Call Me by Your Name: Better Than Porn?

Call Me By Your Name, the new cinematic gay love story by director Luca Guadagnino, belongs to a genre that might be called “European vacation porn.” This is a genre where some character is lucky enough to have a summer home or hideaway in some exotic European location (in this case northern Italy) and it includes Guadagnino’s previous film, A Bigger Splash, as well as the underrated Brad Pitt/Angelina Jolie travelogue By the Sea (which now reads like a documentary about their divorce), both of which were filmed in locations so exotic, I don’t even know where they are. (See also: Nancy Meyers/real estate porn.)

It may also be the beginning of another genre: a gay love story where neither character is murdered at the end (Brokeback Mountain) or commits suicide (virtually every gay film before Brokeback Mountain). There is a plot twist at the end, which I won’t reveal here, but it’s not fatal.

There was some controversy before this movie came out about the difference in age between the two characters (17 and 24 in the book upon which the movie is based and played by Timothée Chalamet and Armie Hammer—who is closer to 30—in the movie), but to me the bigger source of controversy is the idea that a Greek god like Hammer would be attracted to what could most charitably described as the “gay nerd” played by Chalamet. Maybe it’s because, to crib a line from Little Britain, they’re the only gays in the village. (I could write a separate essay on Hammer’s beauty—the square chin, the Robert Redford-thick blond hair, but I digress).

It’s a testament to Chalamet’s and Hammer’s acting ability that they make this work. It also helps that Chalamet’s character is so young and horny, he’s apparently attracted to women, as well (and women are also drawn to both characters—no need to explain in Hammer’s case).

The high point of this movie for me was when Hammer and Chalamet wander into an outdoor party and the DJ plays The Psychedelic Furs’ “Love My Way.” I’ve always loved this song, far and away the Furs’ best (any one of whose parts—xylophone, keyboard, drums, vocal—are among the best examples of those parts ever recorded), but when this song came over the movie theater’s speakers, my head damn near exploded! When I came home, I not only played this song about a hundred times in a row, it sent me into an ’80s music K-hole!

Guadagnino pulled off a similar feat in Splash, when Ray Fiennes played the Rolling Stones’ “Emotional Rescue.” It wasn’t just the music, it was the characters’ sheer joy (Fiennes in Splash, Hammer and Chalamet in Name) in dancing to it. Clearly, Guadagnino is a director who understands the power of a song to lift a movie into the stratosphere.

With Name and Splash, Guadagnino catapults into the front ranks of movie directors (and, parenthetically, the Psychedelic Furs leap into the pantheon of great rock bands).

Nevertheless, the movie winds up being somehow less than the sum of its parts. My expectations were impossibly high after Splash and, given the level of talent involved—in addition to Guadagnino, there's screenwriter James Ivory (Maurice)—I don’t know what I was expecting.

But the great thing about this movie—what makes it better than porn—is that by not being graphic, it forces your imagination to do the extra work and, therefore, remains in your mind much longer.

Unfortunately, no matter how many times I played “Love My Way,” I still couldn’t get Armie Hammer to magically appear in my apartment.

Born to Write

I just finished reading Bruce Springsteen's autobiography, Born to Run. I thought it was fascinating and really well-written--and I'm not even a fan (although I've always respected him and his work).

I'm always fascinated by the stories of creative people, especially those who are self-taught. (Bob Dylan and Keith Richards also fall into this category, and I've read their autobiographies, as well.)

Springsteen's description of his father was particularly haunting because he reminded me so much of my own: distant, drinking, sitting silently at the kitchen table.

Springsteen also talks about his battle with depression, and this is both frightening and humbling.

There are many great road stories along the way. One that particularly stands out is his first trip to California. Because there wasn't enough room in his truck, he was forced to travel with another member of his band locked in a storage box on the truck’s flatbed, with only a bottle to urinate in between them. The claustrophobia alone would have killed me, but they were going over the Rocky Mountains! (It's amazing how much you can endure in your late teens/early twenties!)

If you can't afford to see Bruce on Broadway, this might be the next best thing.

That and listening to his music, of course.

Nostalgia of Mudd

My memories of the Mudd Club (which I apparently didn’t start frequenting until after it was no longer cool) are as follows: 1. The bartender refusing to wait on me because I was so young and naïve, I didn’t know you were supposed to tip him. 2. Peering over the DJ booth to find out who was singing what I thought was one of the greatest pop songs I’d ever heard. (It was the Go-Go’s singing “Our Lips Are Sealed.”) 3. Entering a DJ contest whose winner was—to my knowledge--never announced. (I figured they were just trying to fill the dj slot for the night.) 4. Seeing Men Without Hats before “Safety Dance” became a huge international hit. (I also saw the Bush Tetras there, when their “Too Many Creeps” was big in the clubs.)

Richard Boch remembers considerably more, which is quite remarkable considering the amount of drugs he consumed.

His great new book, The Mudd Club, is both a celebration and an elegy. It takes us back to a time before cell phones and the Internet, when you could still rent a Tribeca loft for a few hundred dollars, and when lower Broadway was a deserted no man’s land rather the pedestrian-clogged shopping mall it is today.

As Boch himself is the first to admit, he just happened to be in the right place at the right time. A friend of his who worked at the Soho Weekly News referred him to Mudd Club owner Steve Mass because she said he “knew everyone.”

And while being a doorman might seem like a stultifyingly boring job (or premise for a book), Boch points out that being the doorman at the Mudd Club gave him the opportunity to meet some of the most interesting people in New York.

One of the amazing things about this book is the sheer level of detail in Boch’s recollections. You have to wonder, “Did he keep a diary?” If you’ve never been to the Mudd Club—or even if you have—this book will give you the sensation that, as the old TV show used to say, “you are there.”

What made the Mudd Club special was the sense that anything could happen there. You could see the Psychedelic Furs, Talking Heads, or B-52s there one night and some obscure local performance artist the next, to say nothing of the various theme parties that took place. (“Soul Night” and “Rock ’n’ Roll Funeral” are just two stand-outs described in this book.)

To read this book is to realize just how far New York (and by New York, I mean  Manhattan) has fallen from its creative peak.

The Mudd Club adds to an important body of work (including such books as Tim Lawrence’s Life and Death on the New York Dance Floor, Martin Belk’s Dirty, Broken Punks and, dare I say, my own New York Trilogy) documenting New York’s club scene in the late ’70s, ’80s and ’90s—a unique period that will never happen again.

Welcome to the club, Richard.

Why I Hate Summer Streets

I’m reading a book right now called Vanishing New York by Jeremiah Moss. It talks about how Naomi Klein’s “shock doctrine” was applied to New York City. The shock doctrine is when a disaster (either natural or man-made) is used to effect large-scale economic transformation. In New York, this was done through eminent domain. Large swaths of the city (Times Square, the area around the High Line, Hudson Yards) were declared “blight” and people were forced to move out of their homes and businesses.

A similar phenomenon is happening with Summer Streets. That’s the phenomenon of large swaths of the city being, essentially, sold to large corporations for the purposes of corporate branding. We already have Citibikes, perhaps the largest corporate branding effort this city has ever seen. Summer Streets takes this to another level by closing down a large section of the city, ostensibly so people can ride bicycles and engage in other activities without the presence of vehicular traffic but, all along the way, there are booths sponsored by various companies (Crunch gym, REI sporting goods, etc.) that are there to sell you something.

The other thing about Summer Streets that gets on my nerves is part of a larger phenomenon that’s happening in society in general. In today’s world of social media and reality TV, no one just does anything anymore. It’s not sufficient to just do anything anymore. One must be seen doing it.

Thus, it’s not enough for Summer Streets to just have thousands of New Yorkers riding their bikes down Park Avenue. (I would have no problem with that.) They must be seen riding their bikes down Park Avenue. Therefore, there are “volunteers” positioned at various points to cheer them on and the bikers themselves need to “woohoo,” high-five each other and take selfies along the way. (If a tree falls in a forest and it didn’t take a selfie, did it really fall?)

Summer Streets was here.

My street, in particular (I won’t divulge its name), has become Ground Zero for every psycho with a crackpot idea. So, for Summer Streets, I’ve had a rock climbing wall outside my bedroom window that was so close I could touch it. I also had a slide that was about two stories tall, and exercises classes conducted in front of my building complete with those annoying “instructors” (whose screeching I can’t tolerate even when it takes place inside a gym) and loudspeakers blaring some godawful “music” so that people in New Jersey can hear that there are people on my street exercising.

As with eminent domain, no one in my neighborhood was consulted about whether or not they actually wanted this on their street. It was just presented as a fait accompli. One day, several years ago, I woke up and there was a rock climbing wall outside my bedroom window. (They actually start setting up around 1am, so I get no sleep the night before, as well.)

I don’t care what anyone does as long as I don’t hear it. But in today’s selfie-obsessed world, where people miss entire rock concerts because they’re too busy filming them, that is no longer possible.

Summer Streets is the shock doctrine of public recreation. You may not want to participate in it yourself but, goddamnit, you’re going to watch other people participate and you’re going to like it!

Lining Up to Be Stupid

Yesterday I was awakened by the sound of screaming coming from outside my building. It sounded like either a rock concert or a mass shooting, so I looked out my window, but I couldn’t see anything. When I left my building to buy a newspaper, my path was blocked by a line of people, mostly teenagers and children, some with their parents. I asked them what was going on and some teenage girl helpfully told me, “Logan Paul.” “I have no idea who that is,” I said, rolling my eyes, even though it sounded like the name of a gay porn star. When I got back to my apartment, I Googled him and found out that he was some kind of “Internet celebrity” who was opening up a “pop-up shop” and on his Twitter feed was given to making such pronouncements as “New York is going to be next level!” “Next level what?” I thought. “Absurd?”

Apparently, opening up a pop-up shop is now on the same level as curing cancer.

All of this says some very disturbing things about our society.

One is the whole notion of “Internet celebrity.” Andy Warhol’s famous dictum, “in the future, everyone will be famous for 15 minutes,” has long since lost its power to shock. Now it’s more like, “everyone will be famous for one nanosecond” because that’s the length of the average attention span these days. Internet has killed not only the radio star, but also the TV star, the movie star and, as I once sang, the gay cruising bar¹.

All of this may seem like a tempest in a teapot. I mean, after all, what harm has this guy done? How is this any different from, say, teenage girls from another era screaming about The Beatles? Well, let’s see… The Beatles recorded the greatest body of work in pop music history and this guy did what exactly?

But it doesn’t even make a difference because fame is its own raison d’etre and, once you’re famous, it doesn’t even matter why. How many people remember (or care) that Kim Kardashian was initially famous for appearing in a sex tape? (Kim has her own retail store in my neighborhood, by the way, one that’s been open for several years now. Take that, Logan Paul!)

And a reality TV star is now our president!

Nowadays, anyone who makes a funny video or has their picture randomly wind up on the Internet is offered movie deals and commercial endorsements and is then forgotten about 15 minutes later. (I’m looking at you, Chewbacca Mom.)

The other disturbing thing is what this says about retail, the economy and New York City in general.

The whole notion of a “pop-up shop” is disturbing to me because it indicates that retailers can’t even commit to a long-term lease anymore, just the way that employers (including my former employer) can’t commit to hiring someone long-term.

Then there’s what it says about New York City itself. New York has become one big three-dimensional advertisement where it’s no longer even about selling merchandise but establishing a presence for your “brand.” This has led to the phenomenon of “high-rent blight,” where storefronts in some of New York’s most expensive neighborhoods have remained empty while landlords wait for a chain store to sign the lease.

The third thing that’s disturbing is the mere fact of people waiting on line for something as silly as an Internet celebrity. But on any given day, you can see several of these lines in my neighborhood: people waiting to buy cronuts, people waiting to buy sneakers, people waiting to buy poké bowls. Is this really how you want to be spending your time?

I guess people are desperate for something, anything, to fill their spiritual emptiness and the easiest way to do that seems to be by buying something. (I keep thinking of the Clash song, “I’m All Lost in Your Supermarket.”)

One of my Facebook friends commented about the people on this line, “Hey, at least they didn’t vote for Trump” and he was right. They were too young to vote for Trump.

But Trump has lowered the bar for the presidency so much that the fact that The Rock is now rumored to be running for president seems like an improvement. (Kid Rock’s run for the Senate, on the other hand, not so much.)

But, hey, what do I know? I’m just an old man.

Now where can I get one of those Logan Paul T-shirts?

1 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WcF-MtIhF8E

Summer in the City

This summer in New York City is starting to resemble a horror movie—and it’s only one day old!

Subway service has reached an all-time low point. Recently, there was a story about an F train that got stuck for 40 minutes between West Fourth Street and Broadway/Lafayette (the route I happen to take home from work every night), with passengers literally trying to claw the doors open in order to escape. Yesterday, I read about a subway passenger who started walking on the tracks in order to get away from a delayed train. This makes The Taking of Pelham One Two Three look like a joy ride.

Also yesterday, my partner went shopping for jeans at JC Penney and he saw a rat in the store. Not a mouse, a rat. And I’m not talking about the sales help.

Now, in addition to the garbage trucks waking me up at night and the delivery trucks idling on my street in the morning (despite of the fact that there’s no parking on my street because it’s a snow emergency route—that’s right, I’m like Diana Fucking Ross!), there’s New York’s newest (and loudest) nuisance: garbage recycling trucks.

Now, I’m all in favor of recycling, but these trucks are so noisy, my building actually shakes while they’re doing their dirty (no pun) deed. (OK, I also live in a shitty building.)

I’ve tried complaining to the company, Clean Air Group, and they just stonewall and say they’re not breaking any laws and they have a right to be there. (I have a feeling they either get a lot of complaints or they’re just really good at being belligerent.) For the record, their number is 718-746-1497, but chances are their office won’t be open if you call them when they’re actually creating a disturbance.

I’ve complained to my City Council member, the useless Margaret Chin (who somehow has remained in office despite never venturing north of Chinatown and having a track record that makes Trump look like an overachiever) and I’ve gotten the same response: they’re not breaking any law, so there’s nothing they can do. Her number is 212-788-7259, but chances are you’ll get her voicemail.

I’ve even tried filing a complaint with the ridiculously named Department of Environmental Protection. If 911 is a joke, 311 is hysterical. It’s as if Scott Pruitt had drilled down to the city level and rendered them as useless as the E.P.A. You can also fill out a complaint on their website, but you won’t get any response.

Not surprisingly, the main client of this recycling truck is La Esquina, a fake “celebrity restaurant” in a neighborhood full of them. (The recently closed Mexican Radio had better food and was a better neighbor.) I tried complaining to the manager on duty and was told that the owner was “out of town.”

Of course. These carpetbagging restaurant owners never actually live in the actual neighborhoods they’re destroying. (Or, if they do, they live in a luxury co-op with soundproof windows.)

Speaking of which, since I’ve been working nights, I’ve been amazed by the sheer amount of money sluicing through my neighborhood during the day. Where does it all come from?

Now people are lining up at this new place, The Pokéspot, which serves “poké”: basically a salad bowl with grain in it. What genius invented this idea?

And across the street, there’s Chef's Club Counter which, as far as I can tell (since I won’t actually set foot inside the hallowed space that housed Spring Street Natural for 40 years), is “designer chef” food served cafeteria style, so you pay more but get less—kind of like Trumpcare. 

And next door, they’ve opened a restaurant that serves ice cream and popcorn in a carnival-like setting. Seriously? Is this a restaurant or some conceptual art piece?

Oh, well.

I guess when you’re living on mommy and daddy’s money, New York is just one big amusement park.

Happy summer!

Gay Gossip/Gay History: The Deliciously Gossipy Books of Robert Hofler

I just spent the last few weeks living in a world of wild parties and carefree sex courtesy of three books by Robert Hofler: Money, Murder and Dominick Dunne: A Life in Several Acts; Party Animals: A Hollywood Tale of Sex, Drugs and Rock ’N’ Roll starring the Fabulous Allan Carr and Sexplosion: From Andy Warhol to A Clockwork Orange—How a Generation of Pop Rebels Broke All the Taboos.

It all began with an excerpt from Dominick Dunne in The Daily Beast, which showed up in my Facebook newsfeed. The excerpt dealt with the filming of the Elizabeth Taylor film Ash Wednesday in Rome, when Liz was in the midst of her relationship with Richard Burton. In addition to her frequently being late for her call time (and drunk), the excerpt also detailed her conversation with her co-star, Helmut Berger, about being constipated. We're also told that Burton was jealous of the handsome (and gay) Berger, who at the time was having an affair with director Luchino Visconti.

Dunne was the producer of Ash Wednesday, but he's probably most famous for being a writer for Vanity Fair, as well as the author of several novels.

Dunne's specialty was true crime stories, and this was probably due the murder of his daughter, actress Dominique Dunne (Poltergeist), by her boyfriend and Dunne's subsequent disillusionment with the outcome of the murder trial. (Her boyfriend wound up spending only a few years in prison.) Dunne may have led a charmed life career-wise, but his personal life was beset by tragedy. In addition to his daughter's murder, his wealthy and beautiful wife eventually developed MS.

That all may sound like a downer (and it is), but there's plenty of excitement in this book as well. Dunne would go on to write about two of the most notorious murder trials of the 20th century: O.J. Simpson and the Menendez Brothers (the former, the subject of a recent TV series and the latter about to be.)

Before that, we see Dunne's rise from stage manager at NBC to movie producer, to his career at Vanity Fair and as a novelist. There's also some literary gossip about his strained relationship with his brother and sister-in-law, the writers John Gregory Dunne and Joan Didion.

Oh yeah, and Dunne was also gay (despite having a wife and three children). There's one great story about Dunne inviting a hustler to his New York apartment and barely escaping with his life. That's probably the most extreme example of the struggles Dunne went through in coming to terms with his sexuality.

Then there's Allan Carr, who never made any bones about his sexuality, but struggled with his weight throughout his life. Carr is best known as the producer of the movies Grease and Can't Stop the Music (which featured The Village People and a pre-transition Bruce Jenner) and the Broadway musical La Cage Aux Folles. Carr was perhaps equally well-known for his wild parties and some of the best sections of Allan Carr describe these parties, as well as his four homes in Beverly Hills, Malibu, New York, and Hawaii. (His Beverly Hills home had a disco in the basement!). I also enjoyed the many behind-the-scenes showbiz stories, like that of a 30-year-old Harvey Fierstein being invited in his down jacket held together with duct tape to Carr's St. Moritz Hotel penthouse to work on La Cage with Jerry Herman and Arthur Laurents.

Sexplosion deals with the sexual revolution in movies, theater, books and TV between 1968 and 1973, a period I think of as a golden age in American culture. Hofler shows us the evolution of such cultural (and sexual) landmarks as the films Midnight Cowboy, Carnal Knowledge, Women in Love, Last Tango in Paris, and Deep Throat; the plays The Boys in the Band, Oh! Calcutta! and Hair; the books Portnoy's Complaint, Couples, Myra Breckenridge and Fear of Flying and the TV shows All in the Family and An American Family. What's remarkable is how many of the artists involved in these projects were gay (Midnight Cowboy director John Schlesinger, The Boys in the Band playwright Mart Crowley, Women in Love screenwriter Larry Kramer, Hair creators Gerome Ragni and James Rado, Myra Breckenridge author Gore Vidal and American Family's Lance Loud.) What's also remarkable is how shocking such things as nudity (especially male nudity) and homosexuality were back then and how strange it now seems that people (including celebrities like Jackie Onassis) once watched pornography in movie theaters!

In spite of the now wide availability of pornography on the Internet (and, before that, on video), I'm struck by the feeling that being an adult from 1968 to 1973 was much more interesting and exciting than it is today.

Perhaps Hofler’s next books can tackle talent manager Sandy Gallin, record industry-turned-movie mogul David Geffen and former Paramount Pictures and Fox TV honcho Barry Diller. Velvet Mafia, anyone?