I'm pretty sure the first time I ever saw two men kiss, one of them was Mel Gibson. I was ten, and a trashy afternoon show (A Current Affair, or possibly Hard Copy) had an exposé on Mel's first film, Summer City, featuring a same sex kiss. I remember it being shared between he and another guy in the back of a moving car, and when the guys started kissing the broadcast cut to a zoom-in on the entertainment news reporter with one palm on her cheek and a look of stunned disbelief on her face before they cut back to the men laughing and smiling at the end of their brief lip lock. The first "real" male-male kiss I ever saw was in the classic gay comedy Jeffrey. My favorite scene was a passionate first kiss between Steven Weber and Michael T. Weiss. I used to play it over and over, even though it, too, was interrupted by a cutaway: this time to an imaginary quartet of teenagers watching, with the guys getting sick and the girls getting sweet. My own first kiss with another man was coupled with my first sexual experience, so the afterglow of "my first kiss" lasted only as long as it took him to get undressed. That kiss was just a blip on the radar, obliterated in that jarring rush from virginity to promiscuity. All of my early kisses seemed to have been stolen away from me, by cutaways or social commentary or the physiological whallop of having my first intimate experience with a total stranger. Perhaps that's why kissing between men is the real "money shot" in my book. And perhaps future generations of gay youth could have more appreciation for human intimacy if the media was as comfortable showing gays kissing as they are showing gays dying.
Personally, I think all the YouTube videos of men engaged in physical intimacy with each other is way more beneficial to society than all the YouTube videos of straight guys saying "It gets better". I know, I know, not all of the people who make those videos are straight, and I’m not saying that they don’t save lives, because they do. But they wouldn’t have saved my life as a young person, for public service announcements are to a cynical teenager about as impactful as giving a lollipop to a grieving child. But those of us who would have been immune to PSAs still deserve to have videos that make us feel liberated, proud, and excited for the future, too. That’s why I’m so thrilled that YouTube is packed with videos of men making out with other men.
Many of these clips are excerpted from gay porn films, and speak to my longstanding belief that porn can be used to better the lives of the very audience it’s supposed to be kept away from: teenagers. In high school, the first gay porn film I ever saw was a sleazy VHS compilation called Between Jocks that arrived in the mail on Christmas Eve, making it easy to pretend that one of my family members’ gifts had arrived and therefore should not be opened. The first hardcore porn feature I ever saw was Jim Steel’s Solicitor, one of the prominent starring roles for a young Zak Spears. It is the story of a straight, womanizing lawyer who is lusted after by his gay assistant before eventually realizing that his mistreatment of women comes from suppressed homosexual desires. I loved the movie because I loved the image that Zak Spears represented, an image not too far from my Bruce Willis ideal yet without that pesky heterosexuality that seemed to come along with all the guys I found myself most inclined to desire.
What disappointed me about Solicitor, and many of the hardcore films I was originally introduced to, was that they did little to turn on the part of me that longed for gay romance. Solicitor came close, as the storyline ends with the lawyer and his assistant falling in love and the final shot is them cuddling in bed. It was my favorite scene in the movie, because the sex scenes, while titillating, were focused on a power play between whichever two men were presently having sex. I preferred the fleeting moments of tenderness, a desire which lead me to the films of the Bel Ami Studio and their emphasis on foreplay and affection and the innocence of two men discovering one another.
I have always felt that the Bel Ami movies, particularly the softcore edits, are quality introductions to gay sex for teenagers. Most of them will learn about gay sex via porn anyway, or be left to their own experimentation. Both of these options could potentially be degrading experiences and set a young man up for a skewed perspective of gay sex for the rest of his adult life. I'm NOT saying porn should be distributed to minors, but sex should be filmed with some awareness of the psyche of underage viewers. I don't think that exposure to onscreen sex is worse than exposure to onscreen violence, but I think it is infinitely more likely to influence the viewers' subsequent behavior.
In 2013, such outlandish ideas have become less necessary. Flooding YouTube are dozens of clips of intimate moments excerpted from gay porn films—the kissing, the caressing, the rubbing, the undressing, the moments of warmth that make foreplay exciting and special in ways that close-ups of penetration can hardly ever touch upon. (One talented YouTube user devotes an entire channel to original video compilations of kissing excerpts from gay hardcore.) However, it bothers me that so many of these scenes are “Age Restricted”. I question if this designation is based on the pornographic origins of this footage, or if mainstream society still equates two men kissing passionately with a straight couple engaged in full-on intercourse. Regardless, it’s great that it’s out there, because it’s not just young people who are in need of sexual role models. Adults can benefit from this footage, too—not only those deeply embedded in the closet, but those who are out and need positive depictions of gay intimacy because they don’t have enough of it in their own life. After all, being out of the closet is a different fulfillment from being in someone's arms.
So here are a few favorite videos of such intimacy, between men
of various ages and ethnicities and degrees of undress. All of them, if only for fleeting seconds, engage in passionate behavior that gives me an affirmation that simply cannot be beat. One of them is the beautiful, beloved, and dearly departed Peter Kozma, known to millions as Arpad Miklos. He brought an almost unmatched warmth to his love scenes in adult films, and in turn made his gay audience feel good about themselves in a way that goes far beyond libidinous pleasure. On February 3rd, the same night I conceived of this post, Peter/Arpad committed suicide. I discovered the news on February 6th, and, instead of publishing this piece as planned, I paid tribute to the man who left a unique and invaluable mark on my life. I have kept his scenes in this post, for despite the nature of this tragedy, I remain convinced that suicide can be prevented by injecting male-male intimacy into the bloodstream of mainstream society. I endorse, celebrate, and encourage sexual expression in all its forms, something that I hope is evident in all of my written work. But NOTHING warms my heart and raises my pulse like passionate kissing: when it comes to the almighty power of making out, it just DOESN’T get better.
PS. As a stalwart opponent of gender division, I do NOT intend for my celebration of male-male coupling to be an affront to intimacy between women! I cannot vouch for the effects of female-female kissing scenes as I can for male-male, not least of all as most of the porn excerpts on YouTube seem catered to a straight (male) audience. But I hope this fantastic compilation will adequately serve as my tip of the hat to the extraordinary beauty of sapphic passion. ;)
It was the second time it happened in less than a year: my life crossed paths with a favorite gay porn star in the moments just before his
death. In 2012, I saw a Tweet that Erik Rhodes posted about the tears he shed
every time he listened to Madonna’s “Has To Be”. And so I Tweeted him my blog
entry “Straight vs. ‘Straight’” and spent the next day anxiously wondering if he’d been affected and would reply. The next morning
he died unexpectedly, and that day his passing was the first I ever wrote about
for my blog.
Today I learned of the death of Arpad Miklos, the beautiful,
charismatic Hungarian actor and star of dozens of modern gay classics. I did
not know who he was until only a few years ago, but when I saw him onscreen, I
was mesmerized. The effect never went away. Something about Arpad was warm and
sensual and yet dark and dangerous. I always felt that he had the looks and the
talent to be a European movie star, and that’s why he became the muse for one
of the characters in a script that I have recently been polishing for
submission to a screenplay competition. In my mind, Arpad plays one of the lead characters, and my dream was that his recent fame following
the Perfume Genius “Hood” music video could lead to his being a contender to
play the role onscreen. (I even changed the character’s name from “Oliver” to “Armand”
to insure he’d be an instant fit.) In recent days I have been reworking the script,
and Arpad had frequently been on my mind as such. On Sunday night, I began work
on a new blog entry that he inspired when his being on my mind lead me to YouTube video clips of Arpad locking lips with his co-stars in various gay porn films. The blog
dealt with the power that onscreen depictions of male-male intimacy could have in
preventing suicide. I planned to post that blog this evening, but while finishing
it, I learned that Arpad had taken his own life on Sunday night.
Recent events have prompted me to be more open
about my deeply spiritual beliefs, and I cannot treat the timing of Arpad’s
suicide and his directly inspiring my pro-sex/anti-suicide post as mere
coincidence. However, I also cannot bring myself to post it as originally
written so soon after Arpad’s passing. It’s not that this awful news changed my perspective: I think the message is all the more relevant after such a tragedy, and
clearly the Universe agrees with me. But I’m just not prepared to rewrite what
must remain “a happy post” in this sad new context. Like Erik Rhodes, Marilyn Chambers, Jamie Gillis, and Linda Lovelace, this death affects me on a deeply
personal level because it was not only the loss of life but the loss of an
opportunity. And that opportunity was for mainstream audiences to see in these beautiful
people what made them among the most beloved film stars of erotic cinema. Fans
of adult films are not viewed with the same credibility as more highbrow film connoisseurs, because we live
in a society that treats sexual fantasy as a necessary evil and people who are
open about their fantasies are inevitably subjected to one of many different
forms of castigation. But this is nothing compared to the treatment of the
stars of adult films, who are barred from working in mainstream cinema and
often barred from working in the mainstream world at all. It’s easy to
understand why people would still make porn in their forties when they were denied jobs by the very hypocrites who bought their videos.
I am not going to
comment one way or another on the adult film industry, because there is a very
big difference between the industry and the art form. If my views of “the world
of porn” seem a bit Pollyanna-esque, it’s because I’m rabidly in favor of
preserving and celebrating the art form. This is not to say that porn stars are
not exploited by the industry that chews them up and spits them out. But it is
society at large that I call upon to take accountability for the number of porn
stars who end up turning to drugs or alcohol or crime or suicide. The judgment bestowed by
society upon people who have made a career having sex onscreen is akin to
the evils of racism, homophobia, and misogyny their most raw and rampant. I
do not know why Arpad Miklos (whose name, I learned after his death, was Peter Kozma) chose to end his life when he did, but I would
imagine that the worship of countless fans, the love of his friends, and the respect of his
industry peers was not enough to compensate for the cruelty of a society that
refused to see his inner and outer beauty the way those who adored him did. The
media will no doubt use his death to further admonish the porn industry and in
turn further disenfranchise porn stars from the rest of the world. But I hope
the onscreen legacy that Arpad left behind, and the many admirable qualities he
exuded in his interactions with people offscreen, will be what the world remember
about him. Like Marilyn Chambers and Jamie Gillis, he had what it took to be a
movie star. And like Marilyn Chambers and Jamie Gillis, he will always be a
movie star,
and a muse, to me.
Rest in peace, Peter…..I will never cease to be grateful. xoxoxo
Over the years I have often celebrated my favorite female entertainers but rarely do I pay homage to my favorite male entertainers--certain filmmakers notwithstanding. I may relate most to Marilyn Chambers, but I don't give nearly enough credit to the male porn stars whom I adore. Erik Rhodes was one of those porn stars.
I first saw Erik onscreen in The Farmer's Son during my last semester at Emerson College. I reacted to him the way straight men and lesbians must have reacted to Marilyn Chambers forty years ago: Erik looked more like the guys I crushed on in real life than he looked like the guys I lusted after in X-rated films. At 25, he was beautiful, and more importantly, he seemed happy, and didn't leave the audience feeling guilty for watching. But I adored him far more in the "making of" featurette, where we saw him being funny and playful and human. It was obvious that everyone on set loved him, and that they knew the audience would feel the same way. After I graduated college, I moved to New York. A few months after I moved there, I stumbled upon Erik's MySpace page and was once again struck by his beauty, his masculinity, and his overwhelming Old Hollywood star quality. I thought he was the most legitimately macho European American actor to come along since Mickey Rourke. When I learned that he lived in New York too and that we were only four months apart in age, I found myself both idolizing him and desperately wanting to make him fall madly in love with me. But then I stumbled onto his blog. At the time, I was in a dark and lonely place, but had no idea this seemingly ideal man of my dreams was plagued by his own demons. It was only a few months after I had seen him happy onscreen, so I was shocked by the unhappy tone of his writing. He seemed miserable, and the men who commented on his posts all seemed as shocked as I was and as sincerely compassionate. I did not like Erik less after that, but I realized then that I had transplanted the face of all my fantasy men onto Erik. I also viewed him as a perfected version of myself: being a porn icon who could bridge the gap between hardcore and Hollywood was a dream I inherited from Marilyn Chambers. Erik was better looking than me and better suited for the camera, but I had no idea until I read his blog that my dreams were not his goals. Reading his words humanized him, and though that killed my fantasy, it underlined his talent: even in subsequent years, his sadness never showed onscreen. Like Marilyn, he was a damn good actor. And like Marilyn, he was taken from us before being given the opportunity to shine outside of the X-rated universe. I feel especially shocked today because when I recently joined Twitter I immediately started following Erik and all of the favorite adult film actors of my twenties. I wanted to know where their lives were at, and to confirm my still-standing belief that there can be such a thing as "a happy porn star". Reading Erik's Tweets over the last few weeks, I was struck by the negativity and self-destructive tendencies revealed in so many comments that were seemingly made in jest. He couldn't seem to hide his pain even when he was joking back and forth with friends. Recent comments that he made about "all gay men" and his embarrassment over revealing that Madonna's "Has To Be" always made him cry prompted me to reach out to him. I was expanding and polishing a paper I wrote in college for inclusion on my blog, one I had intended to post on June 20th, exactly nine months after my 30th birthday. But on June 12th, someone reminded me in a conversation that my obsession with dates and numbers might be more "OCD" than "numerology". So that night I published my piece about the struggle of non-conforming gay males to fit into the gay community. I didn't publish it for Erik, but he was the one person I planned to Tweet it to. Before I went to bed, in the early hours of June 13th, I sent him the link. His last Tweet was dated June 11th, and by the tone of his recent comments, I had a lurking, dark fear that I consciously chose to ignore. I kept going online to see if he'd sent any Tweets, trying to gather if what I wrote connected with him. I was so certain it would. Maybe it did. When I went onto Twitter today I saw the news of his passing, and immediately felt my heart ripped out. Three years ago, Marilyn Chambers died unexpectedly, mere weeks after I had been working on a screenplay that I was convinced could bring her the artistic respect and Hollywood stardom she had been denied for thirty-five years. It may have been the naive dream of an amateur writer, but either way, it was crushed on April 12th, 2009. On June 14th, 2012, the death of Erik Rhodes leaves me with a more complex kind of sadness. I loved his Tweets, but I didn't have any screenplays written that I hoped he could be cast in. I adored him as a person, but my dreams of making him fall in love with me have since become but one memory in a strange life chapter. But, like all people who were born in 1981-1982 in the American Northeast, I felt a generational and regional kinship with Erik. He would have been in my grade in school. If we grew up together, I don't doubt I would have spent my youth madly in love with him. And I probably would have spent a lot of that youth trying to save him from himself. I think that's how most of Erik's fans felt about him.
I must confess I had a fantasy that he would be affected by the piece enough to share it, but my conscience is clear because I know I wasn't trying to dupe a hurt person in order to further myself. His being affected was all that mattered. The only ulterior motive I might have had was the eternal thrill of being one person who could strike a nerve and block someone on the road to his own destruction. I hate to say that the tiny, dark fear I had was a fear he would commit suicide. In turn, I also feared that if I had only posted that piece days earlier instead of waiting then I might have stopped it. It's a ridiculous idea, yet anyone who has lost someone that way can no doubt relate to what prompted such fears. But Erik did not, according to reports, take his own life. He may have allowed death to happen by consciously choosing to put into his body drugs that he knew would one day kill him. I would suspect he that embraced such a scenario. But it still wasn't suicide. Erik was taken because, for some crazy reason, he was supposed to be. I don't like to divide and offend by delving into theology and my spiritual beliefs, but let me say this: I do not think that science will ever prove the existence of what some of us refer to as "a higher power". But I DO think that science will prove that our existence is not limited to our life span as a finite physical being. I'll refrain from words like "soul" and "immortality", but I don't think you need to believe that our energy was created by a deity in order to believe that it is endless. Erik, whose real name was James, brought much happiness during his short time on Earth, but he was clearly never as happy a person as he always deserved to be. I'm not part of his circle of loved ones, and I'm certainly no medium. But I wouldn't be sharing these thoughts on the day James left us if I wasn't struck by the certainty that he is finally as happy as he wanted to be. We love you and we miss you....neither Erik nor James will ever be forgotten.
What better way to celebrate the first day of the 2012
Cannes Film Festival than with a flashback?
In May 1973, The Mitchell Brothers’Behind The Green Door became the very first American pornographic
film to compete for the Palme D’Or. John Hubner’s 1993 book Bottom Feeders, written about Jim and Artie Mitchell, confirms that
being an official selection at the 1973 Cannes Film Festival was the ultimate
validation of The Mitchell Brothers’ artistic ambitions. The film was greeted
with thunderous applause at the first screening, and the crowd went even wilder
when leading lady Marilyn Chambers responded by giving a speech in French. Behind The Green Door, already a commercial and cultural phenomenon in America, went on to become a sensation at the Cannes
Film Festival.
In May 2002, I wrote about Behind The Green Door for my final paper for one
of four classes I took with my favorite professor at Emerson College, writer
Peg Aloi. It was during that semester that my first viewing of Gerard Damiano’s
Deep Throatsparked a life-changing
fascination with the ‘porno chic’ movement in American cinema. This enthusiastic
appreciation of classic straight porn has always left people confused, but I
hope that my favorite essay from college explains why every movie lover should mourn for The Golden Age of Adult Films.
Robert Jeffrey
Media Criticism and Theory: Final Assignment
Feminist Porn? A Look Back Behind
the Green Door
If film is an emotional medium,
then by definition alone adult cinema could be the highest plateau of movies;
no other genre has ever managed to spark such extreme reactions among the
masses, nor can any kind of film equal its emotional/physical effect on the
individual watching such a film. Adult titles often retail for much higher
prices than conventional videotapes and DVDs, and yet they often prove to be
bestsellers, for people are willing to pay enormous sums of money for the
effect that they arouse within the viewer.
However, because the genre is so
adept at provoking and exciting the viewer, filmmakers often take the power of
the medium for granted. Technical merits and artistic aspirations are far too
often neglected in favor of letting the “onscreen action” work for itself. The
adult film industry had been given new life when Deep Throat, an X-rated
sex comedyreleased in late 1972, became a box office phenomenon that
played for years to packed audiences in mainstream cinemas as well as adult
theaters. This led to a so-called “porno chic” movement throughout the 1970s
and into the 1980s, during which numerous adult films were booked into major
theaters, reviewed by mainstream film critics, and enjoyed considerable box
office success to rival the profits of Hollywood
films.
In her revealing audio commentary accompanying
the 1980 film Insatiable, Gloria Leonard, former adult film star and
President of the Free Speech Coalition, noted that this was what made the adult
films of the 1970s and early 1980s so unique. What once had been a sleazy
underground genre made of short, technically inconsequential “stag films” rose
up to the erotic feature films that played to widespread-and often
mainstream-audiences. These films were shot on film, had linear storylines, and
boasted stars that were as ambitious at becoming well-regarded actors as they
were at shedding their inhibitions to engage in onscreen sexual activity. With
the advent of video production, however, the genre once again slid into its
less inspired roots, leading to today’s market of meaningless sex, cheap
videography, and virtually absent emphasis on plot or performance
(“Insatiable”).
In 2000, British film critic Derek
Malcolm of The Guardian caused quite a stir with his list of the Top 100
Movies of the 20th Century. Malcolm described it as a list of “not
the 100 best, [but] 100 of the best…personal favorites which, I hope, I have
good reason to celebrate”. This cinematic ranking was particularly unique and
provocative because it omitted a good number of films that are generally
guaranteed a high perch on the filmic totem pole. Among these would be Metropolis,
Citizen Kane, It’s a Wonderful Life, The Searchers, La Dolce Vida, The
Godfather, and Annie Hall (Malcolm “Century of Films”).In an
article published in early 2001, several renowned film critics from the world
assessed their feelings on Malcolm’s list. Some critics applauded him for his
selections, particularly his more offbeat inclusions and exclusions. French
critic Jean Roy, of “L’Humanite”, praised his “preference for style over stars,
and for films which deserve to be reminded over crowd pleasers”, while German
critic Klause Eder encouraged readers to “see his favorites and you know how
exciting cinema can be”. However, the most revealing and representative
comment-and the one on which I am essentially basing my ensuing
reflections-came from Peter Keough, of the Boston Phoenix: “You’ve got to
admire a 100 best movie list that omits Citizen Kane but includes Behind
the Green Door” (Malcolm “What the Critics Say” 2-3).
The 1972 film Behind the Green
Door was directed by “The Mitchell Brothers”, a collective dub for San Francisco adult
filmmakers Jim and Artie Mitchell. Behind the Green Door was more than a
movie. It was a phenomenon, and one that helped-perhaps more so than any other
film of its time-to revolutionize the adult film industry. “Serious critics
reviewed the film, while it raced up the list of the most popular movies as if
nothing untoward were happening at all” (Malcolm “Behind the Green Door”, 2).
“One of the most popular and recognized adult classic titles of all time”
(Spooky 1), the low budget production went on to gross $100 million worldwide,
making it one of the most profitable films of the 1970s (Adult DVD Reviews 3).
The story is so simple that it’s star has
often described it one sentence, but for the sake of an understanding of the
film’s effectiveness, I’ll offer a few more words than that. Gloria (Marilyn
Chambers, in her debut leading role) is an exquisitely beautiful young woman
staying alone in a somewhat secluded hotel. One evening she leaves the hotel,
extremely well coiffed as if attending a formal date, and is abducted by two
masked men. She is taken to the backroom of an isolated location, which we soon
learn is a theater-cum-sex club, where an older woman comforts her, massages
her, and tells her to prepare to embrace “the most exquisite moment” of her
life. Gloria soon finds herself walking into the elaborate sex club (from
“behind the green door”), onto a stage where she is surrounded by beautiful,
caped women, and in front of an audience composed of upper class couples
comprising a variety of sexual orientations, body types, ages, and ethnic
groups. What happens throughout the rest of the film is a bizarre, garish,
gorgeously photographed and almost overwhelmingly erotic chain of sexual
events, occurring both on stage and within the audience.
Contemporary porn films show sex.
They do not “deal with” sex, because they generally cater to an audience not
interested in the before-or-after effects of human sexual behavior. Behind
the Green Door is perhaps the best example from the era of films that did,
in fact, explore with the subject. What makes it especially unique is that the
“before” and the “after” are secondary to the “right now”, in that the movie is
about what is going through the mind of the central character while she is
being subject to an experience that is at once frightening and intensely
exciting and pleasurable. Chambers specifically requested that she not know
what events would transpire when the character of Gloria walked onto the stage.
She felt it “would be more interesting from the audience point of view by
making it more realistic by not knowing what was going to happen” (Chambers 1).
Gloria’s character never utters a word throughout the film, and this gave
Chambers the chance to deliver a performance that is completely
internalized-and which in turn is arguably more empathetic than a
dialogue-driven work would have been. We do not simply look at Gloria; we feel
what she is feeling. Her experiences are our experiences, as we, too, are taken
to this exclusive sex club, unaware of what will transpire. And if the effect
that “BTGD” had at the box office and on popular culture is in any way representative,
we too are changed by the events of that night.
Indeed, the biggest asset to Behind
the Green Door on an artistic level (it was undoubtedly the best thing
going for it from a commercial perspective) may be the presence of its debut
star, Marilyn Chambers. Chambers, in her first (and most famous) leading role,
truly personified the “girl next door” appeal that the Mitchell Brothers
sought. Although strikingly beautiful, she was neither sultry nor glamorous;
her beauty was simple, pure, perhaps even plain. She embodied the ideals of
feminine innocence and virginal superiority, and her ultimate fusion of such
qualities with genuine sexual exhilaration was as much an advancement for
women’s equality as was any other feminist achievement in film. What makes her
experience a unique feminist statement is that her liberation comes not through
denying her femininity through dissolution into “a man’s world”, nor abandon
any part of her personal identity to embrace more traditional feminine elements
(i.e. Maternity, marriage). Rather, she fulfills her womanhood through
exploring and appreciating her sexuality. Although some feminist groups have
slammed the porn industry for degrading women, Behind the Green Door tells
the story of a woman who pushes the limits of ingrained feminine ideals
(purity, simplicity, asexual persuasion) before rejecting them altogether to
engage in passion and pleasure with men and women alike. And despite the stigma
attached to the genre, the message clearly shone through. Derek Malcolm pointed
out that “there were as many female commentators who approved of the film as
disapproved, since it was about a woman totally liberated by experiences that
had previously been part of her private and unattainable fantasies” (Malcolm
“Behind the Green Door” 2).
Seconds after Gloria enters from
behind the green door, there is an unseen narrator, speaking to the audience
within the film-as well to the audience of the film. He encourages the
audience not to fear for the young woman onstage, for instead of being in any
way harmed or pained, she will be “loved as never before” and free to leave at
her own will once this experience is complete. Thus, he states, they (or
perhaps we) should sit back and enjoy what is about to happen. The
subsequent effect that the film has on its real-life audience is reflected in
the response of the filmed audience members. As the events involving Gloria
proceed on stage, the editing frequently cuts to how the audience is reacting.
As the film goes on, the audience becomes more and more aroused, beginning to
engage in their own sexual fulfillment, and their post-Free Love antics are
every bit as titillating and fascinating to watch as is the stage show in which
Gloria is the lead participant. Again, the themes of feminism and sexual
liberation are forefront in the audience reflection. A good number-if not the
majority-of audience members watching Gloria’s transformation are women, and
their pleasuring of themselves at the sight of Gloria with men and women is
perhaps the first onscreen acknowledgement in film history of women’s own
titillation in response to erotica. Although the Mitchell Brothers probably
were not suggesting that the sexual free-for-all of the audience within the
film should be mimicked by the audience in front of the movie screen, clearly
they were endorsing the notion that women should take part in the enjoyment
alongside their male counterparts. Again, this effect also proved successful as
Derek Malcolm noted that the Mitchells “were delighted that women were the
bedrock of their audience” (Malcolm “Behind the Green Door” 2).
After the feminist statement being
made by the film, another socially significant and widely discussed aspect of
the film’s sexual content is that the very first heterosexual encounter is
between Marilyn Chambers and a black man, boxer Johnny Keys. An interracial
scene “is commonplace today, but probably turned a few heads in the early 70s
when the title came out” (Spooky 2). Indeed this sequence seems to have been
directed with the Mitchells extremely conscious of the effect it would have on
audience members. The notion of interracial sex was clearly still a hot spot in
the early 1970s (to a different extent, it remains so today), and the Mitchell
Brothers played up the sequence by enhancing the stereotypes associated with
the white female and black male involved. Marilyn Chambers-with her luminescent
blue-green eyes and curly blond hair-was certainly the personification of America’s
obsession with clean, virginal purity as whiteness; it’s no wonder she was once
selected to be the young mother on boxes of Ivory Soap. The sequence begins
with her lying on her back on a bed, with six females, clad in black,
surrounding her as if holding her down. Johnny Keys enters through the green
door, clad in tight white pants with a hole cut out of the crotch, thus
presenting his fully erect genitals. He has lines of tribal make up on his
face, shark’s teeth strewn around his neck, and prowls like a predator as a
combination of the jazzy score and “jungle beats” blend in the musical
soundtrack. Thus the symbolism is clear: the carnivorous black man is about to
pounce upon the helpless white virgin, thus robbing her of her innocence and
respect. The twist in the Mitchell Brothers’ film is that Gloria does, indeed,
enjoy the experience, and it solidifies her shedding of inhibitions and sexual
maturation. It further underlines her rejection of feminine ideals placed upon
women by white male society, for she is a “good white girl” enjoying sex with a
black man. It is at once honest in its enticingly taboo subject, while still
socially conscious enough to break down this black-white barrier through
graphic sexuality. Thus what began as a
fearful becomes sexual, extremely erotic, and perhaps even beautiful; indeed,
the Mitchell Brothers had achieved in turning the tables on the audience
conventions of interracial sexuality. That the audiences of a pornographic film
would share such internalized stereotypes is indeed representative of the
ingrained racism in America,
and the Mitchells were more than willing to utilize such feelings to enhance
both the social and erotic effectiveness of their film.
I suppose it would be prudish, if
not downright ignorant, to gloss over the film’s depiction of sexual activity.
Indeed, it is the most well remembered aspect of the film among mainstream
audiences, and is the foundation of its appreciation among adult film fans. As
mentioned before, the sex in the film is indeed erotic; so much that I would go
so far as to call it beautiful. There is no pain or power playing in the film.
Domination and submission are foregone in favor of unrestricted, unbridled
sensuality. The actors in the film seem to be enjoying themselves, and thus
there is not the mechanical, “I’m only here for the money” feel found in
today’s pornographic films. Also, being the early 1970s, the exploits of the
actors are clearly influenced by the hippie “Sexual Revolution” movement. There
is no apparent preference among the actors on the stage or in the audience. They
seem to have little interest in the gender of their partners, nor in their age
or physical description. One of the most frequently featured audience members
is an extremely overweight woman, something that would not likely be seen in a
major pornographic production today.
The sex in the film is also
extremely well staged and well photographed; the actors may give the impression
that they are simply being “caught on camera”, but clearly the Mitchells were
adept at giving their vision a natural feel. “The Mitchells opted for “art” and
respectability [and] the film does have a charge that you can’t deny” (Malcolm
“Behind the Green Door” 2). The brothers’ artistic ambition is most evident in
“the ultimate moment in [the] film” (Adult DVD Reviews 3), when they take the
so-called “money shot” (an industry euphemism for male ejaculation) of
pornographic films and give it a wildly original spin that has never been
surpassed. Although the portrayal of an ejaculation would seem impossible in
any artistic context, Derek Malcolm points out that “the Mitchells could at
least claim some imagination in making it” (Malcolm “Behind the Green Door” 2).
The scene is shot in slow motion, but is then processed in such a way that the
film’s color scheme becomes truly bizarre, giving the sequence the look of an
Andy Warhol painting. The scene is played over several times, using different
colors, strange, ambient sound effects, and a number of different, surreal
angles, some of which are “mirror shots” that give the scene the look that
Gloria’s face is reflecting itself. Although Malcolm describes the scene thirty
years later as “more hilarious than arty”, I would disagree. Although it might
come off as amusing to jaded contemporary audiences, this disorienting piece of
psychedelia perfectly caps off the Mitchell’s grand ambitions to change the
face of adult cinema by creating their own breed of “art porn”.
Reading this assessment of the film
(and, perhaps as much, its genre), one might question whether I am talking
about the state of film or simply the state of adult film. In fact, I am
talking about both. I would argue that the two industries are strangely
proportional, considering that the same peak years of American adult cinema saw
a surge in quality films output by Hollywood studios.
This is true today as well, as the sophomoric, “gynecological” (Chambers 2)
adult films that dominate the market coincide with Hollywood
films that aim towards a lowbrow mentality among predominantly teen and
twenty-something masses. The quality-and perhaps more importantly, the
popularity-of 70s adult cinema was representative of a Cinema of Grown-Ups,
people who went to the movies in their 30s and 40s and sat down for intelligent
entertainment that catered, as opposed to pandered, to their tastes. Adults
crave sexual stimulation as least as much as they crave intellectual
stimulation, and 1970s adult features provided both in spades.
I do not consider Behind the
Green Door a film that transcended its genre. Rather I consider it the film
most representative of a genre that was, for a brief but glorious time,
transcending itself. “Pornography has been a staple of the cinema from the year
dot,” wrote Derek Malcolm in his reflection on the film. “At no time, however,
was it more respectable as in the America of the early 70s.
Respectable couples did not care a jot if anyone saw them going in or coming
out…[and] there were breakthrough porno movies that deserved at least some of
the limelight they were once afforded” (Malcolm “Behind the Green Door” 1).
With that having been said,
however, it should be noted that even among such well-crafted adult films of
its day, Behind the Green Door was something truly special. No adult
film before it was so consciously ambitious in its attempts to affect-and
hopefully change-its audience. The movie sought to lure female viewers into
adult films, and to encourage them to achieve personal liberation through
sexuality. It broke down interracial barriers, and in fact dissolved any kind
of dividers between two human beings interested in engaging in passionate
sexual activity. “This was the most stylish, and some say the most erotic, of
all of these [“porno chic”] movies,” wrote Derek Malcolm (Malcolm “Behind the
Green Door” 1). I would certainly agree, but such an opinion is merely
scratching the surface. In addition to being sexually charged to a degree
rarely seen in adult films, it achieved something much more: bringing sex to
the forefront of audience discussion. Although Deep Throat had achieved
this same feat, Behind the Green Door was perhaps more impressive in
this regard since it managed to do so without the need to lighten up the
subject matter with bawdy humor. It encouraged audiences to become acquainted
with their sexuality, to appreciate it, to be unafraid of it, and to use it to
enhance their self-identities. Indeed, this was a truly “grown up” movie.
When I was a sophomore in high school, I took a “loss of
innocence” assignment for English class as an opportunity to purge myself of my
not-so-pleasant experiences in junior high. I also took it as another
opportunity to write about Madonna for an English class, a favorite pastime of
mine that stemmed from my desire to fight for her integrity with the literary
crowd. But with this paper, I wasn’t selling Madonna on her worth as an artist
or even a commercial figure. Rather, I was offering an insight into the chapter
of my life that lead to my loving her as passionately as I have ever since.
Now, it’s not as if I hadn’t loved Madonna for years. I was
apparently fixated on her as a two year old watching “Burning Up” and went
crazy for “Lucky Star” as a three year old. I have a dim sense of familiarity
with the latter and rely on trustworthy cousins for the former. But my real
love did not begin until the day my father took me to see Dick Tracy on a summer afternoon in 1990. Whether on the small
screen or the big screen, I fell in love with Madonna first and foremost as a movie
star. It wasn’t until a few months before my 1991 “Vogue” tribute that I became
an avowed fan of her music. It wasn’t until the late 90s that I felt a great
deal of shame for having waited that long, and that neurotic reaction was the
result of Madonna’s impact on my life in the mid-90s.
During the seventh grade, Madonna became my internal and
external salvation from what I perceived as a hellish adolescence. It honestly
wasn’t as bad as I thought it was at the time, but I’d still not repeat that
era for any figure below one billion dollars. I wish I had known then that my
pain was significantly less than the pain being endured by those who tormented
me. Had I been blessed with that understanding, I would not have quietly vilified
a number of undeserving peers for most of my teen years. My negative
self-image, formed as a result of failing to achieve incredibly superficial social
goals, was far more destructive than anything being literally or figuratively
hurled my way by others. Had I known this at the time, I might have benefitted
from junior high as a lesson for the future, instead of spending years viewing
it as punishment for an overly happy childhood.
Junior high school was the era that shaped who I am today,
and that includes my love of Madonna. The famous indifference to homosexuality
by the most influential figure in my life was vital to my self-acceptance.
During the seventh grade, I finally admitted to myself that I was gay. I had
been attracted to men before I even went through puberty, and I spent my pubescent years fantasizing about gay
romance. But all the while I was convinced that I was going through some sort
of developmental phase and would come out of it a heterosexual. I had snuck
into books at the library about human sexuality and found that this was quite
common. It seemed altogether rational to me as a confused adolescent since all
of my idols were, after all, beautiful women.
My real awakening came about in early 1995, while watching
Bruce Willis in Color of Night. I’d
been infatuated with Bruce Willis since the sixth grade and counting the days
till that movie came out on video so I could find a way to see it. Late one
Saturday night, I stole the copy my parents had rented, and viewed this future
bad movie classic while the rest of the house slept. During the film’s most famous sex scene, the
audience was offered two gorgeous, naked people making love in a pool in the
form of Bruce Willis and Jane March. Only one of these people sparked a
physical reaction in me while I watched the film. And the one who turned me on
so overwhelmingly that I never questioned my sexuality again was, indeed, Mr.
Willis. Since that fateful night I have regarded him as the man who most helped
me to come out of the closet. It would be a few years before I fully came out
to the world, but I never lied to myself about who I was attracted to ever
again. I did this out respect not only to myself but to all women, and I have
Bruce to thank.
I did not reveal my post-Color
of Night sexual understanding in the paper I wrote for my 10th grade
English class. But I DID reveal a lot more than I ever wrote before or since
about my junior high years and why I hated them so much. In fact, I revealed
more than I’d care to make public. This is mostly because it involves other
people whose memories are as unpleasant as mine, and because the people who I
looked at as my tormentors were just kids in pain. I know most of them now
thanks to Facebook and they’ve all grown up into perfectly fine people who
don’t need to be reminded of how they reacted to feeling that indescribable anguish
of being thirteen years old. Someday when we’re all farther away from that
stage of our lives, I’d be happy to offer the full story, but I hope this abridged version still manages to provide some empathetic reading for those who
recognize the emotions of my younger self.
Bob Jeffrey-Sophomore English, Per. 2
Personal Narrative/Loss of Innocence
10/20/97
I
still remember the first day. I had been telling people all summer long how I
was nervous about going back to school. I never liked to get too excited,
because I knew that halfway through the year I would sorely miss the summer.
But secretly I had been dying to go to Masconomet. I had just finished the
sixth grade, and would be going into my first year of junior high school. I
couldn’t believe that I was about to be in “real school”, and that I would
fulfill my childhood dream of being a teenager.
Despite
my somewhat naïve optimism, I was still nervous about going for the first time.
I walked in and checked the bulletin board to find where my homeroom class was,
where I would get my class schedule. Throughout the day we basically were
introduced to the material we would be covering, and there wasn’t very much
work involved at all. It seemed like junior high would be a blast, even better
than the 6th grade. Little did I know what was in store for me.
The
first few weeks of school were enjoyable on a social level, but somewhat
challenging in regards to academics. But it wasn’t until a few weeks into
September that things took a turn for the worst. I really didn’t consider
myself one who had many enemies, and at the time I wasn’t a very self-conscious
person. So I had no reason to suspect that people either didn’t like me or were
making fun of me. But one day during my health class, while I was talking to
someone and the teacher was not looking, two people who I hardly knew were
throwing paper at me. At first I just pretended to laugh it off, and didn’t pay
much attention. But everyday they would continue doing this when the teacher
was turned around. Being somewhat shy and not very confrontational, I never
said anything and every day I just sat back and basically let them do this to
me. For a while I considered my behavior to be a form of ignoring them, but
over time what they were doing made me feel more and more worthless until I
felt like I was less than a human being. Eventually the teacher caught word of
what was going on and they finally let up. Nevertheless, by that time it was
too late. The permanent damage had already been done.
Even
though things at Masco were not off to a good start by any means, the turning
point of junior high and, in a sense, my life took place several weeks later. I
had been on relatively good terms with the two boys who had been throwing paper
and other objects at me, but that changed after the fatal dance on October 7th.
I still remember it like it was just yesterday. I had been debating between
going to see The Specialist, which
opened that night, or going to the dance. The dance won.
It is hard for me to
pinpoint specific memories of this time, because much of it I have blocked out
and many of the events were minor but, when added up, had a lasting effect on
me. I would be mocked constantly, sometimes by people I had never seen before,
and was never accepted by any one crowd. Sometimes people would be outgoing to
me and treat me like a friend, but I could never tell if they were being
sincere, or were really just trying to give me the wrong impression so that I
would be humiliated. People were always borrowing money from me and never
paying me back, and I always felt as though people were making fun of me
whenever I looked the other way.
Masco
is a regional school, and so about 2/3 of the student body were strangers to me
and 1/3 were kids who I had practically grown up with. But as the 7th
grade progressed, I became estranged from the people who I had previously
considered a second family of sorts. Some of them had given me reason to, whether
it be because they had “mistreated me” or because they didn’t want anything to
do with me anymore. With others, it was because I now felt inferior to them and
didn’t risk any kind of social involvement for fear of being ridiculed. The
people who I had considered my peers became strangers, and I even became
separated from my friends to the point where we acted like mere acquaintances
whenever we ran into each other.
My
personality also changed drastically. I became reclusive and paranoid, and I
felt as though I couldn’t trust anyone. When walking in the hallway, I found
myself pretending more and more not to see the people walking past me. Some of
them were people who had been cruel to me during the year and who I now feared,
and others were friends who had given me no reason to distrust them, but who I
just couldn’t feel comfortable around anymore. I had been an outgoing,
optimistic, and extremely social person a year earlier, but now I had
unconsciously become a completely different person.
This
transformation spawned much of the humiliation I went through during the 7th
grade. Because I was such a naïve and ridiculously “over-kind” person at the
time, I never stood up for myself. And it wasn’t the Hollywood depiction of
junior high either. I wasn’t the smart kid being tormented by a powerful clique.
I was the boy next door turned loner who felt completely rejected by much of
the student body. I didn’t have many friends, and there wasn’t really anyone to
defend me. I was on my own, plagued by the personality I had developed as a
result of my experiences. This reclusive behavior I was exhibiting gave
students opportunity to make fun of me throughout the year, and my lack of
self-confidence and naiveté prevented me from standing up for myself. Soon
every day became an almost masochistic game of cat and mouse between me and the
school, and I was letting them win. Many times I felt like I was watching
myself being torn to pieces in school, and even though I had the power to stop
what was happening to me I literally chose not to. This was definitely the most
frustrating and infuriating aspect of all of junior high school. I didn’t feel
comfortable enough to trust many people, and I assumed that there weren’t too
many people on my side.
Throughout
the year, one forms of salvation was Madonna. I had been a huge fan of hers for
years, long before the 7th grade. Nonetheless, during the 7th
grade I felt like she was one of the few people I could turn to for protection
against Masco. Because of her outspoken, sometimes sexual, and often
controversial persona, I felt as if telling everyone how much I loved her would
prove to them that I was in fact cool and not the “perennial virgin” I often
came across as. I also tried to incorporate Madonna into school projects and
class discussions, though this was often in the hopes of making some of my
peers fans as well. In October of 1994, the fall that I started Masco,
Madonna’s album Bedtime Stories was
released. It wasn’t until several years later that I fully appreciated this
particular album, because the songs were of a very different style than most of
Madonna’s music. Nonetheless, I listened to the songs “Survival”, “Secret”,
“Don’t Stop”, and “Take A Bow” quite often during the Fall of ’94. Though most
of them I listened to for enjoyment, “Survival” was probably the only song that
perfectly described the experiences I was going through and the way I wanted to
respond to some of the harsh treatment I was getting. “I’ll never be an angel,
I’ll never be a saint, it’s true. I’m too busy surviving. Whether it’s Heaven
or Hell, I’m gonna be livin’ to tell.”
On
January 20th, 1995, I remember coming out of school having an urge
to go out and have fun and party with my friends. The problem was that I didn’t
have any friends to party with, and the only fun I could have in my area was
going to the movies. Instead, I had a rockin’ time going to the video store.
Though
initially it seemed depressing to spend my Friday night at home watching videos
by myself, the videos I rented would go on to provide an escape from the harsh
realities of the 7th grade for many more Friday nights to come. That
night I rented a video of the Madonna tour The
Girlie Show and the film Fast Times
at Ridgemont High. Watching The
Girlie Show, I felt like I was at the party I had dreamed about when
walking out of school that day. Madonna’s performance was so care-free and
uninhibited, and it seemed like she was speaking directly to me as well as to
all of the other lonely souls waiting for their chance to be in the spotlight.
Watching “Fast Times”, I saw onscreen everything that I had expected junior
high and high school to be. Many of my cousins, whom I am very close to, had
gone to high school during the mid to late 1980s, and so the teen culture of
that period was what I assumed being a teenager was all about. But it couldn’t
have been any more different from what I expected when I got to junior high.
But with this film, I felt like I could completely escape. Over and over again
I would watch the film, becoming completely immersed with the characters’
stories every single time.
On
April 9th, 1995, my pet rat, Shiner, died unexpectedly. He had been
with us for just under two years, which was a little bit less than the average
life span of a domestic rat. I went to feed him, and noticed that he wasn’t
moving. I tried not to panic, and petted him and said his name. Suddenly he
jerked back violently, and then he lay limp on his back. His feet looked cut,
and his nose looked like it had been bleeding. He was breathing very slowly and
his breaths were far apart. I comforted him for a while, knowing that this was
likely the end, before taking him to the vet’s, where I found out it was. His
death continues to haunt and sadden me for it was, fortunately, one of the few
deaths of a loved one which I had to experience in life, and because it was so
unexpected and ultimately unexplained. That night, after he had died at the
vet’s, I still had homework to finish. I remember being so furious, because it
was as if I couldn’t mourn because I had work to do. It was at this point that
I found myself beginning to hate Masco. All the feelings I had felt immediately
after Shiner’s death had shattered the lid on the feelings that had welled up
over a seven month period at Masco, and I wanted something towards which I
could direct these feelings of anger, sadness, and frustration. Through there
are still many reasons for which I find myself angry at the school, I think I
wanted a place to direct my anger towards, and so I just blamed the school in
general.
After
a long, tumultuous year, the 7th grade was finally over. My memories
of it are dark and shady. Everything about the grade seems “untraceable”,
because I have unconsciously blocked it out of my mind since I have been there.
I never wanted to even hear the word “Masco” or talk about anything school-related
during the summer. But during the last few weeks of summer the prospect of
throwing myself back to the wolves scared me to death, and at the last minute I
attempted to transfer to a new school. The transfer didn’t work out, and so I
went back to Masco. Fortunately the 8th grade was not nearly as bad
as the 7th, but it was still a very unhappy, lonely time in my life.
All
in all, those were the two worst years of my life. Still, I feel they
strengthened me and opened my eyes to a world that wasn’t as kind and caring as
I had thought it would be. I would never want to repeat that period of my life
again, but knowing that I can’t turn back the clock, I think that those two
years were something that I needed to go through to make the transition from
childhood to adulthood.
