Short Takes: ‘Jobriath A.D.’ (2012) ★★★ 1/2

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

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

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

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

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

A Story of Big Business and Blue Balls

Harry Whittington is one of my favorite novelists, so I’m kind of surprised I’m just now getting around to reviewing one of his books. But better late than never, and this particular book is even somewhat topical, it being about the railroad industry, which is kind of a hot topic in the U.S. now. Although the likelihood of people following the disaster in East Palistine, Ohio, immediately seeking out historical fiction about the expansion of a railroad in Florida during the 1800s is negligible, I figure it’s worth a shot.

Anyway, back to Harry. I first discovered Harry Whittington when I caught the movie adaptation of his 1956 novel Desire in the Dust on the Fox Movie Channel, back when that was a thing. I thought the movie was awesome and immediately sought out the book, which was just as good. Since then, I’ve been going on periodic eBay binges, searching out his work. Luckily, there’s a lot to choose from, and in a wide variety of genres: westerns, crime thrillers, mysteries, sexploitation, soapy potboilers and even queer pulp.

Of course, not all of Whittington’s books were written under his own name. Among his many pseudonyms was the name Blaine Stevens, which he used for a trio of historical epics he published in the very late 1970s and early ’80s, the first of which was 1979’s THE OUTLANDERS.

Set in the late 1800s, The Outlanders is the story of Ward Hamilton, a man with a dream: to own his own railroad. He’s so driven to achieve this goal that he hunts down his older brother Robert, wanted for stealing $100 thou in gold, so he can collect the $20,000 bounty. Also, he wants to know where Robert hid the gold. “I can use that money you stole,” the 19-year-old Ward explains to Robert when he finds him, hiding in a shack in the wilds of Florida with his servant (and recently freed slave) Thetis, “and warrant you a tenfold return you’ll never get with it planted somewhere in the ground.” Robert, out of spite, doesn’t admit to having stolen the gold, let alone divulge where it’s hidden. Ward will just have to make do with the $20 grand reward money.

Twenty-thousand dollars isn’t enough to buy a railroad, but Ward doesn’t let that stop him from bidding on the East Florida & Gulf Central railroad when he learns it’s for sale—information he gets when he beds the frustrated wife of its owner (“It’s been ten years since [my husband has] had an erection. Five since he’s wanted one.”) With some financial sleight of hand and the kind of self-confidence only found in those too young to know better, Ward’s bid for EF&GC is accepted. Now he must cover the full purchase price. So, he heads to Atlanta, where he calls on Lily Harkness, the prettiest of the Harkness daughters and Robert’s fiancée prior to his incarceration. She’s pretty, sure, but what Ward wants as much as access to her pussy is her knowledge of where Robert stashed the hidden loot—surely, he’d have told the person he loved the most. He gets neither, even when they marry. Lily has her own motive for marrying Ward, and that motive ain’t sex, the very concept of which she finds disgusting (the couple only bones two times during their decade-long marriage). Worse, Lily has no clue where Robert stashed the stolen gold (hint: the person Robert loved the most was not a woman). Ward gets more out of a business arrangement with one of Lily’s other suitors, the homely but goodhearted bank vice-president Hobart Bayard, from whose bank Ward secures a generous line of credit.

As the story progresses, Ward’s business success increases while his home life becomes more and more miserable. He and Lily have two children, only one of which is Ward’s: a son, Robin, and daughter, Belle. Lily becomes a religious nut, and then just plain insane. Ward isn’t always the easiest guy to root for — he’s a bastard in many instances — and his reasons for courting Lily were hardly admirable, but it’s hard not to feel a little sorry for him as he tries to do everything possible to give Lily a happy life, only to see her grow more hostile, poisoning Robin against him and resenting Belle for her closeness to Ward. Lily is also a sad case, but since The Outlanders is told from Ward’s point of view her behavior is often presented as the result of her being a spoiled bitch and not mental illness.

Adding to the tension is Julia Fredrick, the daughter of Dayton Fredrick, a one-time successful developer who was depending on buying EF&GC to transport vacationers to his struggling resort in Port St. Joe, Florida. When the two first meet, Julia is a precocious 13-year-old who develops an immediate crush on the young Ward Hamilton, which, fortunately, Ward doesn’t take advantage of even though the book is set at a time when sex with underage girls wasn’t necessarily frowned upon (“I like to pluck ‘em young, too,” a sleazy EF&CG rail executive tells Ward conspiratorially when he discovers Dayton Fredrick’s teen daughter in Ward’s company). Her feelings change, kind of, when Ward buys EF&GC, and she swears she hates him as much as she loves him, even though Ward and her father continue to be friendly. Ward’s feelings also change, from viewing Julia as a smartass kid to seeing her as a woman and realizing he has romantic feelings for her (mitigating factor: by the time Julia is in her twenties Ward’s balls are the color of Concorde grapes).

Ward’s fortunes begin to turn as the 19th century draws to a close. He is granted a divorce from Lily, but by the time it’s final Julia has married someone else — Hobart Bayard, now a bank president. Ward’s son Robin will have nothing to do with him, while Belle is uncontrollable, having been kicked out of every school she’s been enrolled in. Then Belle marries Laddie, an arrogant aspiring artist and abusive prick who beats Belle as regularly as she cheats on him. 

The stresses aren’t confined to Ward’s personal life, however. Industrialist Henry Flagler needs a railroad to transport guests to his Ponce de Leon Hotel in St. Augustine, and the railroad he wants to buy is Ward’s. He asks Ward to name his price, but Ward is too proud to sell. But Flagler’s not the type of man to take no for an answer. If Ward isn’t going to sell willingly, Flagler will use his power and influence to make sure he’ll have to sell. Still, Ward holds out, until a hurricane forces his hand.

Harry Whittington by Any Other Name is Just as Good

I’ll admit that I was wary of this one before I started reading it. Several years ago, I read Whittington’s second Blaine Stevens novel, Embrace the Wind, which was marketed as a bodice-ripping romance, and found it tough going for its first fifty pages or so, when Whittington really leans into the romance genre, adopting an uncharacteristically florid prose style (the book picks up when it becomes more of an adventure story). Thankfully, Whittington keeps the flowery descriptions to a minimum in The Outlanders, the novel being more discount John Jakes than Johanna Lindsey rip-off, though the eBay seller I bought it from categorized it as a western, probably because of the cover.

The Harry Whittington copyright
was enough to sell me on this book.

Essentially a rags-to-riches story, The Outlanders doesn’t necessarily offer a lot of surprises—you’ll realize early on that Dayton Frederick’s story foreshadows Ward’s, that Ward and Julia are destined to end up together—but that doesn’t diminish its entertainment value. Whittington’s writing keeps the story moving, and he cleverly weaves in real people (Flagler, Dr. Lue Gim Gong) and events (e.g., using prison labor to build railroads), as well as a few Easter eggs. One character that I thought was a real person in history was Marve Pooser, leader of a homesteader uprising against Ward’s ever-expanding railroad. I was sure I’d read about him somewhere before. And I had: that was the name of the villain in Whittington’s 1959 novel, A Moment to Prey (a.k.a. Backwoods Tramp).

If I have one quibble with the book, it’s that while Whittington successfully keeps us in the world of the late 1870s, a few of his characters behave as if they stepped out of the 1970s, specifically Julia. Yes, she’s supposed to be wise beyond her years, but sometimes she’s a little too sexually blunt for the time. The likelihood of a young woman in this time period declaring, in her father’s company, that she would like to go to bed with a man, and that her father would not rebuke her for doing so, strains credulity. Less anachronistic, though still behavior more closely associated with our time, is when Ward’s sister-in-law Lavinia seduces him (hey, Ward was bound to stray sooner or later), immediately giving him a BJ (He felt her face pressed against him, her breath across her parted lips hot and moist upon his glans). I realize blowjobs were discovered long before the Summer of Love, but I don’t think one would be so freely given by a young woman with limited sexual experience and raised in the Antebellum South. But considering that readers of the 1970s expected at least a dash of smut in their pop fiction, this can be written off as fan service. The sex scenes, BTW, aren’t all that frequent and are just explicit enough to make it clear what’s going on without straying too far into raunch.

I find Harry Whittington to be a safe bet, no matter what the genre. Even his lesser books are, if nothing else, entertaining. The Outlanders, while no classic, is a satisfying read, well worth checking out if you should happen upon a reasonably-priced copy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Short Takes: ‘Someone is Bleeding’ (1974) ★★

Someone is Bleeding is alternately known
as Les seins de glace, which translates
into this movie’s other unfortunate/awesome
English a.k.a., Icy Breasts.

Georges Lautner directed the 1970 film The Road to Salina, which is one of my favorite movies. A few years later he directed Someone is Bleeding, which isn’t.

In fairness to Lautner, though the movies share some themes—a beautiful woman with a deadly secret; mind-fucking the protagonist—Someone is Bleeding (a.k.a. Les seins de glace, or Icy Breasts) is a different sort of thriller. Whereas Salina is what happens when an art film gets stoned and makes wild monkey love to a ’70s drive-in movie (or vice versa), Someone is Bleeding is all sideways glances and stony silences broken up with cryptic conversations and minimal bouts of violence. In short, Someone is Bleeding is kinda boring.

But boring isn’t the movie’s biggest problem; the character of François Rollin is. François (Claude Brasseur) is a hack TV writer working on his latest script when he decides to take a walk on the beach to clear his head. This is when he encounters beautiful blonde Peggy (Mireille Darc). François, undaunted by the fact that she’s out of his league and clearly not interested, makes it his mission to get his hands on her icy breasts by harassing his way into her heart, including getting into her parked car while she’s out shopping, then refusing to get out when she returns. Remarkably, Peggy is charmed by this. Me, less so.

Just because Peggy hasn’t filed a restraining order doesn’t mean she’s an easy catch, as François soon learns. Cockblocking him at every turn is Peggy’s overly protective attorney, Marc (a haggard looking Alain Delon), who not only has set up Peggy in a house staffed with a gruff—and kind of rapey—manservant, Albert (Michel Peyrelon), but also has his hulking chauffeur/henchman Steig (Emilio Messina) keeping tabs on her, violently intervening when necessary. Marc explains to François that Peggy is not stable, that she is a former drug addict and that she murdered her husband—a crime for which Marc defended her, getting her off with an insanity defense. She is so repelled by men that she kills them should one touch her. Of course, Marc is in love with her, too (never mind that he’s married, and y’know, the whole killing-any-man-who-touches-her thing), so his motives aren’t exactly pure. Yet, as the movie progresses, we begin to suspect that Peggy might be as unbalanced as Marc says she is.

Though Someone is Bleeding picks up steam as it goes along, it seldom heats up to a proper boil. Lautner’s script, adapted from a novel by Richard Matheson, has made Peggy so mysterious that she almost has no characterization beyond looking pretty and smiling nervously while François and Marc fight over her. Consequently, Darc, Delon’s girlfriend at the time, is a rather passive femme fatale. Nicoletta Machiavelli, who plays Marc’s steely wife, makes a stronger impression, making me wish her part had been bigger. Delon’s performance is solid but nothing special. As for Brasseur, besides being saddled with an irritating character, his buffoonish performance is tonally at odds with the film surrounding it. Not helping is his character’s brand of humor translates as assholery in any language. And since François is the lead (not Delon, as the poster would have you believe), you must endure his company for the entire movie, meaning that by extension you’re enduring Someone is Bleeding when you should be enjoying it.

Short Takes: 'Cola de Mono' (2018) ★★★

A rare instance when the movie
delivers what its poster promises.

Spending Christmas at home does not always mean saving the family business, finding love and exploring the erotic possibilities of candy canes. While the characters of Chilean writer-director Alberto Fuguet’s Cola de Mono are also into sexual exploration—though not with holiday candy—their Christmas is primarily spent dealing with feelings of loneliness, alienation, and getting hammered on the movie’s titular cocktail.

It’s Christmas Eve, 1986, and Santiago teenager Borja (a very effective Cristóbal Rodríguez Costabal) is whiling away his time reading Stephen King, pestering his older brother Vincente (Cristóbal’s real-life brother Santiago Rodríguez Costabal) and irritating his embittered mother (Carmina Riego). “Pay respect to the occasion,” he tells her during dinner. “God was born today.” “And he was killed 33 years later,” his mother sniffs.

After Mama puts herself to bed with pills and booze, the brothers embark on separate sexual journeys. Vincente goes cruising in a city park, while Borja breaks into his brother’s locked room and riffles through his things, discovering Vincente’s poorly hidden collection of gay skin magazines. It’s all sexy fun until a sexual assault/bashing sends Vincente running home, only to discover his privacy violated and that he and his brother have a shared secret, a secret that Borja shows little interest keeping. “We’re alike,” Borja taunts. “We’re brothers. And we like cock.” Then Mama comes to and overhears her sons, at which point the movie suddenly becomes a thriller.

Cola de Mono, its title referencing both an eggnog-like drink and a gay slur in Chile, gets a lot of attention for featuring copious amounts of male nudity and explicit sex (including a brief unsimulated blowjob), but for me its appeal is largely nostalgic. The 1980s pop culture references, from Borja liking books by King and Robin Cook to the boys decorating their rooms with movie posters for Desperately Seeking Susan and the more obscure Willie & Phil, were a treat, as was Fuguet’s resurrecting adolescent memories of hoarding gay porn mags and ogling guys wearing tight polyester gym shorts, with the added bonus that this time I could do so openly if not guilt-free. (I’m sure Cristóbal Rodríguez Costabal is of age, but I felt a little pervy admiring the ass of what is supposed to be a 15- or 16-year-old, though clearly the movie’s marketing team weren’t as conflicted).

As much as I enjoyed Cola de Mono for artistic and prurient reasons, the movie veers off course in its final third when it jumps to 1999, following an adult Borja (now played by Santiago Rodríguez Costabal, sporting a full beard) in what’s essentially an extended epilogue. This part of the movie, which includes a long sequence set inside a gay bathhouse, is titillating, but it serves little purpose beyond adding some bonus sex and nudity. Fuguet hurts his movie further by giving it a shocking ending, then muddying the waters by suggesting it was a film within a film. As much as I appreciated the extra skin, Fuguet would’ve done better to confine Cola de Mono's narrative to 1986.