A Kennedy Era ‘Melrose Place’

For all the racy passages in L.A. 46, what
got me hard was the revelation that the
luxury building at the center of the book’s
action had rents as low as $275*.

Despite evidence to the contrary, I don’t seek out books set in expensive hotels or apartment buildings, but they always seem to find me. I was hunting for a vintage paperback copy of Day Keene’s Joy House on eBay (OK, another book that has a piece of real estate in the title, but it’s a single-family residence, not a multi-family), despairing that I couldn’t find any copies under $150, when I found two other Day Keene titles that looked wonderfully lurid, and for the combined price of $15. One of those novels was 1964’s L.A. 46.

The title refers to the postal zone for West Hollywood (this book was written ahead of the introduction of the ZIP code), specifically the stretch of Melrose between Doheny and La Brea. And in that area is the Casa del Sol, a luxury apartment building open to anyone who can afford it, be they psychiatrists to the stars, high class call girls, or small-town hicks with big city dreams—all are welcome so long as they don’t have pets or children.

Casa del Sol’s no children policy means the newly pregnant Eva Mazeric and her husband Paul, both WWII refugees, will have to find a more child-friendly place to live, but this is the least of Eva’s troubles. And Eva, though beautiful and seemingly happy, has had a lot of troubles in her young life, from losing her family during the Soviet occupation of Hungary to enduring (and, sometimes, guiltily enjoying) sexual abuse while in displaced persons camps and with a foster family. What’s got her so despondent that she seeks out the help of psychiatrist—or “sickey-ackey”—Dr. Jack Gam, who resides in the Casa del Sol’s penthouse, is learning that her older brother, whom she never knew, is still alive and living much, much closer than she’d like.

Dr. Gam has problems of his own. One of his patients, movie goddess (and Marilyn Monroe analog) Gloria Ames, has died of a drug overdose, putting Dr. Gam on the radar of police looking for answers and news media hungry for Hollywood scandal. So, he’s a bit preoccupied when Eva shows up for her appointment, and easily irritated when Eva can’t bring herself to discuss what’s got her so upset (“So, what’s your problem, Eva?”) Eva cuts the appointment short, apologizing for wasting the doctor’s time. Dr. Gam’s failure to gain Eva’s confidence, not to mention the suicide of his high-profile patient, has him wondering if he’s in the right line of work. The reader will also come to wonder about Dr. Gam’s aptitude for his profession as he comes across less a compassionate healer than a professional mansplainer.

Another Casa del Sol resident having a shitty day is “second-rate fighter” Marty Romero, a.k.a. Marty the Wonder Boy. When he’s not in the ring, Marty spends his days sexually harassing all the women in the building, including plump matron Mrs. Katz. Even his own mother can’t stand him. Finally sick of Marty’s shit—and taking care of Marty’s neglected wife Alicia and son Pepe —Mama Romero informs her son during one of his visits that he won’t be leaving alone; he’ll be taking Alicia and Pepe with him. And if he doesn’t? Well, maybe the boxing commission would be interested in hearing about how Marty threw his last fight. Then, just to make it clear she’s out of fucks to give, Mama Romero tells her son she wished she’d aborted him (“A goose quill I should have used before I brought such a son into the world.”)

As the book progresses, Eva falls apart, Dr. Gam falls for Eva, and Marty flips the fuck out. But while the bulk of L.A. 46 revolves around Eva, Dr. Gam and Marty, there are a host of other characters residing at Casa del Sol, far too many to be developed properly in a 250-page book. Those other characters include Lili Marlene, a one-time child star now earning a living as a stripper; Ernie Katz, a retiree whose business in New York didn’t always operate within the law; Colette, a high-priced call girl; has-been film director Mike Melkha, who spends his days drinking on the lanai and blaming his flops on a public too dumb to understand his work (sounds familiar); and Grace Arness, a model who, per the back cover copy, “pursued a strange kind of love.” Only Ruby Morgan, a rebellious teenager (exempted from the apartment complex's no child policy, evidently) living with—and desperately trying to get away from—her older sister and brother-in-law, gets a full-fledged story arc. 

A Banker Going Down on Mama and
Other Unsettling Childhood Memories

Day Keene (née Gunard Hjertstedt), better known for his hard-boiled crime thrillers like So Dead My Lovely and Home is the Sailor, is not an author you’d expect to write a melodramatic potboiler. Then again, he was the head writer for a few radio soap operas, so maybe it’s not that unexpected. He certainly had the talent to write this “Peyton Place of the West Coast,” to quote the cover’s ill-fitting teaser copy. (Peyton Place was notorious for exposing the sleazy underbelly of a genteel New England town, while Los Angeles’ trashy side was never much of a secret. Adultery, rape, incest and abortion in 1950s small town America? Shocking! In Los Angeles? That’s a slow Tuesday, even in the 1950s.)

And Keene goes for it, peppering L.A. 46 with several scenes of sexual debauchery, like Ruby’s sister Vera recalling a moment from their childhood, after their father had died and her mother faced foreclosure from the bank. To save the family farm, the girls’ mother gives in to banker Mr. Cronkite’s sexual advances, telling him she won’t enjoy it. Unbeknownst to Mama, her daughters are spying on the action through a crack in the window shutters.

[Vera had] seen animals serviced. She’d listened to her father and mother for years. But this was the first time she’d seen a man and a woman close coupled and the sight of Mr. Cronkite’s rigid protruding flesh, huge out of all proportion to the rest of him, first disappearing into then emerging briefly from the hairy patch between her mother’s thighs, had at the same time so excited and disgusted her that despite Ruby’s protests she’d had to leave the window and be sick.

It had gone on like that all afternoon. Every time she stood barefooted in the hot dust outside the window, the man from the bank had been beating his lean flanks and scrawny buttock even leaner. Then toward the late afternoon when she peered through the crack in the shutter, she thought Mr. Cronkite had gone. At first all she’d been able to see was her mother laying with her back arched and her head thrown back and her eyes closed and her lips drawn away from her teeth as she made small, animal sounds in her throat. Then looking on down between the massive breasts and equally massive thighs and drawn-up knees, she’d seen the top of Mr. Cronkite’s bald head rising and falling industriously, like a banty rooster pecking corn.

It’s not exactly spank-bank material, but still fairly explicit for a book penned in the early 1960s. Keene is just as detailed in his writing of Eva’s childhood sexual abuse, which had me wondering if these scenes were meant to be titillating or just shocking? It’s also interesting to note that it’s only when the sex is coerced or transactional that Keene provides more graphic descriptions. Good, clean romantic —or at least consensual—sex usually happens off page.

I don’t know if Keene was judging readers looking for smut by making the more explicit sex scenes the novel’s more unsettling situations, but he definitely judges some of his characters. As much as I’d like to say he’s surprisingly progressive, many of Keene’s depictions are very much in alignment with people of his generation. So, expect plenty of sexism and homophobia, with just a soupçon of casual racism. Though he writes of Grace, the “lesb” model, with some empathy, she is presented as someone who is broken and therefore needs to be “fixed.” More disheartening is that Grace also thinks there’s something wrong with her. When Ernie Katz comes to her aid after she’s been raped, Grace says: “I’d almost wished I enjoyed it. You don’t think I want to be the way I am, do you?” This attitude is mitigated, somewhat, by Katz, who tells Grace that she should be able to live with her “problem.” “People have lived with worse,” he says, later adding: “What can you expect from a world that was made in six days?” Grace’s rape, BTW, goes unreported because she fears it could cost her her job should it get in the papers. So, yeah, there are some fucked-up attitudes here.

But Keene also skewers some of the attitudes of his (and our) time, particularly regarding the media, represented in L.A. 46 by one of its residents, John Johns, a TV pundit whose name telegraphs that he's not meant to be taken seriously. Though Johns regularly spouts his “liberal” views on air (his editorials are only mildly progressive; readers today would be forgiven for mistaking him for a moderate Republican), his only deeply held belief is that the more controversial his positions, the greater the ratings. He’s nothing more than a rabble rouser. He even conspires with his wife to invite Marty’s poor wife and son over to their apartment for brunch, not out of genuine kindness but because it builds up his own image as the compassionate liberal, not to mention there’s the added kick of pissing off the neighbors. (“Are you certain you don’t believe some of that stuff you broadcast?” Johns’ wife asks.)

Overall, L.A. 46 is better-than-average trash fiction, with Keene steering this Kennedy era Melrose Place toward a violent conclusion worthy of the crime thrillers he’s more famous for. And it’s Keene’s crime fiction that I’ll continue seeking out, though I think I’ll just have to make peace with the fact that if I want to read Joy House and still be able to afford groceries I’ll have to settle on the more reasonably priced (and decidedly less cool looking) Stark House edition. What else can I expect from a world made in six days?

*That’s a boner-killing $2,411 in 2022 dollars, but possibly still worth wanking over depending on where you live.

Short Takes: ‘Crazy Desires of a Murderer’ (1977) ★★

When Netflix did away with its star rating system in favor of the thumbs up/thumbs down buttons, they did away with nuance. You either like a movie or you don’t, no in-between. Other streaming services followed suit: Hulu has like/dislike buttons, and now Tubi viewers have a chance to give a movie an up or down vote. The problem with this system is that most movies—or any entertainment media—don't fall within such a neat binary. Netflix recently added a two thumbs-up button, which helps a little, I guess, if you want to let Netflix know that you really, really like The Gray Man (I’m sure a couple people do), but if Netflix and other platforms really want an idea of what audiences think of their content, they need to add a shrug button.

All that to say director Filippo Walter Ratti’s Crazy Desires of a Murderer (a.k.a. I vizi morbosi di una governante), merits a 🤷. It’s not terrible, but it’s not particularly worth watching, either.

Illeana (Isabelle Marchall, who kind of looks like Emilia Clarke if she were a ’70s porn star) returns from vacationing with her friends, bringing them—plus a couple of guys she met while in Asia—back to the family castle for the weekend, much to the consternation of her wheelchair-bound, slightly-senile father Baron De Chablais (Stuart Brisbain Colin), a collector of Asian art and artifacts (none of this Asia stuff is pertinent to the plot, BTW). Dad is quickly wheeled off to his room by the housekeeper Berta (Annie Carol Edel), leaving Illeana and her friends free to guzzle champagne, play sexy charades and fuck. But the fun quickly ends when Illeana’s friend and doppelganger Ilsa (Patrizia Gori) gets stabbed to death and her eyes dug out of her head.

Crazy Desires of a Murderer, released in 1977 but reportedly (or perhaps I should say obviously) made much earlier, employs plenty of familiar tropes—mentally unbalanced siblings, secret entrances, secret agendas, grave robbing and red herrings galore—without doing anything particularly clever with them. Its pacing is slow, and its body count meager, though the murders are fairly bloody, if not particularly well executed (the grue effects in this movie are only slightly more convincing than what you’d find in a Herschell Gordon Lewis splatter flick). Perhaps more shocking than the graphic eye-gouging is a sex scene in which a poofy-haired drug smuggler (Roberto Zattini) molds a candle into a make-shift dildo to use on Gori, giving new meaning to the term “candling.” It’s also the most memorable scene in this shrug of a giallo.

Short Takes: ‘Lisztomania’ (1975) ★★★

While the films of the late Ken Russell can usually be found at the intersection of OMG! and WTF!, Russell sometimes drove the OMG head-on into WTF, resulting in a fiery collision of Jesus fucking Christ! And so Lisztomania came to be.

There are many things I could say about Lisztomania, like it’s exactly what you’d expect from the director of Tommy… if he’d injected mescaline directly into his eyeballs then listened to the London Philharmonic Orchestra’s Liszt: Les Preludes/Orpheus/Tasso while simultaneously watching Behind the Green Door and The Benny Hill Show; that it’s Amadeus by way of Zardoz, but not so restrained; that it’s a period piece that makes 1836 look like 1976 and vice versa; that while the movie is set in the world of music and has some musical numbers, it is not really a musical, it just looks like one; that it features a cameo by Ringo Starr as the motherfuckin’ Pope; that its humor is alternately crass and juvenile (gas-spewing ass sculptures) or just silly (one of Liszt’s lovers urges the composer to join a monastery, saying: “You can become a Franz-ciscan!”); that while it’s ostensibly about an imagined rivalry between Franz Liszt and Richard Mahler (Roger Daltry and Paul Nicholas, respectively, and both appearing to be having a great time), Lisztomania’s story is more about set pieces than plot, and that’s OK because one of those set pieces is this:

 And really, that’s all you need to know to decide whether this one’s for you.

Self-Discovery Through Camp and Cocksucking

What makes journeys of self-discovery exciting—and scary—is the unknown. You’re travelling to an undefined destination with only a vague idea of what direction you’re headed. If you’re secure enough to know where you’re going and how to get there, then there’s no need to start the journey—you’ve discovered your “self” already.

But often self-discovery doesn’t start as a journey; it’s more like a prison escape. Escape is foremost in the mind of Paul (Sean Myers, billed as Sean McEuan) when he leaves the dreary seaside town where he lives with his miserable parents for the swinging life of 1969 Sydney in the 1970 Australian movie THE SET.

The catalyst for Paul’s departure is not, surprisingly, his crater-faced father insisting Paul take a job at the shipyards rather than waste his time at some candy-ass college. No, it’s after some beach ballin’ with his girlfriend Cara (Amber Rodgers, billed as Julie Rodgers), when she reveals that while in boarding school, she had an affair with—OMG!—a girl. This admission so horrifies Paul that he runs away, bare-assed naked, lest he get any more of Cara’s Sapphic cooties on him. 

Paul doesn’t stay mad at Cara for long. Also, this scene is
allegedly taking place at night (during May in Fairbanks,
Alaska, apparently.)

Paul then moves to Sydney. While on break from his department store job, he admires the window display of a downtown antiques store. On the other side of the glass Paul is admired by the store’s owner, renowned designer Marie Rosefield (Brenda Senders). Marie’s visiting GBF, Theo (Tracey Lee), is also intrigued by the young handsome window shopper, but politely waits his turn, letting Marie call dibs. Marie, encouraged that Paul is familiar with her work, happily takes the cute bumpkin under her wing, hoping he’ll eventually work his way under her skirt. She even goes so far as to recommend him as an assistant to the famous artist Mark Bronski (Denis Doonan, whose Van Dyke, despite all appearances, is not made of felt). All Paul has to do is make a good impression when he meets Bronski at a party, something Paul immediately jeopardizes by downing two drinks in rapid succession. I’ll admit I had trouble staying focused on the drama of this scene as I was too distracted by the Lhasa Apso sitting on Marie’s head.

The Set didn’t win any awards, but Brenda Senders’ hair
deserved Best in Show.

Though Paul’s drinking too much and too quickly, it’s Marie who gets drunk, and Marie’s a bitter drunk. After watching Paul cut a rug with a much younger woman wearing a halter jumpsuit similar to Marie’s, Marie demands Paul go home with her and repay her years of kindness (though viewers will swear only a few months have passed) by allowing use of his young, firm body. Paul’s response is less than kind, telling Marie that people thought she was his mother. Before rejoining the party, he tells her: “Your eyelash has come unstuck. Looks a bit revolting. Better fix it, eh?” Meow!

RuPaul’s Drag Race: Bike Lane Edition.

Marie, devastated by her protégé’s rejection, promptly leaves, only to get killed in a car accident. “Poor bitch. She was in no state for driving,” says Theo when he relays the news to Paul. With the “poor bitch” out of the way, the path is now clear for Theo to make his play for Paul, and rest assured Theo wastes little time doing so. He takes the aspiring designer to a party, and though its populated by men of a distinct persuasion, Paul is oblivious to it being a gay soiree. He only gets a clue when he discovers the truth about the party’s sole female attendee: “Oh god! You’re a man!” Paul quickly flees the scene but not the party. When he returns moments later, the drag queen warns him: “Watch out, Red Riding Hood, the wolf is after your basket.”

Paul’s walk of shame is made more shameful.

In the next scene Paul awakens alone in a strange bed. Though it’s implied he was roofied, the expression on his face when he looks in a mirror confirms he was well aware of what went on in that bed. Ashamed, he tries to sneak away, only to be confronted by Theo, wearing nothing but a towel. “Aren’t you even staying for breakfast?” he grins as Paul makes a run for it.

The movie takes its title from Paul’s primary job assignment from Mark Bronski: to design a set for a musical production. Though Paul is praised for having creative vision, he lacks the technical skill necessary to complete the job. Then he’s visited by his sexually frustrated aunt Peggy (TV presenter and comedienne Hazel Phillips in her film debut), his teen-aged cousin Kim (Bronwyn Barber) and Kim’s hot-for-1969 boyfriend Tony (Rod Mullinar, who went on to star in Breaker Morant and Dead Calm), who is studying engineering. Paul’s solution to his dilemma is to recruit Tony for collaboration on the set design. There’s just one hiccup: Tony is an asshole. He first scoffs at the suggestion, then reconsiders when Paul’s girlfriend Leigh, (Ann Aczel, the weakest actor of the bunch), whose hair could house a family of six in Whoville, drops in for a visit. Tony says he’ll help Paul on the condition he gets to move in with him, and Leigh moves in, too. Paul readily agrees, and so does Leigh, happily prostituting herself for the sake of her boyfriend’s career.

Alas, while Paul looks good, he’s a lousy lay. Like, really, really bad. “I am just feeling so damned let down and so frustrated that I could just kill you!” rages Leigh before storming out of the bedroom and the movie, never to be heard from again. Later, Aunt Peggy drops by and, finding Tony alone and not averse to sex with older women, decides to have what her daughter’s having, only to discover Kim’s likely never been served. “Oh, I just can’t win. A husband who’s lost all interest and a boy who wouldn’t know how,” she muses after Tony “leaves [her] in mid-air.” But unbeknownst to Peggy, Kim is being delivered by a plot contrivance taxi, and it drops her at the apartment just in time to discover her mother’s and her boyfriend’s betrayal.

Reflections of a failed fuck.

Tired of all these demanding bitches wanting attentive lovers, orgasms and faithful boyfriends, Tony turns his attention to Paul, who, despite having had two girlfriends and a gay one-night stand, is supposed to be too inexperienced to know better. Though Paul was disgusted with himself for having fucked Theo, he’s delighted to be used as Tony’s sentient Fleshjack, and fancies himself in love with the prick Tony rather than just loving Tony’s prick.

Tony decides he and Paul should be roommates with benefits.

The department store where Paul is still employed, apparently, learns of his work with Bronski, and decides to make him the host of a radio show about interior design that they sponsor. But Paul quickly reveals himself to be out of his depth, making things worse for himself by adopting the radio persona of a pretentious old queen, for reasons never explained. The show is quickly scrapped, and Paul fired. On the same day Paul’s canned, Tony announces he’s leaving him for a girl (“Good grief, she’s a prostitute!” Paul exclaims upon seeing her straddled on the back of Tony’s motorcycle). After an extended sequence showcasing the many anguished faces of Sean Myers, Paul takes a fistful of pills. Tony, his new relationship barely lasting until nightfall, returns and discovers Paul on the floor unconscious. “The woman’s way, right to the end,” he scoffs.

John L. gets dolled up to meet his latest
conquest collaborator.

It’s Bronski, delivered by the movie’s other car service, Deus Ex Uber, who actually calls for help. Bronski’s reason for showing up all of a sudden is to tell Paul about how his work—so far unseen by the audience—has attracted the attention of London producer John L. Fredericks, who wants Paul to design something for one of his upcoming shows. 

Paul survives, recovering in time to design something—with Tony’s help—for the famed producer. Then Paul finally meets “John L.” (Michael Charnley, flaming so hard it’s a wonder he doesn’t spontaneously combust), who makes it clear he plans to give Paul a #MeToo story to share 50 years down the road. But the producer’s plans are thwarted when Paul recognizes John L.’s “cold hard fish” secretary, and suddenly realizes he’s not queer, after all.

More an Aussie Curiosity than a Camp Classic

The Set is based on a then-unpublished novel by character actor Roger Ward (Janus Publishing ultimately published the book in 2011.) In an interview with FilmInk, Ward said every publisher he showed the manuscript to rejected it “not because I was an actor attempting to be a writer, but because I was a writer peddling filth.” Then a fellow actor got the manuscript in the hands of director Frank Brittain, who wanted to adapt the book into a movie. But there was a catch: “Frank told me I had to lift every homosexual narrative from the novel and write a screenplay on that.” Certainly not the note I would’ve expected, especially in the 1960s.

Ward’s assessment of the final product is it’s “a shit film,” which I think is a little too harsh. The Set isn’t good, but it’s not shit, either. A B-grade melodrama that mixes 1960s kitsch with grindhouse sleaze (its subject matter and nudity earned it an “adults only” label in its day, but it’s now rated PG-13), The Set seemed the type of movie I’d fall in love with at first viewing. But as much as I enjoyed the movie for its campy excess, its story is uninvolving. The script, co-written by director Brittain’s wife Diane, is more concerned with plot points than character development, so people’s actions come off as contrivances rather than rooted in character motivations. And for all that happens, the movie has almost as many moments of characters just standing there, silently, waiting for another character to finish packing his bags or another to begin her tirade. Did the editor not realize these parts were supposed to be cut out? Also, set design, at least as presented in The Set, isn’t the most gripping narrative driver. The model of Tony and Paul’s design, when we finally see it, looks like a creation from one of those At Your Fingertips educational shorts from the 1970s that are a staple of the RiffTrax catalog.

Cara and Paul end up right where straight audiences demand.

As for its treatment of queer characters, The Set isn’t totally insensitive, so I guess that makes it progressive for its time. Hell, considering how things are going in the United States, it’s progressive in our time. Homosexuals are presented as stereotypes, but they aren’t entirely vilified, and there’s some ahead-of-its-time acknowledgment of the fluidity of human sexuality. Still, Paul ending up in a hetero relationship by the movie’s end feels like a cop out.

A Sensitive Coming Out Story or Hardcore Twink Action?

“I’ll never forget that summer—that restless summer, when I found out who I was, and that long walk to tell my father what I learned.” So recalls Billy Joe at the beginning of THE EXPERIMENT, setting the tone for this 1973 coming out drama. And for the first 20 minutes, watching Billy Joe (Mike Stevens, in his only film role) and his best friend Gary Lee (Joey Daniels) roughhouse in the desert, cool off in the swimming pool of what they think is a vacant house, and drink beer stolen from the fridge of the diner owned by Billy Joe’s dad, you might think this is a regular queer indie movie.

Though there are hints of what’s to come.

Then the dick sucking starts. Yup, it’s a porno! Billy Joe and Gary Lee giving same sex scrompin’ a try is the titular experiment (“Oh, Gary, it feels weird.”) The teens—at least we’re not meant to believe they’re older than 18—are awkward at first, but quickly get into it, taking turns blowing each other and even getting into a sixty-nine. The sex acts aren’t all that varied, which makes perfect sense. I always find it funny when present-day porn scenes attempt a similar scenario, where one, or both—or all three—guys are supposed to be inexperienced/straight, then end up deep throating like pros and getting DP’d with ease. I’m not saying it isn’t hot, it’s just not believable.

Billy Joe works up his nerve while Gary Lee lies back and waits.

Anyway, back to Bill Joe and Gary Lee, who get off with some frottage. Alas, shame comes shortly after they do. The next morning Billy Joe wants to keep “experimenting,” but Gary Lee pushes him away. Just like Paul in The Set, Billy Joe flees—not just the shed in which he and Gary Lee sucked each other off, but the small southwest town where he lives, hitting the road for Los Angeles.

Jimmy Hughes prepares for his scene.

Of course, Billy Joe’s literal journey is also a journey of self-discovery. His first encounter along the way is “the salesman” Jimmy Hughes, not only rocking a head of shoulder-length hair but an impressive set of mutton chops as well. In a motel room that makes Motel 6 look like a Four Seasons resort, Billy Joe strips while his older trick, still dressed, takes sips from a pint of whiskey. The nervous teen lays down on the bed while his trick (or john; this encounter might be transactional) looks him over approvingly, then starts to undress.

Billy Joe might be nervous, yet he’s intrigued, too, and so will you once Hughes gets naked. His ‘70s hair may not be for every taste, but his muscular physique has timeless appeal (too bad he’s a convicted rapist). Yet, the salesman’s hot bod isn’t enough to silence Billy Joe’s self-loathing inner dialog: “Goddamn you, Gary. Goddamn you for making me see what I really am.” Then, as so often happens, Billy Joe gets too horny to give a shit about his conflicted feelings, going from lying there like a cadaver to writhing like a voracious cock gobbler.

Self-loathing cured.

All good things must come to an end, and in the morning Billy Joe and the salesman go their separate ways. He hitches a ride from a dark-haired twink in a Mustang, David Craig. Craig makes a play for Billy Joe’s dick, but Billy Joe ain’t having it.

It might have something to do with David Craig’s Grinch-like
smile. (I hadn’t anticipated that this post’s movies would
each merit a Dr. Seuss reference, but there you go.)

Undaunted, Craig picks up another hitchhiker, Tony Ross, who is much more accommodating. Ross is a lanky guy with a majestic penis. He also looks he could be Warren Oates’ little brother, which might be why the camera seldom moves above his waist. Not helping is neither Craig nor Ross are particularly dynamic sexual performers, with Craig either tentatively licking Ross’s dick or playing dead while Ross mechanically pumps his ass. Billy Joe, who is napping in the car for the duration of this scene, isn’t missing anything (except a gander at Ross’ dick, which, I repeat, is quite magnificent).

Better call (Gorton) Hall.

But Billy Joe’s dad, Herm (Gorton Hall, also the movie’s writer and director), is missing Billy Joe, and so is Gary Lee, who checks out their usual haunts—the desert, the creek—looking for his best friend. He gets sidetracked when he’s cruised by a young guy from Hollywood, slumming in the boonies. Gary Lee takes him back to the shed where he practices his sword swallowing. The encounter isn’t as fulfilling as his night with Billy Joe, however. “Well, I guess is doesn’t matter, as long as you get your nut off,” smirks the Hollywood dude before telling Gary Lee ciao.

Billy Joe has found a Hollywood dude of his own, and it’s from his home that Billy Joe calls his father. He assures his dad he’s OK; there are just some things he needs to figure out on his own (a touching scene, actually). Billy Joe’s Hollywood dude is the skinny son of a film director who looks like a cross between Jason Gould (a.k.a. Barbra’s son) and Jane Adams. Billy Joe is visibly creeped out by him, but the director’s son persuades him to stay. “I thought there were some things you had to find out about yourself. I can think of no better place than in my basement. Call it the acid test.”

Presenting “the acid test.”

This time Billy Joe joins in, though most of the action involves his host, as well as Craig and Ross, who are a bit more spirited this time out, though it could just be the kaleidoscope camera tricks making it appear that way. The next morning Billy Joe wakes up on a bed covered in sheets from Bed, Bath & Fuck You!, with the director’s son advising him to go back to where he came from. “Depravity isn’t something you learn all at once. It takes time and practice.”

From the Peter Max Nightmare Bedding Collection...

Billy Joe takes his host’s advice and returns home, where he tells his father that he’s gay. Herm’s response is not what Billy Joe—or audiences in 1973—expects. 

The Experiment is available
through Bijou Classics, and
presumably so is the movie from
which they grabbed that cover image.

According to the Ask Any Buddy podcast, Gorton Hall was the head chef of the ABC Studio commissary, but he had a number of creative side gigs, including writing pulp novels under his real name (unfortunately the AAB hosts don’t divulge what that real name is; I’d be combing eBay for one of those novels right now if they had), before getting into film via Pat Rocco. He was also a trained actor, which is why he liked to give himself roles in his films, and he gives one of the more polished performances in The Experiment. His acting background was also why he liked to rehearse lines with his cast prior to shooting. Hall certainly got better-than-expected performances from Stevens and Daniels (other performers, like the guy cast as the director’s son, are lost causes).

The Experiment was released by Jaguar Films, the same studio that released The Light from the Second Story Window. Like Second Story Window, The Experiment attempts to mimic mainstream Hollywood product and explore the struggles of being gay, as well as prominently feature Joey Daniels. Unlike Second Story Window, however, The Experiment succeeds by keeping its story simple, its scope small. It knows it can’t be a Douglas Sirk melodrama and doesn’t bother trying (though bless Second Story Window writer/director/star David Allen for going for it, budget and talent limitations be damned), Furthermore, The Experiment actually remembers it’s a porn film (though Hall reportedly preferred writing the scripts to directing the movies). It even has a few scenes that are borderline erotic. That said, the movie works better as a coming-of-age/coming out drama, so maybe don’t watch this one if you’re hoping to rub one out.

Billy Joe and Gary Lee try to decide if they are friends
or fuck buddies.

Short Takes: ‘Bathroom Stalls & Parking Lots’ (2019) ★★

A former roommate once quipped that you’re not going to find the love of your life in a bar. And then he threw a party that resulted in us getting evicted. Still, he was not wrong—about not finding love in bars, at least. Ditto for Grindr. It’s a lesson the main character of Bathroom Stalls & Parking Lots, Leo (the movie’s co-writer and director Thales Corrêa), has yet to learn as he visits San Francisco to search the city’s bars for the Grindr trick he wants to make his boyfriend.

Leo’s S.F. guide is fellow Brazilian Donnie (the other screenwriter, Izzy Palazzini). Donnie, who looks like the estranged cousin Alvin doesn’t want the other chipmunks to know about, may be an expert on the Castro’s nightlife, but he’s also hot mess. He’s more about scoring drugs n’ dick than helping his friend, a fact that Leo is surprisingly slow to pick up on. Except, no, Leo already knows this. He says as much.

“I should’ve known this was gonna happen because every time I go out with Donnie some crazy, stupid shit happens,” Leo moans after Donnie gets them kicked out of a bar when caught blowing his “straight” friend Hunter (Oscar Mansky, the answer to the unasked question: What if Jon Heder was fuckable?) in one of the titular bathroom stalls. And this is a mere 15-minutes into the movie.

Clearly, it’s going to be a long night, and I began to fear Bathroom Stalls & Parking Lots was going to make me feel every goddamn minute of it. I don’t have a lot of patience for people like Donnie in real life, yet the movie was presenting him as just a comic foil, mistaking his obnoxiousness for hilariousness. I was seriously considering giving up on the movie before it hit the 30-minute mark.

But the movie is barely 80 minutes long, so I stuck with it, and though Bathroom Stalls & Parking Lots didn’t become a great film, it did become a more meaningful one. After what has got to be the saddest underwear party ever, Leo realizes that he is looking for love in all the wrong places, and those are the only places on Donnie’s itinerary. He decides to focus more on quality than quantity, though not before one more sleazy (mis)adventure.

Given its minuscule budget, Bathroom Stalls & Parking Lots is better made than one would expect, with passable acting and production values (the cinematography is a bit spotty, however). Its main drawback is its script. Though billed as a comedy, it’s only intermittently amusing at best, fucking irritating at worst. It’s only when it stops trying to so hard to make Donnie the life of the party that the movie starts to rise above viewers’ lowest expectations, though by that time many of them may have already decided, as Leo ultimately does, to cut ties.