Reading This Book Qualifies as a #MeToo Experience

The cover is the only thing I like
about Rosemary Rogers’ The Insiders.

Trigger warning: This so-called romance is chock full of sexual assault and stupidity, so proceed with caution. Also, the review is a bit long (sorry about that).

Well, I have no one to blame but myself. Though I’m not a fan of romance fiction, I went ahead and bought a copy of the late Rosemary Rogers’ 1979 novel THE INSIDERS, anyway.

In my own defense, The Insiders is from a period in the late ’70s and early ’80s when Rogers, primarily known for writing bodice-rippers, was writing more contemporary—and more explicit—fare that seemed to be aimed at Jackie Collins’ audience. Indeed, cover up Rogers’ name and The Insiders could easily be mistaken for one of Collins’ or Harold Robbins’ novels. Even the book’s synopsis (“From the breathtaking northern California coastline to the fierce, competitive media worlds of Los Angeles and New York City, Eve is caught in a whirlwind of the beautiful and the rich…”) suggests it’s more about a woman trying to make it in the sordid world of show business—well, TV news in this instance—than finding true love. I may not like romance novels, but I love books about the sordid world of show business!

I was tempted to read these Rosemary
Rogers' titles as well...until
I read The Insiders.

The Insiders is not about show business, or the TV news business. It’s not really a romance novel, either. What it is, is a total piece of shit.

The synopsis was at least honest about one thing: Eve is our main character. I guess she’s supposed to be the heroine, except that would reply she’s admirable in some way, and Rogers makes it clear that the only thing admirable about Eve, a former model turned TV reporter, is her beauty. In fact, Eve’s hotness is one of her defining character traits. The other two traits (she only has three) are her inability to get over her ex-boyfriend David and being a total idiot.

The book’s first chapter details how Eve is sleeping with Peter, “San Francisco’s most fashionable analyst,” but only on weekends, and only to distract her from David’s absence. “I take other men’s rejected lovers and make them over, doll,” Peter tells Eve. “I fuck them into forgetfulness.” Yet despite that claim, he just can’t fuck David out of Eve’s thoughts. Eve barely sheds any tears over David’s predecessor, the rich, handsome Mark Blair, who was not only instrumental in getting her a job at a local TV station but was also her lover for two years before he fucking died, yet breaking up with David has left Eve practically curled up on the floor in a fetal position, blubbering helplessly—until it’s time to fuck Peter, of course.

Given Eve’s crippling heartbreak, one would think that David is unbelievably handsome, with a successful career, a great sense of humor, a giving lover, and always supportive of Eve and her interests. Only the first two things are true. David’s most dominant characteristic is being an hemorrhoidal asshole. Rogers tries to soften David’s edges with a past tragedy, revealing that both his parents were killed in a car wreck, leaving him to care for his siblings, ranging in age from 7 to 17, yet David’s care amounts to little more than looking in on the kids every now and then. He doesn’t even live with them, paying a live-in housekeeper to stay with them in the family home in Albany, because who wants to look after kids when you could be getting laid? (OK, I’ll grant him that, but still….)

So, why did these two break up? During a weekend house party thrown by Howard Hansen, a senior partner at David’s law firm, Hansen’s conniving admin assistant/mistress Gloria sent another male guest to get into bed with a sleeping Eve, with the sole purpose of stirring shit up (and steering David to her bed). Eve protested as soon as she discovered it wasn’t David on top of her, but the man refused to stop doing what he was doing until David walked in. Eve was sexually assaulted, but David just thought she was a cheating ’ho and immediately broke up with her. Consider that foreshadowing. 

Of course, a relationship as toxic as Eve and David’s can’t end so easily. Eve poses for some cheesecake photos that appear in Stud magazine, the photos first enraging David, then making him so horny that he gives Eve a call. Eve, ever the doormat, is all too happy to let David back into her life. David, however, stipulates they will not be a monogamous couple. Though not entirely comfortable with this arrangement, Eve goes along with it if this is what it takes to keep David. David, of course, is jealous of her screwing other men, but feels he’s entitled to other women. Here’s an excerpt, detailing David’s views on commitment:

Someday, David knew, he would marry. Because it was expected of him and because it would help him form and mold the façade he expected to present to the world. But the woman he would marry would be carefully picked by his head and not by his loins. A suitable wife—suitable was the key word. Well-bred and intelligent, but not too intelligent. Not too astute or worldly-wise. Because there would always be other women—this he already realized and accepted.

Eve eventually comes to her senses and dumps David. Her taste in men, however, doesn’t improve. In fact, she ends up with someone much worse: Brant Newcomb.

The Psychopath and the Jailbait Masochist

Eve encounters Brant Newcomb earlier in the book, when she accompanies her fuck-buddy Peter to a party thrown by “a well-known rock singer” (Eve accepts the invitation when told she’d likely appear in the society pages on Peter’s arm, which would make David jealous). Brant is described as very handsome, very blond and very tan. Eve wonders if he might be gay, though it’s not exactly clear why she thinks this, especially when she knows he has a playboy reputation. Brant is also ridiculously wealthy, and about as charming as Elon. “I think—I just have the feeling we might like the same kind of things,” he says when he meets Eve. “Why don’t you come home with me tonight and find out? I’d really like to fuck you, Eve.” As charming as that offer is, Eve refuses. So, Brant offers to pay her. Eve (and the reader) come away from the encounter thoroughly disgusted.

In case it’s not entirely clear how loathsome Brant is, Rogers introduces a subplot involving David’s rebellious 17-year-old sister, Francie. After school one day, Francie, her dark hair hidden under a blond wig, hitches a ride with “some old guy driving a late-model Caddy” into San Francisco (allowing him to finger her for his trouble), where she has an appointment with photographer Jerry Harmon—the same photographer who took the pictures of Eve for Stud. Jerry hires her on the spot and starts taking photos immediately. There’s one other person present for the photo session, however: Jerry’s good friend Brant Newcomb. Brant wastes little time propositioning her, telling her that he’ll pay double what Jerry’s paying (exact amounts are never discussed) for her to pose for a “special” photo, without the wig, or much else. Following the official picture-taking, Francie joins Brant and Jerry in the bedroom, the men taking turns snapping Polaroids of her taking turns with them. Looking at the photos afterwards turns Francie on so much she “began clawing at Brant’s groin with her hands [as opposed to clawing with her nose?] until he tumbled her down onto the floor and began screwing her again, taking his time this go around, laughing all the while at her eagerness and wildness.”

And, in case a three-way involving two adult men and an underage girl aren’t enough for you:

His laughter seemed to mock at [sic] her, and she got so mad she began to bite and claw at him; then he slapped her hard, slapped her coldly again and again until her anger and viciousness subsided, and she was clinging to him, begging him in a choked voice to do it to her again, quickly.

“You’re one of those, are you, you little hellion? You dig being hurt. Okay, honey, I’m willing to oblige. Sometimes it even turns me on.”

Francie is fully in Brant’s thrall by the time he drives her home. Two days later she’s back for more abuse:

“How old are you, by the way?”

His question caught her by surprise, so that she stumbled over her lies, her voice uncertain.

“I’m—I’m twenty.”

He slapped her hard, knocking her off the bed and onto the floor.

“You’re a lying cunt. Now tell me.”

“Okay, okay, so I’m still nineteen.”

This time, he got off the bed and pulled her to her feet by her hair, walking her over to the far corner of the room, where he proceeded to wipe off all her carefully applied makeup with tissues dipped in cold cream.

Francie wriggled and cried and called him all the filthy names she could think of until he smacked her a few more times across the rump. Then she begged him to stop.

“I’m seventeen,” she sobbed. “Really, I swear it. But I’ll be eighteen this year, soon after I graduate. Honest, Brant, I’m not lying this time.”

Like an alley cat, she rubbed herself up against him, touching him eagerly, licking at his skin with short, urgent jabs. Suddenly, he began to chuckle, his anger gone.

Yes, decades before Erika Mitchell ever wrote her first sentence as Snowqueens Dragon, Rosemary Rogers was confusing abuse with BDSM.

Rosemary Rogers demonstrating in 1985 how best to enjoy her work.

Though he only visits on weekends, David notices a change in Francie’s behavior. By the time he confronts her, Francie has been a regular fixture at Brant’s place in San Francisco, helping herself to whatever drug is offered and letting herself be used by Brant and whoever happens to be visiting, including a rock band that treats her so rough that even Brant feels compelled to intervene. However, David can’t get her to confess to anything, and spanking her only turns her on, which horrifies her oldest brother (remarkably Rogers doesn’t cross that line). Only after Francie runs away does David learn of her relationship with Brant, Francie ratted out by their younger siblings.

David is furious, yet he refuses to get the police involved. Why? Because Brant Newcomb is a client of his firm. Yep, David is putting his career ahead of the safety of his sister. Eve just happens to know that Brant is having a party that very night (she was invited to attend as a gay actor’s beard) and suggests David attend so he could look for Francie. David is adamant that he cannot be involved. Eve, on the other hand…. Eve refuses, but caves when David applies just a little bit of emotional manipulation.

When Eve arrives at the party she’s surprised by, as well as suspicious of, Brant’s polite treatment of her. She accepts a drink from one of the nudie models in Jerry Harmon’s company and then wanders through Brant’s house, keeping an eye out for Francie. This part includes one of my favorite observations from Eve, one I had when I first moved to Atlanta: She could smell the acrid, burned-leaves odor of marijuana—it seemed to hang in the air, stinging her nostrils. Didn’t anyone smoke cigarettes anymore?

Eve spots Francie, looking strung out, her dress torn, and her body bruised. The crowd is too thick for Eve to get to her. Then, to Eve’s horror, Brant announces he’s having a slave auction, and Francie is the featured merchandise. Eve does try to fight her way through the crowd to get to her, but only after Brant smacks Francie around when she protests being sold to some hippie dude named Derek and is forcibly carried away to go live on his commune in New Mexico. Let’s repeat that: Eve passively watches Francie get auctioned off and only springs into action when the girl is being carried out the door. As suspected, David sending Eve to rescue his sister made about much sense as asking Lauren Boebert to lead a college course in theatre appreciation.

Obviously, Eve’s too-late attempt to do fuck-all is unsuccessful. Brant dismisses her protests, assuring Eve that Francie was auctioned off for her own good and that Derek is a psychiatrist “into social work.” Do you trust him? Me neither, but Eve and the reader are asked to take him at his word, because Francie is now out of the book for good.

Now, with Francie gone, Eve must contend with Brant, who gets her another drink and then, under the pretense of wanting to discuss Francie, takes her to another room. This other room is his “playroom,” and the only thing Brant wants to discuss is fucking Eve. Eve announces she’s leaving. Brant accuses her of putting on an act. “Eve, it’s too late to stop anything. If you want it to be rape, then I guess I can oblige you.” And so, he does, slapping her around for good measure. As if that’s not bad enough, the party’s other guests barge in (“We watched you through the two-way mirror for a while,” says one), and proceed to join in, making this a gang rape.

It only gets worse from here.

Sorry About Raping You. Will You Marry Me Now?

We’re only at the novel’s midpoint, and already Rogers has crammed in an epic amount of offensive material. I’ll admit I was kind of impressed as I didn’t think she’d have it in her. I also hoped this would be the point in the story where Eve might develop a spine if not a personality and dump David, get violent revenge on Brant and, only because this is allegedly a romance novel, meet a man who actually treats her well.

Instead, this happens: Eve regains consciousness after her gang rape (her drinks were drugged, naturally) in Brant’s bedroom. Brant tells her that he had a physician friend check her out while she was out, assuring Brant that Eve would be OK. Isn’t that sweet? You better think so, because from this point forward Brant will be gaslighting Eve (as Rogers is gaslighting her readers) into falling in love with him, though maybe he’d stand a better chance if he didn’t start slapping her and threatening her with blackmail/revenge porn the moment she says she’ll go to the police.

Brant drives Eve home, where David is waiting for her. David, seeing Eve get out of his car, is immediately and predictably consumed with jealousy. Though Eve doesn’t do the best job of explaining what happened to her, she does make it clear she was raped. David, however, doesn’t believe her (“My God, everything you’ve told me sounds like part of some crazy trip—some coke nightmare.”) He says he’s going to leave and come back when she’s regained her senses. In a rare show of spinal rigidity, Eve tells him not to bother, they are through. Good for you, Eve!

Alas, Eve just can’t stand up to Brant (the only character to do so is Marti, Eve’s lesbian roommate, whose own story arc has very little bearing on the overall narrative other than adding homophobia to the list of this novel’s sins). His courting very much reads like an abusive husband pleading with his wife to come back from her mother’s, insisting he’s changed. Of course, in this case the abuser has unlimited funds and connections, enabling Brant to arrange for Eve to get tapped to audition for a nightly anchor spot with a New York City station, one of the few times in the book when her career is mentioned. Eve thinks she was selected because of her on-camera skills (that she allows her possible co-anchor introduce her to the joys of anal sex should also give her an edge) but learns the truth when Brant surprises her on her return flight home.

Then Brant proposes, which proves, once and for all, that he is indeed a psychopath, especially when he says: “You’re a bloody Puritan in some ways, and yet you like to fuck, but only when you’re ready and when you want it—and that night you wouldn’t give in, would you, you stubborn bitch? You made us take it[.]” See, it was Eve’s fault for just not giving in.

Eve is not stubborn bitch. Stubborn implies she is capable of thinking for herself. No, Eve’s a stupid bitch, because she ultimately marries Brant and has a son with him! Good thing Brant is rich, because that boy is going to need lots of therapy, especially when he’s old enough to hear about how his parents met. Christ, I think Massimo and Laura of 365 Days had a healthier relationship.

This book was written during a time when rape-and-forgive trope was common in romance fiction, especially in the bodice-rippers, which had been Rogers’ bread and butter. The thing is, while rape is no less problematic in a story set in the 1800s, the mental gymnastics to explain it away as fantasy are less strenuous: the 1800s weren’t exactly a time of sexual permissiveness, especially for women, who were culturally discouraged from openly enjoying sex. “No” was the default answer, and thus men wouldn’t always accept it. But Rogers’ rape fantasy schtick doesn’t work so well in a story set in the late ’70s, making the mere act of reading of The Insiders feel like #MeToo experience. Yes, men need to learn about what consent means, but it seems like romance authors could also benefit from sitting in on those consent workshops college athletes have to attend. It’s too late for Rosemary, but maybe E.L. James could sign up, and since she’s on campus, sign up for a few writing courses as well.

I mentioned waaaaay back at the beginning of this review that The Insiders seemed to be Rogers’ attempt to muscle in on Jackie Collins’ territory. Rogers had a more expansive vocabulary (Rogers attended the University of Ceylon; Collins was expelled from Francis Holland School at age 15), but Collins was way more playful and, in her prime, had no problem getting raunchy (The Insiders has a lot of sex, but Rogers refrains from getting too graphic). The two writers had lot in common stylistically, with both taking a laissez faire—if not just plain lazy—approach to plotting (I’m pretty sure Rogers never wrote an outline for The Insiders and just made it up as she went along); both writing American characters that sound British; and neither author having much patience for describing settings, to the point where San Francisco, New York and Los Angeles could just as easily be Fresno, St. Louis and El Paso. Like Collins’ novels, The Insiders is populated with hot, vapid people, but none of the Jackie Collins novels I’ve read were ever this mean-spirited, vile and misogynistic. Eve has no real identity or agency, so maybe it’s no surprise she’s stuck choosing between two abusers. All I know is even Collins would balk at having, say, Lucky Santangelo marry her rapist. No, Lucky would make the motherfucker pay.

Transitioning Into 1970: 'Christine' vs. 'Myra'

Though the U.S. QAnon party would have its base believe that trans people are a recent phenomenon, dating back to when the Obama administration, colluding with Hollywood elites and woke millennials, performed gender reassignment surgeries on unsuspecting preschoolers as part of a sinister plot to send them into our nation’s schools as trans adults to read books to kids and compete on varsity swim teams, it turns out that they have been around significantly longer than the 2010s. 

In fact, way back in 1970—a good 53 years after the first gender affirming surgery was performed in the U.S.—Hollywood released two very different films centering on trans women (but played by cis-gendered actors): the turgid biopic THE CHRISTINE JORGENSEN STORY, and the botched adaptation of Gore Vidal’s 1968 satirical novel, MYRA BRECKINRIDGE.

Christine Jorgensen in the 1950s.

It should go without saying that neither film would be considered politically correct today, though The Christine Jorgensen Story, about the United States’ first celebrity trans woman (Dora Richter was the actual first, completing her transition in 1931), comes closer than expected. I remember seeing the movie in the early ’90s, when it aired on AMC, back when the channel was TCM with ad breaks rather than the home of mad men, meth cooks and walking dead. At that time, my attitude towards the trans community could be summarized thusly: To each their own, but it’s kinda’ funny, though. Consequently, I viewed the movie like it was an episode of Mystery Science Theater 3000, minus Joel (or Mike) and the ’bots. When I decided to rewatch the film, I was prepared to judge it harshly now that I’m more enlightened—woke, if you will (but please don’t).

But despite the crass exploitation of the movie’s marketing (“Did the surgeon’s knife make me a woman or a freak?” reads the poster), the actual film shows far more sensitivity in its handling of Jorgensen’s story (Jorgensen herself is credited as the movie’s technical advisor). That story begins, predictably, with Jorgensen’s unhappy childhood as George, Jr. (Trent Lehman), a boy more inclined to play with his sister’s dolls and his mother’s makeup than play football. His concerned mother tries to steer George, Jr. toward more traditionally masculine pastimes, while George, Jr.’s father does his level best to convince himself his boy is just going through a phase. He’s encouraged—overjoyed, even—when George, Jr., having taken on some school bullies, comes home with a black eye. “You’re going to remember that black eye as one of the proudest moments of your life,” he tells his son, going so far as to take a photo of George, Jr.’s shiner.

Is this fucked up or what?

Loretta, the cunty model.

Adulthood isn’t any happier for George, Jr. (now played by John Hansen). Though he finds some success as a photographer for an advertising agency, he’s still the target of bullying. “One thing I can’t stand is a damn fag photographer,” sneers Loretta (Elaine Joyce), a model so cunty that she causses George to flee the photo shoot in tears. His boss, Jess Warner (Rod McCrary), offers a shoulder to cry on, and his dick to suck. George, Jr., is horrified (“Good God, you don’t think I’m one of those?”) Jess thinks he just needs to lighten up, telling him lots of artists are queer, “You think Shakespeare wrote all those sonnets to a dame?” Jess goes in for a kiss, but George ain’t having it and, for the second time that day, flees in tears. (One of the issues I had with this movie when I first saw it, and still do, is it seems to be making the argument that Jorgensen’s reason for transitioning was born out of homophobia, and that the audience should appreciate that, if nothing else, at least she chose to live as a hetero woman rather than a gay man.)

Are you trying to seduce me, Mr. Warner?

George, Jr., heads to the library, where he discovers the book Sex and the Glands by Dr. Stephen Estabrook. The book proves so enlightening that George enrolls in the doctor’s college course just to speak to him about his theories. After explaining to the endocrinologist that he’s always felt his instincts and impulses are female, Estabrook (Will Kuluva, who really could’ve benefitted from a Klipette) takes some blood for testing. The test results confirm that George has a chemical imbalance. “Your glands are secreting more female hormones than male—three times higher than expected in a normal man.”

A penectomy is exactly what you think it is.

Under the pretense of shooting photos for a travel book, George, Jr. goes to Copenhagen, where a sympathetic Dr. Dahlman (Oscar Beregi, Jr.) offers him a chance to be his true self. “You Americans, you’re advanced in so many ways, but when it comes to sex, you’re childish. Operate on the brain, perform a lobotomy? Fine. But take a pair of testicles and everybody explodes.” Before George signs the one-page application for gender reassignment surgery (yet I must fill out at least six pages before an annual physical), Dahlman explains what the surgery entails, then warns George there exists a chance for failure. None of this dissuades George, who quickly signs the application.

A couple montages later, Christine is born, her name selected in honor of the late daughter of her Aunt Thora, with whom she’s been staying (in actuality, the name was chosen in honor of endocrinologist Christian Hamburger). While Christine, now looking like a young Rosie O’Donnell in Doris Day drag, is pleased with the superficial aspects of her transition—there are lots of shots of her modeling the dresses her aunt’s made for her and patting her hair—she’s remains hesitant to fully live as a woman, which, as far as this movie goes, means she needs a man. 

From man to matron.

Christine Jorgensen's transition
is front page news.

But romance is the furthest thing from her mind when the media—and her family—learn of her transition. Her family gets counseled by a surprising voice of reason: their minister, who tells Christine’s anguished parents that if their new daughter is happy, they should be thankful. “Remember, she’s still the same person.” The media is less reasonable. “These days a fella never knows what he’s going to get on a blind date,” snorts a newscaster, who could be mistaken for a 2023 Fox News pundit were it not for his use of the word “fella.”

However, one reporter, Tom Crawford (Quinn K. Redeker, who would later have a hand in writing The Deer Hunter), approaches Christine as a person, not a freak. Christine works with Tom, allowing him daily interviews for an in-depth magazine story, only to back out before the article’s completion when she suspects Tom has feelings for her. This is for Tom’s protection; sooner or later, he’ll see her as an oddity. “Are you going to stop reading the newspapers? Or listening to the radio? Or watching television? Will they ever stop making jokes? They’ll never stop laughing.” Tom is undeterred, and urges “Chris” to stop being afraid. The pair kiss, then slowly sink onto the sofa in a love scene that could be right out of a 1950s Douglas Sirk film.

In fact, except for its subject matter and featuring some nudity, The Christine Jorgensen Story could easily be a product of the 1950s. This is likely attributable to director Irving Rapper, who helmed several Bette Davis movies, including Now, Voyager and Another Man’s Poison. In Rapper’s hands, The Christine Jorgensen Story is just an old-fashioned melodrama with a twist. Rapper’s approach keeps the movie from becoming exploitative, but it also heightens its campiness.

When Christine dreamed of doll murder.

That campiness is heightened further by the acting. Trent Lehman—yet another child actor who came to a sad end—portrays George, Jr., not as a child wrestling with gender dysphoria but as a future school shooter (when George, Jr.’s mother takes a doll away from him, we suspect she’s more concerned that he might dismember it than she is about her son conforming to gender roles). John Hansen’s performance, while earnest, often becomes parodic, the actor’s pearl-clutching rendering Jorgensen an object of pity rather than someone driven to live her life on her terms. 

Ultimately, it’s this portrayal of Jorgensen as a delicate flower in need of a hand to hold as she faces the big, bad world that is the movie’s downfall. The real Jorgensen was an outspoken trans activist, described on her Wikipedia page as having been known for her “directness and polished wit,” qualities you can see in her TV interviews (you can also see some of the shit she had to put up with in this clip). Where you won’t see those qualities is in The Christine Jorgensen Story.

‘The Most Extraordinary Woman in the World’

There is no political correctness to be found in Myra Breckinridge, which not only treats the very concept of sexual reassignment surgery as a joke, but is peppered with casual homophobia and racism, and features a scene of female-on-male rape played for laughs. Even more horrifying, it not only includes Rex Reed (yes, the very same) in its cast, it features a scene of him masturbating. I’ll take the rape scene, thank you.

Gore Vidal's novel is great.
Its film adaptation less so.

Before it became an infamous bomb, Myra Breckinridge was a bestselling novel by Gore Vidal. The book, about a trans woman who comes to Hollywood to challenge sexual and gender norms, isn’t politically correct, either, but then political correctness would rob the book of its bite. Also, it was published in the 1960s, when people didn’t worry about such things. What the book is, is riotously funny, and well worth reading (seriously, get yourself a copy). And there was potential for the movie adaptation to be just as hilarious. 

And then 20th Century Fox gave the job of writing and directing to Michael Sarne.

In Sarne’s hands, Myra Breckinridge went from being a biting satire on sexual mores to a mashup of the “hip” movies of the late ’60s with the comic sensibilities of the stupid softcore sex comedies found later in the ’70s (think I Love You, Alice B. Toklas crossed with Dagmar’s Hot Pants, Inc.) and edited by monkeys on Adderall. In short, it’s a hot mess (with an even messier production). Yet, despite Sarne’s best efforts to rob the film of any entertainment value whatsoever, there is still some fun to be had here.

At the film’s opening, film fanatic Myron Breckinridge (Reed) is about to undergo gender reassignment surgery, performed by a chain-smoking John Carradine in an operating theater that resembles a partially struck set from Barbarella. There’s also a seated audience and a young woman who spends the entire scene cracking a big, fat whip because…1960s wackiness? “You know, once we cut it off, it won’t grow back,” the doctor warns Myron. “How about circumcision? It’s cheaper.”

Nevertheless, Myron is transformed into Myra (Raquel Welch). Before you let out a sigh of relief that Rex Reed has been transformed into someone else, be warned that he pops up throughout the movie as Myra’s ghostly alter ego with whom she discusses her plans. 

And sometimes Rex Reed is just there to masturbate while dreaming of a young Farrah Fawcett presenting a table full of food, a scene that will make no more sense when viewed in context.

Her primary agenda, Myra explains, is “the destruction of the American male in all of its particulars.” As grand as that goal is, her battlefront is the much more modest acting school owned and operated by her uncle, ex-movie cowboy Buck Loner (John Huston, in what would ordinarily be a Slim Pickens role). Myra shows up at the school claiming to be Myron’s widow, and as such, she wishes to claim Myron’s half of the school, or $500,000. Buck balks, but reluctantly gives her a teaching job at the academy while he investigates Myra’s claims.

Roger Herren as Rusty. No wonder Myra
was smitten.

Uncle Buck isn’t the only man Myra hopes to destroy. “I was particularly struck by one of the students, a boy with a Polish name. From a certain unevenly rounded thickness in the crotch of his blue jeans it is safe to assume he’s marvelously hung,” Myra observes in a breathy V.O. The well-hung student in question is country bumpkin Rusty Godowski (Roger Herren, inadvertently killing his career), and he is quite intriguing indeed, though it should be noted that while Myra makes the observations about the bulge in his jeans Rusty is wearing slacks that do little to emphasize said bulge. 

Myra’s goal of bringing down the American male also includes women, apparently. Viewing Rusty’s girlfriend Mary Ann (Fawcett) as an embodiment of traditional gender norms, Myra also seeks to seduce—and therefore “destroy”—her as well. However, Mary Ann is not as easily conquered as Myra first suspects. “I’m sorry, I just can’t. If only there was some man like you.”

Sorry, guys. No Raquel-on-Farrah action ever happens.

Then there is Hollywood agent Leticia Van Allen. In the book, Leticia is a brassy, horny older woman who joins forces with Myra. The producers of the movie were on the right track when they sought out a veteran of Golden Age Hollywood for the role, except Golden Age stars weren’t too eager to star in what was believed to be a dirty movie (Bette Davis was approached about the role and adamantly refused, and yet she agreed to star in Bunny O’Hare). Not Mae West, who was a spry 77 years old at the time. West hadn’t appeared in a film since 1943’s The Heat’s On, and it’s clear from her first appearance in Myra Breckinridge that she hadn’t updated her schtick in the intervening decades. “I don’t care about your credits as long as you’re oversexed,” she tells one young actor, played by a pre-fame Tom Selleck (“That’s one of my credits!” he gleefully replies). Another young hopeful tells Leticia that he’s 6'7". “Never mind about the six feet. Let’s talk about the seven inches.” It goes without saying that West wrote her own dialog.

So, is this a stand-in?

Though West’s performance makes for fascinating viewing, her casting reduces Leticia to a sideshow distraction rather than a character in the movie’s story. Case in point: West insisted on singing a few songs in the film, for no reason other than she is Mae West. So, apropos of nothing, we get a nightclub scene in which West, who even in her prime couldn’t really sing, warbles her way through a couple songs, including this one that was covered far more successfully in 1990 by the Black Crowes. West complicated things further by refusing to share any scenes with Welch (according to Welch, the few scenes in which she and West appear to be interacting were shot separately and then spliced together*), which only serves to make character of Leticia more superfluous. Sarne could’ve just as well spliced in random scenes from She Done Him Wrong and My Little Chickadee as involve West herself.

Mae West and Raquel Welch, hiding their mutual
hostility, though it appears only Mae is succeeding.

Speaking of scenes from old movies, they are used throughout Myra Breckinridge either as commentary, a gag, or to punctuate a scene in the movie proper, and often to the chagrin of their stars (Loretta Young sued; Shirley Temple, having served as a U.S. ambassador, got the White House involved). Sometimes the clips are used cleverly, but mostly they are overused. Like Mae West, they only serve to distract from an already fractured narrative. (For someone who reportedly once wasted several days filming a table of food for this movie [see above], Sarne can’t seem to stay with one scene long enough for anyone to figure out what the fuck is going on.)

Myra takes Rusty's temperature.

There’s no mistaking what’s going on when Myra, under the pretense of getting some medical data, dons a strap-on and rapes Rusty (though the movie initially received an X rating, the dildo is never once shown on camera). And this is in the name of comedy, no less, though most of the laughs come from the bizarre sight of Raquel Welch, one of the premier sex symbols of the 1960s, pegging a stunned stud. This rape scene is in the book as well, and there the humor is a bit meaner, and highlights how the character of Myra Breckinridge isn’t really a trans woman so much as she is a gay man who has gone to extremes to put cis-het men (and their girlfriends) in their place. (In the book, Myra is impressed by Rusty’s rectal hygiene, noting most straight men don’t clean their asses properly.) Back when I first read the book as a closeted teen-ager, I felt Myron had been surgically transformed into a beautiful woman for the same reason Charles Bronson got a gun in Death Wish: retribution. Though it would seem Rusty is hardly worthy a target for said vengeance, he represents, to borrow a line from the movie, “the last stronghold of masculinity in this Disneyland of perversion.” Consequently, Myra wants to destroy him as much as she wants to fuck him, so consider this scene as killing two birds with one dildo. Still, it might have worked better if Rusty were more of a toxic masc asshole instead of just kind of dumb.

Myra Breckinridge prepares to destroy Rusty (and dat ass).

Incidentally, critics at the time of the film’s release seemed more concerned with issues of taste than consent. They were also more than a little homophobic. Here’s a quote from Time magazine’s review, which is more upset about the tarnishing of the images of Laurel and Hardy and Marilyn Monroe than the actual rape: “Michael Same… deserves special discredit for the repulsive dildo rape scene and the obscene device of interspersing the film with clips from movies of favorite old stars. Thus, in the context of Myra, Laurel and Hardy are made to look like fags. Even more outrageous is the use of Marilyn Monroe sequences during the rape.” Gene Siskel’s review didn’t age much better, the late Chicago Tribune critic repeatedly referring to Myra as “she-he.”

A perplexed Raquel Welch tries to
make sense of Myra Breckinridge.

Critics at the time also didn’t have kind things to say about the cast’s performances, especially Raquel Welch’s, yet I think her performance is one of the movie’s strengths. (Yes, a trans actress would make more sense for both Myra Breckinridge and The Christine Jorgensen Story, but that’s just expecting too much from 1970.)  Welch’s range may have been limited—she certainly didn’t have the chops to play Myron (yikes!)—but she’s effective as Myra, a role that is as much a self-parody as it is a gay male avatar. Though she doesn’t grasp all her character’s nuances, she perfectly embodies the spirit of Myra, a spirit that’s on full display when Uncle Buck confronts her with the fact that there is no proof that she and Myron were ever married or that Myron ever died. “Uncle Buck, your fag nephew became your niece two years ago in Copenhagen,” she informs him, standing atop her uncle’s desk and removing her panties, “and now is free as a bird and happy in being the most extraordinary woman in the world!” That final announcement is punctuated by Myra hiking up her skirt to show off(-screen) the surgeon’s handiwork. 

Presenting the most extraordinary woman in the world.

The Christine Jorgensen Story may be a better movie by comparison, but Myra Breckinridge, with its lead character written as a strong woman/fierce gay man rather than a self-loathing closet case/fragile wallflower, is more empowering (provided you don’t get too hung up on the rape scene, of course). It’s still a trainwreck, but that just makes it worth seeing all the more. You can do so here.

BONUS MATERIAL: People often have as much fun, if not more, discussing a notorious bomb than viewing it, especially when said bomb goes on to attain cult status. Consequently, there are an abundance of articles, reviews and think-pieces about Myra Breckinridge. Here are a few worth checking out:

Dreams Are What Le Cinema is For… has a very thorough review that includes all the gory details about Myra Breckinridge’s production, as well as much higher quality stills from the movie (that’s what I get for not investing in the DVD).

My Year of Flops Case File #19: Though I disagree with his assessment of Reed’s performance as an “unexpected highlight of the film” (it’s a not-terrible performance by an otherwise terrible person, and that’s the extent of praise I can allow), Nathan Rabin’s review of this film—indeed, the whole My Year/World of Flops series—is not only a fun read, but a reminder of how good the A.V. Club site used to be.

Myra Breckinridge and Trans Roles on Film: James Gent takes a more serious look at the film and its place regarding trans representation in film.

2012 Q&A with Raquel Welch: Though Welch initially tried to distance herself from this career disappointment, she eventually lightened up and laughed along with everyone else. In this Q&A with a starstruck Simon Doonan she talks about her experience in making the film, with a good portion spent dishing on Mae West. R.I.P., Raquel.

*Welch herself wasn’t exactly known for being a delight on set.

Short Takes: ‘Gold’ (2022) ★★ 1/2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Use Whichever Hand You Like

I’ve been so busy at work and bogged down in the never-ending nightmare of getting work done on our house (as I write this the interior of our home is draped in plastic sheeting, like we’re aspiring serial killers) that I almost let May slip by without posting anything. And I still might (I write slow), but I want to at least try to post something new before June.

So, let’s watch some classic gay porn!

Director Jack Deveau’s 1972 debut LEFT-HANDED, co-directed by Jaap Penraat (no, not the World War II resistance fighter) not only gets singled out as one of the first scripted gay porn films with an original musical score, but it’s lauded as much for its artfulness as it is for its eroticism. While I appreciate all those things, what drew me to the movie was its star, Ray Frank. The moment I saw Ray Frank’s photo on the cover of the Bijou Video DVD of Left-Handed—his hair damp from the shower, his body like a Greek sculpture if Greek sculptors were into man-sized penises, and wearing an expression that lets it be known that he’s just been fucked and ready to be fucked again—was the moment I knew I had to see this movie despite some initial reservations, which we’ll get to later.

No doubt his crotch would be censored if he
wore these pants on American television in 2023. 

When we meet Ray, he’s walking down a New York City street, wearing a Canadian tuxedo like it’s fetish wear. I swear his pants have been specially tailored to accentuate his crotch and ass. Ray covers a lot of ground in his post-credits walk, so it’s understandable he’d have to stop at a men’s room to drain the lizard at some point. While he takes a leak, we get a sampling of the graffiti adorning the walls, from jokey (“Please don’t throw toothpicks in the toilet—crabs pole vault”) to the usual offers of blow jobs with numbers for interested parties to call. Other people are advertising more specific needs: “I want to meat [sic] a young boy with a huge cock to fuck my ass and eat my cock who I can beat with a big wip [sic] and cat of nine tail [sic] and make bleed and cry and come in my mouth as I shoot off in my wife’s mouth.” (So, does he mean boy as in “young man” or as in “icky and illegal”? And is his wife just sitting around waiting until her husband is ready to nut? Maybe she could enter this harrowing scene as a cruel school mistress, taking that cat o’ nine tails to her husband every time he misspells a word, which will most definitely leave him bleeding and crying.)

Elton-Carvey is ready for another round!

The graffiti that piques Ray’s interest is a drawing of a large dick pointing at the last stall, with the accompanying plea to “lick my hot cock.” He opens the stall door to discover a bespectacled dude idly beating off, just waiting for someone to follow the dick drawing to his toilet stall lair. This might be more inviting if the man in the stall didn’t look like a cross between a young Dana Carvey and a young, de-glammed Elton John, neither of whom inspire instant lust. But Ray is clearly not focused on this tearoom queen’s face—the camera certainly isn’t—when he joins him in the stall and, as instructed by the graffiti outside, licks his hot cock, as well as sucks it.

Meanwhile, Woodstock-based drug dealer Bob (Robert Rikas), goes into the city to make a delivery. His client is Larry (Larry Burns), who owns an antiques store in NYC and sells pot on the side, or, more likely, the antiques store is just a front for his drug dealing as Larry seems to have zero interest in his antiques business.

This is Larry, hard at work.

It turns out that Larry’s antiques store is also Ray’s ultimate destination. He’s hoping to find a good deal on a Queen Anne tea table. OK, I’m kidding, he’s there to score some weed. Ray arrives at the shop about the time Larry and Bob are concluding their deal, and it’s lust at first sight. (One of the sights Ray sees is Bob lifting his sweater to stick his payment into the waist of his jeans, because sticking the money in his pocket like a normal person would deny Ray—and the viewer—a glimpse of Bob’s rippling abs.) Larry tells Bob to say hello to his girl for him. “What a waste,” Larry laments once Bob’s out the door. “That’s one we’ll never get.”

“Maybe you can’t get him. I bet I could,” replies Ray.

All this thirst for Bob might seem a bit mystifying if your only frame of reference is his unflattering photo on the cover of the Bijou DVD, on which he looks like Crispin Glover as an anthropomorphic steam shovel. However, Ray is more appealing in the movie proper, resembling a young Viggo Mortensen. Also, he’s got a rockin’ bod.

There’s no escaping straight people,
 even in gay porn.

Perhaps to hammer home the challenge Ray faces in seducing the hunky dealer, we get a scene of heterosexual humping (not an uncommon occurrence in ’70s gay porn; Navy Blue and Passing Strangers, to name but a couple, also feature scenes of hetero fucking). I’m sure there will be queer viewers who will find this sequence unnecessary/repellant—the same ones who let out a horrified shriek whenever a woman doffs her top at Pride—but the camera is primarily focused on Bob’s body, which, again, is quite nice. His girlfriend (played by Cindy West) could just as easily have been a Fleshlight with a wig glued on top. At the end of the scene, as Bob’s unnamed girlfriend sucks him off, she suddenly declares in a voice over that “you’re all a bunch of bastards” because... he came in her mouth, maybe? It’s never explained.

We then join Ray back at his loft, where he strips down to a pair of fishnet briefs, lies back on his bed and rubs one out fantasizing about Larry, never mind that fantasizing about Bob makes more narrative sense. It’s still a hot scene, the fantasy action shot in black and white while Ray’s stroke session is captured in glorious, grainy color. Robert Alvarez, Left-Handed’s editor who co-founded Hand-in-Hand Films with his partner Deveau, said in an interview on the Bijou Blog that this sequence was meant to be a reverse of The Wizard of Oz. “I really loved the idea of creating a piece, a sex scene that had some rhythm to it and some sense of movies, of real movies, you know?” says Alavarez.

Ray enjoys some personal time.

Bob suddenly accepts the fluidity of human
sexuality.

Later—the next day, next week, next year, who knows—Ray and Bob meet up and head back to Ray’s place to smoke a couple joints (in stars-and-stripes rolling papers, no less). As the evening wears on Bob’s straightness begins to wear down. Next thing we know, the staunchly hetero Bob is tentatively reaching for Ray’s crotch, because no one is that straight. Ray drowsily rolls into Bob’s arms for a kiss. The camera then backs up into a wide shot to capture them naked and making slow, sensual love. They later hop in the shower for an energetic fuck.

This no one night stand but the beginning of an affair, with Ray spending weekends up at Bob’s place in Woodstock. Seems awkward, given that Bob lives with his girlfriend, but she seems content to just hang around the house, smoking cigarettes and staring pensively into the distance while Bob and Ray go off to the barn for a quick B.J., or to make out by a creek. Though we never get to see a direct confrontation between Bob and his girlfriend, we can tell by her body language that she’s not happy. Later, Ray tells Larry that Bob’s GF won’t be around much longer. She’s definitely not around when Ray spends another weekend with Bob, the two men doing ’shrooms before doing each other. Deveau and Penraat earn points for not resorting to the usual camera tricks used to portray onscreen drug trips—fly vision, fisheye lenses, kaleidoscope effects—but they still manage to find a filter that robs the scene of its erotic impact by making the action look like an animated Rorschach test.

Hot?

Alas, the high can’t last forever, with the beginning of the end signaled by Ray telling Larry that he’s ready for a change. Ray then makes the tragic decision to shave his beard.

Noooooo!

Becoming Al Pacino.

Ray Frank is an attractive guy with or without facial hair, but personally speaking, I found him 35% sexier with a beard. Ray’s decision to shave coincides with Larry’s invitation to attend a little orgy that he’s hosting, starting promptly at 8 p.m. This orgy also presents another argument against Ray shaving his beard: most of the orgy attendees are also dark-haired, clean-shaven men with slight, muscular builds (diversity is not one of the movie’s selling points), so Ray gets lost in the pile. Larry, another bearded dude, and a guy who kind of resembles Barry Gibb if you squint, end up being the only distinctive performers. This makes the final minutes of the film, when Bob—invited to show up at eleven, after all loads have been spilled—appears at the door and discovers his boyfriend is a cheating bastard, a lot less impactful since Ray blends in with the crowd.

 Or maybe Bob’s just sad that Ray shaved his beard.

It should also be mentioned that this final orgy scene includes a fisting sequence, something I could’ve done without, personally (it makes me think of animal husbandry, but that’s just me). In fact, that is why I was initially wary of seeing this movie, because I was sure its title alluded to there being a whole bunch of handballing going on. (Had Left-Handed been directed by Joe Gage I’d just assume it would be all about masturbation.) But the fisting in Left-Handed is not only brief but executed far more gently than is usually seen in gay porn (it’s all hearts and flowers compared to the PTSD-inducing anal assault seen in Fred Halsted’s Sextool.) More viewers will likely be put off by the scene’s boner-killing jazz rock score.

Grittier than Boys in the Sand, yet Weirdly More Romantic

Ray gives Bob a hand.

Left-Handed was released shortly after Wakefield Poole’s Boys in the Sand, and while it’s not quite as polished a movie, it’s no less effective. In fact, I’d argue that it’s more effective than Sand. Sand is pretty to look at, and the sex is fairly hot, but it’s strictly fantasy, while Left-Handed’s gritty style and story arc, simplistic thought it may be, make it more involving. Consequently, though Sand has the more romanticized presentation of gay sex, it’s the grungy looking Left-Handed that’s the more romantic movie, the fisting notwithstanding. It even features a couple ballads worthy of any second-rate Vegas crooner’s set list.

Left-Handed is available through
BijouWorld.com, and can be streamed on
PinkLabelTV.com and GayHotMovies.com

As much as I enjoyed this movie, and really think it’s hot, I realize it’s a tough sell to present-day audiences. Even if you’re cool with the scraggly hippie look and aren’t turned off by the early ’70s fashions (they are a hoot, but the guys usually aren’t dressed very long for them to be a distraction), the sex scenes will likely not appeal to current sensibilities. For that reason, Left-Handed is best approached as a movie to be watched in its entirety, rather than a mere masturbation aid. The sex scenes are plentiful, but usually last for only 5-10 minutes, and the acts aren’t always captured in explicit detail, a fact that Alvarez acknowledges: “Our [movies] were more like—at least I felt, and Jack felt—to capture the sensuality of the sex or the dynamics of a sex scene, and whatever shot said that the best is the shot that we used. So, we didn’t go in for, like, where you can see every pubic hair, you know?” I didn’t think Deveau’s approach is any less powerful, though I will admit there were a couple scenes—the tearoom blowjob; Ray and Bob in the barn—that could’ve benefited from better lighting.

Above all, what really makes Left-Handed worth a watch are the two lead performers, Ray Frank and Robert Rikas. When so many current porn videos look like endurance tests, it’s nice to see performers who 

What’re you looking at?

appear to actually enjoy sex. Frank is the more dynamic performer, as well as the more charismatic presence, though Rikas proves to be more sensual than his stone-faced expression would have you believe. Yet, despite being such a natural, it was Frank who bowed out of the industry after two movies, his only other credit being in Deveau’s follow-up feature, Drive, while Rikas went on to appear in several more movies, his last IMDb credit being 1976’s Fetishes of Monique. Unfortunately, I couldn’t find anything else out about either performer. Alvarez wasn’t any more enlightening about the Left-Handed’s two leads when asked about them by Bijou: “[Jack Deveau] used to put out casting calls. And, I think, we knew the guy who played the lead. We knew both of them. And so, they agreed to be in it.”   

Considering how often I’m disappointed when I learn more about performers’ personal lives, maybe that’s all I really need to know.