockblocked by a purse snatcher, the theft sobering up Sofie instantly. Now she’s all business and all about meeting up with Javier. Of course, Sofie and Roberto get separated in Altar, and in his absence Sofie almost gets raped in an alley, only to be saved by…Javier. Well, that was convenient.

Sofie joins one of Javier’s coyote missions, which will supposedly lead her to Aaron. Standing directly in her path, however, is Juanita (Giovanna Zacarías, fucking owning her role), the vicious head of a crime ring trafficking in humans and cocaine. Upon discovering “a shitty gringa” amongst her smuggled migrants, Juanita reacts as any vicious crime boss would, but Javier talks her out of killing Sofie. After all, Sofie has so many more hilarious facial expressions to share.

In Mexico, Sofie is just another “shitty gringa.”

Juanita inspects the more valuable merchandise.

Stone stoned.

Aaron is being held captive by Juanita’s gang, and he sees his sister being smacked around by Juanita from a window in the room where he’s chained up. Were this a different kind of movie (i.e., the good kind), the story might have had Aaron formulating a plan with Sofie to escape, using Javier — who seems to be allowed unsupervised access to Juanita’s prisoner — as a go-between. But that’s some action movie shit, and Border Run is still trying to be a gritty drama. So, Aaron remains chained up and powerless. Meanwhile, Sofie, just as powerless, watches as one of the smuggled migrants, a teen-aged girl, is roughly felt up by Juanita. We in the audience are powerless as we laugh hysterically watching Sofie succumb to the effects of some drugged water, with Stone giving a performance worthy of a 1968 classroom scare film about the dangers of marijuana. Within seconds of being drugged, Sofie rolls her eyes back into her skull and lolls her head from side to side, before quickly losing consciousness. Moments later, she comes to just long enough to realize she’s being tied to a bed, spread eagle, before blacking out again. She regains consciousness right before she’s raped. I think we can all agree that rape is a horrible crime, and therefore this scene should be horrific. Instead, Stone makes this the funniest scene of sexual assault since Pia Zadora was violated with a garden hose in The Lonely Lady.

Funniest rape scene or darkest episode of
The Muppet Show ever?

With Javier’s help Sofie manages to escape, but she and Javier are barely able to keep one step ahead from Juanita and her goons. Though they avoid capture by Juanita, they aren’t so lucky when they encounter U.S. Border Patrol. Javier is shot, and Sofie is taken into custody. Having met some real migrants and experienced firsthand the hell they endure to cross into the U.S. has caused Sofie to re-examine her hardline stance on border enforcement. Hence, she throws a hissy fit when being questioned by a Homeland Security officer (“I’m a TV reporter. I know my rights!”) When it’s suggested that if she doesn’t like America’s immigration laws she should contact her senator, Sofie angrily signs a release form, throws it at the officer and storms out. 

 Oscar® nominee Sharon Stone.

But Sofie’s saga isn’t over yet. She still has to find Aaron. Fortunately, Roberto reappears to help her. Sofie’s relieved, until she sees him smoking a cigar with a distinctive gold band.

Sadly, Sharon’s hair gets no redemption arc.

You can tell Border Run wants to be an important message drama about illegal immigration like El Norte, but it instead plays more like someone took a script for a 2000s-era Jean-Claude Van Damme direct-to-DVD actioner, changed the lead character’s gender and motivation, then replaced all the scenes of ass kicking with scenery chewing. It doesn’t work, but goddamn if it isn’t it fun to watch! The movie does have a kernel of a good idea, though: I’d so want to watch a reality show in which Fox News pundits are dropped in the middle of Honduras without their phones and are then tasked with having to make it back to the U.S. in one week with only a hundred Lempira, a few bottles of water, a couple Power Bars and a knife. The winner gets to suck Trump’s cock literally instead of metaphorically. Good luck, Sean!

Stone’s career has had something of a course correction in recent years. She got well-deserved positive notices for her performances in 2013’s Lovelace and the 2018 HBO series Mosaic, and she was perfectly cast as the eccentric heiress Lenore Osgood in Ryan Murphy’s American Horror Story retread Netflix series Ratched. If IMDb is to be believed, one of her upcoming projects is the comedy, The Tale of the Allergist’s Wife co-starring Bette Midler, which I’m sure will have a very professional and drama-free production should it ever happen [update: nope]. In the meantime, we have 30th anniversary edition of Basic Instinct to look forward to, which Stone says will be XXX-rated (😲). 

Oh, Sharon. I love you, but you’re so full of shit.

Her milkshake still brings the boys to the yard.

Lifetime: Where Men are Psychos and Women are Schizo

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