Thursday, February 20, 2025

Hisayasu Satō | 狩人たちの触覚 (Hunters’ Sense of Touch) / 1995

troubling sexual desires

by Douglas Messerli

 

Akio Nanki (screenplay), Hisayasu Satō (director) 狩人たちの触覚 (Hunters’ Sense of Touch) / 1995

 

My difficulties with this pinku eiga-like film of 1995 are related to the same problems that I have with William Friedkin’s 1980 rather homophobic conflating of the hunter and hunted (cop and killer) in his film Cruising.


      First of all, I’m not into S&M and bondage, but the presumption that such behavior inevitably leads to murder, castration, and other horrific behavioral patterns is what I can only describe as disgusting. I know that for outsiders such associations must be the first thing that crosses their minds; after all, Jean-Paul Marat’s own writings seem to confirm this. Blood, bodily harm and denigration seem to be at the center of S&M activities. The great poet Guillaume Apollinaire spent a lot of energy on writing deeply compelling tales of the worst kind of sexual horrors imaginable just to bring in some money from a rich sadist.  It is, at least on the surface, what bondage and hard sex appears to be all about: a kind of joy in the sexualized destruction of those themselves suffering sexual self-hatred.

      In this case, Detective Yamada (Naoto Yoshimoto) has been put of the case of the brutal murders of gay men that we quickly perceive are the actions of Ishikawa (Yōji Tanaka), Yamada’s ex-lover of 10 years before.



      The film, accordingly, is not a true detective story in the traditional sense of that word, but a long sensual depiction of their bondage-laden love affair, revealed over the remarkably erotic images that Satō presents us throughout this film.

     Since many of those delights lie outside my own pleasures, I would refer the reader to Perry Ruhland’s quite insightful essay existing on-line at the site, Medium, in an essay titled: “Go Back to the Real You,” which I’ll quote at length:

     

“While most of Satō’s films were made for a heterosexual audience, Hunters’ Sense of Touch is one of Satō’s few films made for the gay pinku production house ENK, and as such, is one of his only examples of out-and-out gay pornography. As a gay man, I may be biased, but I’ve found that Satō’s gay films are consistently his best work. They’re clearly made by a heterosexual director picking up a check, and while he does have an uncanny knack for staging genuine gay eroticism (sex scenes in Hunters’ Sense of Touch, Muscle, and Bondage Ecstasy are among the most erotic things I’ve seen in a movie), he films them at a cold remove, a far cry from the leering camera seen in many of his heterosexual pink films.

     Ironically, it’s this very remove that make his gay films such effective examinations of sexual isolation and need, depicting deeply repressed men drifting from one sexual encounter to another, occasionally finding themselves entangled in bursts of horrific violence.

       In the case of Hunters’ Sense of Touch, the repressed man is masochistic private detective Yamada, and the horrific violence is a string of brutal murders and castrations of submissive gay men. The plot superficially echoes that of William Friedkin’s paranoid homophobic masterpiece Cruising, but while Friedkin’s film is interested in an almost anthropological examination of New York’s leather underground, Hunters’ Sense of Touch is entirely focused on Yamada’s sexual isolation. Thus, no time is wasted in revealing the killer to be none other than the handsome Ishikawa, Yamada’s sadistic ex whose rough touch has occupied his fantasies for the past ten years.

      The narrative amounts to little more than an ambient drone, wherein sleepy investigation and interrogations flow seamlessly into extended sexual liaisons, murder set pieces, and characters’ sudden development of telepathic powers in tandem with their own sexual self-discovery. It’s easy to get caught up on the superficial thinness of the narrative, but to do so would be to miss the point entirely. The inexplicable intrusion of the supernatural into the plot — relayed in a mixture of formally audacious psychedelic sequences and VHS recorded monologues ala Videodrome — serves as the most straightforward example of the film instructing the audience to set aside narrative cohesion and accept the mechanics of the film’s oneiric story as just another texture, no more or less essential to the hypersexed atmosphere as the fuzz of the shot-on-video cinematography or the pink lights dancing across the actors’ eyes.”


      If you leave your prejudices at the door, and perceive Detective Yamada’s and Ishikawa’s former relationship as an agreed upon sexual outlet for their tortured view of their own desires, you might witness this work as an absolutely stunning presentation of troubled sexual longings of the kind intimated in the works of the lesbian vampire movies by Jesús Franco, Harry Kümel, and Walerian Borowczyk or the sublimated gay westerns of the 1970s such as Alberto Mariscal They Call Him Marcado, or, of course, two decades earlier, of Jean Genet; this work, accordingly, is utterly fascinating for what it shows us. Even composer Richard Wagner knew that dying for love could be very sexy.

 

Los Angeles, February 20, 2025

Reprinted from My Queer Cinema blog (February 2025).

 

 

Paul Hasick | Not Alone: A Hallowe’en Romance / 1995

the real thing

by Douglas Messerli

 

Paul Hasick (screenwriter and director) Not Alone: A Hallowe’en Romance / 1995

 

Canadian director Paul Hasick’s 1995, 26-minute short Not Alone: A Hallowe’en Romance engages us in a slightly misleading manner. Given the film’s titular hint that the subject of film has something to do with the day of ghouls and goblins, along with the fascination the leading male, Scott (Michael Donald) has for pumpkins and an odd introductory scene in which he is lying in bed alone when suddenly we hear an invisible voice asking whether he wants some mushroom soup, a bowl of which suddenly appears on the stairway newel post, we are led to suspect that Scott’s gay nighttime visitor may not be the “real thing.”


      Scott, who works as a hospital lab technician now working on urination samples but hoping that he can eventually be involved with AIDS testing, lives with a lesbian roommate, Gwen (Elizabeth Foulds), who’s a painter. And the next morning when the two finally join up to discuss their daily schedules which include plans to attend a protest march for gay bashing that evening, she describes the woman whom with she slept the previous night, but notes that she hadn’t heard Scott bring back the boy with whom he’s apparently had sex, a fact she intuits by his sudden determination, among his daily duties, to take his sheets to the local laundromat.

      Indeed Scott refuses to say much about his late-night date except to recount the mushroom soup event, which occurred evidently after their “perfect” sexual encounter, the stranger’s immediately-after-sex comment cited as a reason why he won’t being seeing his beautiful visitor again. 



       Gwen hints, however, that his reaction is typical. Every male he finds truly attractive immediately becomes further evidence of why he cannot find the someone he is looking for in his search for a long-term relationship. One might suggest that Scott has serious problems with his self-esteem, since he is also quite attractive in a “Teddy-bearish” kind of way. And Gwen hints that his problem in not finding the man of his dreams is because every time such a man shows up he appears to him to be unattainable.

      But clearly Scott’s night-visitor, real or imagined, has become a kind of obsession, as soon after, in brief glimpses we see the stunningly beautiful “ghost” completely naked. At another point we watch the couple engaging in sex, noting the night time visitor’s tattoos which from time to time appears upon the palm of Scott’s hand—another reason we begin to suspect that this “perfect” sex partner was a holiday hallucination.

       As the roommates, Gwen and Scott take to the Toronto streets, stopping for a moment by the famed This Ain’t the Rosedale Library bookstore at its then-location in the Church and Wellesley LGBTQ neighborhood before they reach the laundromat, Gwen posts another of her designed posters for that evening’s event at the bookstore, as they also note a message of hate to “fags” scrawled on a nearby wall.   




     Along their route we gather threads of information about each of them, in particular about how Gwen quite openly seeks out regular sexual partners, while Scott always finds a reason to come home alone or, as we have suggested, can’t believe anyone who might join him for sex could be interested in serious relationship.

       We also witness a phone message conversation in which Scott’s mysterious man of the previous night, Greg (Giovanni Smaldino) so enjoyed the experience that he wonders if he might meet with him again that evening, Scott having told him that he had to work during the day—yet another of Scott’s dodges from the “perfect” men of his life.

       At least now we have the reality of the beauty from the night before confirmed, or do we? In the grocery store Scott becomes so completely enticed by a small-sized pumpkin, literally stroking it’s plump belly and its erect “hat,” which along with a splice in the film of someone feasting on several gourds like Bacchus, we again wonder whether or not the voice of Greg is real or not.


     His non-existence seems to be confirmed when Scott returns home to find Gwen painting, with no suggestion that he’s had a telephone message. He excuses himself to shower, while Gwen begins the meal, the viewers noting that he has indeed purchased the small pumpkin by which he had been so enticed.

       He returns downstairs to find the movie that he planned for after dinner, Pillow Talk, already playing and, more importantly, that they have a guest for dinner, Greg. Gwen has, apparently, intercepted the message, called him back, and invited Scott’s sex partner over for the evening. If at first Scott is totally annoyed by the now very real-life being reentering his everyday reality, as he begins to observe Greg’s demeanor—his seemingly real interest in Scott’s career, his acceptance of him even when he admits that he’s lied about having to work, and finally, when he discovers that Greg also been one of the few attendees at last year’s Hallowe’en evening march—Scott falls in love with the guest of last evening all over again. The romance of the evening, we can now be assured, will not all be a ghostly affair but a night made up of very real flesh and bones.



      As the trio leaves to join others in the anti-hate protest, we observe Gwen grabbing up a carton of eggs, just in case she needs help in responding to the expected bashers. But we recognize her more for being the necessary medium for love. As the characters in Richard Quine’s 1958 romantic fantasy Bell, Book, and Candle about the whirlwind relationship between a witch and regular human being, perhaps love has always something to do with magic.

      Certainly it’s a far better philosophy than what Rock Hudson’s character expressed  presumably about heterosexual relationships in the 1959 film Pillow Talk, which serves as this film’s introductory epigram: “Why does any man destroy himself. Because he thinks he’s getting married!” Finding Greg, Scott seems to discover that he no longer needs to become a ghost to find lasting love.

 

Los Angeles, April 11, 2022

Reprinted from World Cinema Review (April 2022).

Todd Haynes | Safe / 1995

in harm’s way

by Douglas Messerli

 

Todd Haynes (screenwriter and director) Safe / 1995

 

After finishing his highly sophisticated and experimental gay work Poison, director Todd Haynes took on a rather odd subject for him in his 1995 Safe, in which actor Julianne Moore first was given to the chance to perform one of her trapped and put-upon housewives. In this case, Moore as Carol White seems to be a perfectly happy well-to-do suburban housewife who is far more interested in the color of her couch than in the well-being of her own life.


    Her friends are as superficial as she is, gossiping about the newest diets and attempting to flaunt what little power they have by convincing their fellow women friends to join them in their newest hobbies.

     But out of nowhere something begins to happen to Carol, little by little, that seems to suggest that she is terribly hypo-allergic to the very environment in which she inhabits. A trip to a shopping mall during which she is trapped in traffic behind a pollution belching vehicle ends in a serious coughing fit. She begins to have headaches, feels continual weakness, has difficulty catching her breath.

     In 1995 the signs were also very much those of thousands of young men and some women who had come down with AIDS. But in Carol’s case it seems to be related to the environment, a sickness that, not so very different from AIDS, doctors have not yet fully come to comprehend.


     At a baby shower she suddenly has difficulty in breathing; getting her hair permed, she suffers an intense nosebleed. And as she begins to explore the chemicals which unknowingly surround her, it becomes clearer to her that the world in which she lives is out to destroy her. In a dry cleaner being fumigated with pesticides, she has a complete physical breakdown.

     Doctors can find nothing wrong with her and suggest psychotherapy. But things seem only to get worse.

      Although AIDS might be Haynes’ metaphor, it is also apparent that her caring and rather kind yet highly competitive, conservative husband, Greg (Xander Berkeley) may be one of the most serious of her allergens. If nothing else, it is hardly a metaphor to say that she is allergic to her current life.

      One doctor attempts to track down her allergies, tracing some of them to a diet she has been exploring with one of her friends. But none of the specialists, mostly male doctors, can find any “real” cause and seem to suggest to Greg—speaking to him, while seeming to ignore her existence in the same room—that her problem is mostly psychological.


      Her “friends” gradually exclude her, and Greg and her their son Rory begin to work around her increasing inability to take part in their lives, further closing her off. Reading material on her own, and taking a lead from one advertised program, Carol gradually perceives that she is no longer able to function in her current life, and seeks out the help of a new-age desert community for people with just such environmental illnesses, Wrenwood.

      There is meets up with a seemingly intelligent and gentle devotee who attempts to put her mind at ease, while introducing her to the community as well as subtly intruding upon her privacy, hinting at possibly guiding her into lesbian sexuality.


      The head of Wrenwood, Peter Dunning (Peter Friedman), who is openly gay—a purposeful attempt on Haynes’ part to help his primarily gay audiences to find Peter, at first, to be sympathetic—initially sounds quite sane and helpful. And indeed, the community outwardly appears to be one of great eccentricity and openness. But gradually, after hearing a few of Dunning’s lectures, himself evidently suffering from AIDS but believing that good thoughts can heal it, we can begin to perceive the cult-like qualities of Wrenwood and its followers, a kind of self-help fascism that may be worse than those who pretend that such diseases do not even exist. And even here, isolated from the chemical world in which she previously lived—one member of the community would not even allow the taxi in which Carol arrived to enter the confines of the camp—Carol still discovers new lesions appearing on her face. Ultimately, she separates herself even further by moving into an igloo, especially built for one hyper-sensitive individual who has recently died.

      A visit from her husband and son puts everything in even clearer perspective as she casually points out a mansion rising from the hills behind Wrenwood where Dunning lives. And it is evident from that visit that Carol will not be returning to family life any time soon.


      In the final scenes, she has taken the advice of her female friend, repeating over and over to herself in the mirror, “I love you. I really love you.”

      There is no “end” to this movie, no answers provided; and many of his audiences have been confused and unsure of how to define the heroine’s illness, or even if there is a true illness other than a psychological one.

     As Julie Grossman has argued in her essay “The Trouble with Carol,” (Other Voices: A Journal of Cultural Criticism, January 2005) Carol as a victim of male-dominated society is able to take charge of her life somewhat in the manner of Chantal Ackerman’s 1975 film Jeanne Dielman, 23, quai du Commerce, 1080 Bruxelles—a work Haynes has acknowledged he had in mind in creating Safe—in the end she merely replaces the standard heteronormative world with the equally debilitating self-help culture which demands that the patient see him or herself as the cause and cure of all illnesses.


      Grossman finds few good signs in the ending of this film, despite the patient’s attempts at self-love. And in his essay of 2014 “Safe: Nowhere to Hide” critic Dennis Lim goes even further in describing the perniciousness of such ideas as preached by the character of Peter Dunning 

     

“As a ‘chemically sensitive person with AIDS,’ Peter has an ‘incredibly vast” perspective, one of his acolytes tells Carol. Where the doctors questioned the existence of her sickness, Wrenwood affirms it and, in so doing, validates her. But it also instills a poisonously mixed message: even if the chemicals are making her sick, the cause lies within. The cure is a regimen of self-improvement that sounds an awful lot like self-blame. ‘The only person who can make you sick is you,’ Peter tells his charges, more or less quoting from The AIDS Book: Creating a Positive Approach, one of several best sellers by New Age empress Louise Hay, who made a fortune in the eighties and nineties stumping for positive thinking as a miracle panacea.”

 

     It appears what we have to recognize at the film’s end is that Carol is perhaps quite ill, but as long as there is no open perspective in which to truly and fully explore her disease (perhaps both physical and psychological) there will be no recognition that there is such a problem or even a search for a possible cure. Much like AIDS, which took several decades for doctors and scientists even to recognize it as a true disease from which not only gay men were suffering before they truly began to seek out and find possible alleviations. There is still no cure from AIDS, no cure for those with sensitive systems triggered by our polluted environments. The new “disease” of our age, not first attacking individuals but the entire planet, the warming of our earth, has still to be recognized as even existing among numerous world leaders and politicians, and will surely eventually kill off millions around the world as others repeat their mantras of everything being a disease of the mind, offer up other simple cure-alls, or simply try to ignore it.

     As Haynes makes clear, there is no safety in a world of ignorance and pretense.

 

Los Angeles, September 10, 2023

Reprinted from World Cinema Review (September 2023).

Tuesday, February 18, 2025

Wrik Mead | Closet Case / 1995

escaping bondage

by Douglas Messerli

 

Wrik Mead (screenwriter and director) Closet Case / 1995

 

In his 1995 three-minute film Closet Case, Canadian filmmaker Wrik Mead literalizes a gay man, who after hiding his sexuality for however long, finally begins to escape and expose himself to the world.      



     We first see the figure lying on the floor straight-jacketed and bound, barely able to move. Gradually, however, he (or even “it” as far as we know) somehow begins to undo the lower half of the torso, usually the first part of the body which actually does reveal its true inclinations given that it contains the sexual organs of all individuals. Finally the figure strips away all bindings below the belt, so to speak, standing naked, with arms and chest still strapped and bound, a complete covering over the head hiding its identity.


      Gradually, but still struggling, he (since we have seen his penis we can now assume the figure is male) pulls away the bandages of his bondage—and indeed the entire nature of his original state might be compared to a sadomasochistic drama—until we can finally also glimpse his rather thin hairless chest (suggesting he may be younger than we first thought). And finally, with freed hands, he can now pull off his head covering, at the last few moments of the film revealing himself to be a rather handsome young man (David Archer), presumably now ready to face the world if not the camera lens, which having captured his struggle to free himself from bondage, is now suddenly closed.



      Obviously, Mead’s literal rendering of the process is comic, but at the same time it turns what is usually presented as a psychological battle—wherein the individual, after a long series of contradictory actions, admits to the reality of his own sexuality to family, friends, or lover—into a truly physical struggle, helping us to truly realize just how seriously perverted the restraints put upon the closeted man were, how they have hidden his beauty behind what appears to be a version of total madness.

      In a matter of three minutes, accordingly, Mead retells the “coming out” story which commonly in real time takes months or years to perform and in cinematic tellings generally lasts from twenty minutes in a work such as Kenneth Anger’s Fireworks (1947) to something close to two hours in films like Get Real and Edge of Seventeen (both 1998), and even several years in series such as the “Will Lexington” episodes from television’s Nashville (2012-2019).

 

Los Angeles, January 23, 2022

Reprinted from World Cinema Review (January 2022).

 

Herbert Ross | Boys on the Side / 1995

you got it!

by Douglas Messerli

 

Don Roos (screenplay), Herbert Ross (director) Boys on the Side / 1995

 

Last evening, after watching for the first time Herbert Ross’ 1995 film Boys on the Side, I was pondering just why I so enjoyed this film. This was Ross’ last film in a career that certainly did not distinguish him as a major director, and I actively disliked his films California Suite, Nijinksy, and Funny Lady; and even though I found his Funny Girl, The Goodbye Girl, Pennies from Heaven, and Steel Magnolias pleasant viewing, it was mostly the acting that had made those films memorable. That might have been case with this road film, given that unlike Thelma and Louise, with which this work has many links and even obliquely refers to, it has none of cinematic zest of Ridley Scott’s work and is satisfied with representing the vast American landscape—which might have been used as an important statement about the values of the culture at large as opposed to those of its characters—with brightly lit signs of Shakey’s, Wendy’s, Dunkin Donuts, and other popular chains along with a few glimpses of bleak-and-blink wintery towns en route to Tucson, where they eventually wind up.

 

    Ross, moreover, has a manner of rendering each of his scenes as if it were part of a stage play, bringing out the actors who engage in a heated dialogue before slowly closing everything down to a resolve and blackout. Sometimes it works, but mostly it barricades the overall action of cinematic narrative, forcing us to start all over again.

     And even though I’d argue that Whoopi Goldberg as the film’s central figure, Jane DeLuca, is a magnificent actor, terribly underrated in the several films in which she’s performed, her role here, as almost always, is that of the loving cynic which for most American audiences doesn’t make her terribly likeable—but of course it is the very reason that those of us who her admire her feel she’s a necessary tonic to people like this film’s White Anglo Protestant admirer of the musical group The Carpenters, Robin Nickerson (Mary-Louis Parker) who hasn’t yet found a word as an adult woman dying of AIDS to describe her vagina. Drew Barrymore represents her character Holly Pulchik mostly as a giggling, daffy, and not very bright nymphomaniac who is brought under control only through the law-abiding romantic attentions of the policeman Abe Lincoln (Matthew McConaughey), he perhaps the truly most interesting figure in the entire film (but I’ll come back to that latter.) So one can’t even argue, sanely, that it’s Ross’ brilliant actors who save the day.

       In the end, I guess I’d have say what made to me so love this little film was the way writer Dan Roos represented moral values, in a manner that strangely reminds me how John Waters captured a true vision of a caring and loving family in his absolutely irreligious, sexually twisted tale Pecker (1998). In fact Roos takes his film from three years earlier into even more seemingly perverted territory, asking how might a forlorn lesbian who’s just lost her lover and job, a lost and confused nice girl who has discovered that her bartender lover has quite literally “left” her with AIDS, and a young ditz involved in an abusive relationship with a drug dealer who, mostly to protect herself, she plunks with a baseball bat which kills him, all come together, on the run, to represent what true love and family are all about. They are surely better than any family ever concocted in some contorted picture created and promoted to rhyme with the American Dream, apple pie, and the average Joe by those folks so many Americans hold so dear, Norman Rockwell, John Wayne, or Walt Disney.

      But I well know that all of us who share such odd views realize having such opinions will not make us popular in this ole USA today. I’d never visited nor even known of the Christian film site Movieguide, but strangely ran upon it this morning while researching reviews of this movie. It described it actually quite accurately, while obviously drawing quite opposing conclusions:

 

 “Manipulation abounds in Boys on the Side, which director Herbert Ross calls ‘a film about the creation, evolution and resolution of a family unit.’ On the contrary, this movie is nothing more than an audacious attempt at redefining the traditional family. The script even goes so far as to define one’s family as whomever one ends up with in life, regardless of race, creed, sexual preference, personal taste, or criminal record — sort of a ‘last man standing’ approach. Reasonably well acted (with the exception of Drew Barrymore) but filled with blistering obscenities and sexual immorality, Boys on the Side strongly supports homosexuality as a viable lifestyle, viewed as negative only by unreasonably biased and bigoted homophobes. The movie offers no hope for redemption and only brief solace in crisis, substituting politically correct precepts on social behavior in the place of true ‘family’ values.”

 

      And indeed, this film is very much about manipulation, although I am not sure to what or to whom the Christian critic meant that word to refer. The film does represent a great many forms of manipulation. Holly’s drug-dealing lover goes so far as to beat her up in order to keep her serving him by his side.

      It’s likely that Robin’s bartender lover was playing the field, maybe even bisexually, in not telling her the truth about his health. The film makes no reference to this, but it’s clear through the woman’s fear of the male species, exemplified by her attraction to and yet repulsion of a later admirer, Alex (James Remar)—incidentally, also a bartender—as well as her growing curiosity about the lesbian life that Jane leads, that she has been hurt not just by the disease that her bartender has passed on to her, but his utter betrayal of her sexual trust.


     Jane, in turn, herself has apparently been manipulated by her lesbian ex-lover into believing that their relationship was a thing of permanence. And the entire system in which she works and lives, from the small bars in which she performs her music to the larger American heterosexually normative environment that surrounds, works to make her as a gay black woman feel as an outsider, unworthy of even being heard let alone being believed, realties that are later played out in the courtroom scenes regarding Holly’s unintentional murder of her abusive mate, which uses even Jane’s friendship with Holly as further evidence of Holly’s unconditionally evil behavior and guilt.

      When we finally meet Robin’s mother—although we gradually grow to like her and realize that she too has been changed as a result of how society has treated women—we also recognize that as a mother of the young Robin she has been a manipulator as well.

      Even Jane, in telling Alex about Robin’s AIDS, both to encourage him to attend to her and to warn him of the dangers, is guilty of attempting to manipulate her friend’s situation, which explains and justifies Robin’s temporary breaking away from their relationship.



    But I have the feeling that our Christian commentator was not interested in those sorts of manipulations, but more in the writer’s and director’s so-called manipulation of traditional Christian visions of reality. Certainly, we must admit that Ross’ and Roos’ storytelling is manipulative. They are clearly making a case for a vision that lies outside of the traditional American story, and Ross uses his theatrical skills to make us perceive just how truly likeable, despite outward appearances, these women are. That’s the job of a good director and an intelligent storyteller. But our commentator, I suspect, sees that as being part of what he describes earlier as its “politically correct propaganda,” although I know of no political party in 1995 that might have stood behind any of the values that this movie advocates, and cannot even imagine that most university faculties of the day (or even now) might voice full support of such ideas that the film embraces. In fact, it is the values of the commentator, I might argue, that have become far more “politically correct,” at least a certain party that seeks to reduce the possibility that we might share varying views.

       But he is also right it citing that the film displays a great deal of obscenity, particularly in the way Holly’s boyfriend Nick (Billy Wirth) treats “his” woman, and obviously in the way the judicial system in this work devalues individuals like Holly and Jane. Or even in how Robin’s mother first reacts when she discovers that Jane is lesbian and has been living in the same house with her daughter. A society that permitted presidents such as Ronald Reagan and George H. W. Bush to describe AIDS as a gay disease and accordingly refuse to properly fund research to seek a cure was truly obscene and even criminal, causing the unnecessary deaths of many thousands. A world in which someone like Jane could never marry her lover should is recognized as being obscene. And all of that has led Jane to fully express her anger through her vocabulary, although the language of this film does not seem to me particularly filled with obscenities except perhaps for the scene in which Jane simply attempts to help her friend find a word to describe her vagina. But once more, I presume our Christian monitor was offended by just that and Jane’s righteous cussing.



      I must disagree, however, with our believer’s insistence that his film necessarily argues or even fully embraces homosexuality. Indeed among the three leads, only Jane is gay, and Holly—who has evidently sexually experimented with Jane in the past—warns Robin away from Jane and suggests Jane stay away from Robin. Robin is thoroughly straight, even if she gradually comes to perceive why a woman might be sexually attracted to another woman. She remains a straight woman who in contracting the dreaded AIDS gives evidence of the truth that it is not a homosexual disease. And the film’s only homosexual, at film’s end, remains the only one throughout the film without a sexual companion. Holly, Robin, and Robin’s mother all seem uncomfortable, at least at first, with Jane’s sexuality. Accordingly, I hardly would describe this film as “supporting” homosexuality, although as loving and kind individuals, they all do grow to accept Jane for who she is. But there is certainly no advocation of the gay cause nor are they or anyone else described as homophobes (even if some viewers, including me, may see them that way) by the film itself. Jane is a viable (someone capable of working successful), feasibly living human being, if that’s what our Christian means, and accordingly her sexuality is equally “viable.” I presume he and his viewers would prefer to see her to be presented as incompetent and unable even to survive, the way the court would like to portray her. But such a portrait would not be truthful to the world in which most of us live.

      But again, our nameless cinematic judge (calling himself “Frodo & Harry”) is quite correct when he or she argues that the film is “an audacious attempt at redefining the traditional family.” For the family they together create with others of their community is certainly far superior to any family life that the characters might encounter in the traditional notions of that word. We do not even know what kind of family life Jane and Holly lived before they reached adulthood, but we can imagine, given their behavior and current reactions, that it is anything but loving and caring. Gay people, often abused and totally unaccepted by their birth parents, necessarily seek family in communal forms and successfully live their quite “viable” lives in that manner. And certainly if Holly’s previous relationship might be described as “traditional” it was also destructive and ultimately deadly.

      In fact, Abe Lincoln, the policeman, although a true believer in honesty, law, and order (all purportedly strong Christian values) comes to love Holly so much that he is willing to marry her, despite the time he forces her to serve in jail for having committed “aggravated assault,” and willingly adopts her child, which turns out not even to have been Nick’s baby, but obviously a black or Hispanic man with whom she slept. Abe, it turns out, is the most loving and traditionally Christian being in the entire work, and yet he fully accepts the family community which the women have created.

     I might add, finally, that Robin’s own mother also becomes part of that wonderful familial community. So Boys on the Side has indeed presented an alternative to the traditional family that seems to me to represent everything that the traditional family seldom does: acceptance of its members, love and caring for their well-being, and, as Jane sings to Robin in the closing song of the film, several beings who are unconditionally committed to offering their loved ones what Ray Orbison promised:

 

Anything you want, you got it

Anything you need, you got it

Anything at all, you got it, baby

 

     I would suggest that we all desire just such a family, whether or not the one in this film is truly possible or simply something fondly to be desired.

 

Los Angeles, March 30, 2022

Reprinted from World Cinema Review (March 2022).

My Queer Cinema Index [with former World Cinema Review titles]

https://myqueercinema.blogspot.com/2023/12/former-index-to-world-cinema-review.html Films discussed (listed alphabetically by director) [For...