pmullinsj

The persona was always unique, but I didn't find him sexy--rather exactly the visual object he mostly saw himself as, and continually sought to create.

This was very worthwhile, though, and he was very much an interesting part of the Andy Warhol Pop period. The snippets of 'Nights in Black Leather' prove that the film work was inferior even for porno of the time. A short such as 'Chute' with Al Parker and the far more gorgeous and naturally sexy Colt model Toby (it would be interesting to know what has happened to this long-ago, never-surpassed porn icon as well; I only know he is apparently still alive, but there must be something, since such illustrious authorities as 'Smutjunkies' have decided that, if they do know anything, it's on the q.t.) was actually a nice, even poetic bit of work, and not sloppily edited like the Warhol things with Holly Woodlawn, Jackie Curtis, etc. Peter De Rome's 'Adam and Yves' was exciting when it arrived in 1974, although De Rome can be a bit corny.

I do agree with the porn spokesmen in the film that the concentration on this persona was very intense and that does make him a real artist, although quite minor. It was interesting that there was a lot of footage of him in informal appearances during the 70's. However, calling him the 'Greta Garbo of porn' is a bit much, as this film alone proves he wants some more visibility. As solipsistic as she became, her knowledge of life and art was considerably wider than his appears to be. Furthermore, his work is of interest, but not that of a cinematic genius, which hers is.

And what is interesting is that, even with this strange persona still intact, he is to me visually by now quite beautiful--there was a cheap look to the self-conscious Peter Berlin of the tight white pants; by now, the mouth has widened and is more relaxed and he is by now at last a truly beautiful man. I paid little attention to him during his heyday, when his face, in particular, looked like that of an inflatable girl dildo.

So that he and others concentrate on his look as well as his imaginative use of various forms to capture it--most fascinating perhaps was his hiring of Tom of Finland to give him even more exaggerated self-images. However, facts such as his long friendship with James, which was very touching and showed his less purely narcissistic side, and his confession that he had fornicated no one in the U.S., were quite rarefied, given his street performance.

There was interesting commentary by Jack Wrangler, who apparently also has rooms made into self-shrines but is much more the part-hetero guy his parents must surely have preferred to his burlesque 'n' porn days (even if his wife is 20 plus years older than he, himself no spring chicken, is.) The problem of this kind of neurosis, even when successful, is that there is a peculiar lack of interest in much of anything else. Anti-war comments are merely childish, but some of the family background was interesting. This kind of 'dream person', though, tells about early childhood, and there is no follow-up about any further relationships with his family, leading one to assume he left them for good, and remains intoxicated with the days when he can still walk the streets and be told he's 'cute.' He is definitely 'cute' now, and could afford to wear a lot of dressy things and be a great stylish older beauty by now, and the looser clothing he is seen in when interviewed in the film shows that his taste is still sharp. Some of us have even found it to be improved. I didn't remember until the very end of the feature that I did see him once around Christopher Street in his 'That Boy' period, which I found interesting but not alluring. He definitely had his audience, though.

Best wishes to Mr. Peter Berlin.

This has been recommended by countless people, but the story contains nothing worth making into a film. It is a sad story, full of weak people--all of them. The documentary on Brandon Teena is much more useful for something that needs facts, not romanticizing.

The main character is not even particularly sympathetic herself, and there is no way the story could have been of interest to anyone unless she had been murdered. A 'successful' Brandon Teena would not have captured people's sympathy.

The reason I find her completely unsympathetic is not because of her sexual confusion, but because it did not follow that it was okay to use dildoes on girls in actual sex, tricking them into thinking it was the usual member. In the documentary, some of these girls are so ignorant they still claim it was 'real.' Given that the whole milieu is as redneck as possible, it is (while not at all excusable even so) unsurprising that the murder would have occurred, once her identity was discovered by piglike young men.

The one possible use of this film is to make you look into the story itself, and to see this very beleaguered impoverished low-life tragedy, which perhaps one might not have done with the documentary alone. So that the semi-fiction film publicizes a story that is not worth dramatizing, but does lead some of us (who were mystified at the way it was celebrated as something important, which it certainly is not) to find the documentary and learn a bit more about these half-literate people we usually associate with the South a little more than the Midwest. Maybe it puts Nebraska on the map. Again, the story itself is very sad and moving, but it is only meaningful as a piece of filmed journalism, which the documentary provides.

It doesn't matter to me who gets Oscars, so if Hilary Swank has 2 that's fine with me, even though I thought her performance was perfectly suited to this mostly meaningless film (therefore quite like it.) The Oscars mean so little: Garbo never got one, nor did Deborah Kerr or Robert Mitchum or Marilyn Monroe (whom they never even had sense enough to nominate) and Hilary Swank got 2. Katharine Hepburn got 4, only 2 of which were truly as 'deserving,' if that word can be used for these ignominious awards, as some of her greater roles, such as 'Long Day's Journey Into Night.' That says it all to me.

I think Hilary Swank should get 5 Oscars, given how absurd they are.

This is an utter delight, although I will agree with one commenter that the choreography itself is quite pedestrian. In fact, neither of the divine sisters Deneuve and Dorleac can dance, but it is wonderful to see them together; it is heartbreaking also, as if a document of the grief that Deneuve has always clearly suffered since: their fondness for each other, given the tragic event to come, is one of the most bittersweet real things about the film.

On the other hand...Chakiris and Grover Dale CAN definitely dance, and they can make even the repetitive choreography work. They aren't brothers, but there's one scene in which they sing of their rejection by girls which, as it ends, seems to indicate that they were probably not exactly hostile toward each other...and who can blame them? With the gorgeous sisters, they are a mirroring beauty contest, and Chakiris is stunningly hot here, whether dancing or not. Their costumes were unashamedly and sublimely sexy, with those funny neckties; and when I first went to France in 1970, their were two brothers in Fontainebleau who dressed very much like this--and these are the only two times I ever saw such clothing with this touch of ballet to it. I definitely think they were imitating Chakiris and Dale, just a couple of years later for a little provincial town not far from Paris is not too long...Even Gene Kelly, who looks remarkably youthful and whose presence is as welcome(and slightly out of place in a very nice way) as always, wears white pants, a pink shirt, and a lavender jacket--all of it a natural sensuality that almost evokes the 18th century.

I will admit that the sadist's murder is not handled with any grace. Everyone reverts to cheer immediately after any mention of it, and this is just silly. It should either have not even been part of the story, or there should have been an appropriate gravity given it: That shouldn't have been too difficult; as it was, such things as Maxence and Yvonne joking about 'immi-Nantes' immediately after talking about the newspaper report were idiotic--it takes the rococo attitude way too far, and merely makes the charming Rochefort provincials seem unfeeling and cardboard. This is the film's one serious flaw, which other mediocre aspects, e.g., preposterous amounts of street dancing of the same lame sort and to no purpose, are not, since it just seems all rather good-hearted even though superfluous.

Legrand's music is often like this, pretty and serviceable, just as it was in 'Parapluies' and later in 'Yentl.' I think one of the most magical things is the way all the lovers are finally matched up except for Delphine and Maxence. Maxence hitches a ride in the 'caravan' to Paris, and we know that Perri and Deneuve will find each other there; but in a film that has not relied too much on subtlety, this ending up in the air with something implied, however obviously, is delicious and unexpected.